Two chemo cycles down, four to go

Two cycles completed, yet four sessions done; four cycles to go yet eight sessions remaining. I still don’t understand that. I am sure if I did a bit more research it would become far more apparent; something for another day perhaps.

I just corrected a typo reading ‘chemoterhapy’, I think this is fine evidence of the abundance of Irish accents in my day ward. Does it count as a digression if I have not yet started the bulk of my entry? Another thing I am unsure about. 

This particular chemotherapy day commenced in Edinburgh; an authorised yet on the down low (until now) visit to see my sister and brother-in-law. This required a 5:45am alarm, a 6:45am taxi, an 8:45am flight, an 11 something AM train, an 11 something AM bus and an arrival at the Brighton outpatients phlebotomy around 11:45 AM. I am not exaggerating the three-quarter-past-the-hour time slots. This is actually how they transpired. I strongly suspect the '11 something AM train' was actually the delayed 10:45 AM train; a result of an ever frequent southern mainline signal failure. Don’t National Rail know they are destroying my blog symmetry? Ok, most certainly a digression this time.

The need for additional blood tests pre-chemo was due, yet again, to some epic neutropenia 0.2 x10^9/L (do I still need to use the units?) I am now aiming for 0.0. Clinically there will be very little difference between 0.0 and 0.2. This neutropenia required further GCSF injections whilst in Edinburgh, which requires its own separate little blog post, presented to you, unchronologically, at a later date. 

Armed with an urgent yellow blood form and a 2pm chemo appointment, I felt that 11:45 AM was sufficient time for the super-duper lab to process my super-duper blood. This was a failed experiment. My little blue triangular ticket stub, the entry ticket to the actual phlebotomy room, was twenty places behind the current fluorescent number. The urgent yellow form seemingly means jack as far as queue times are concerned. Turns out you need an urgent red sticker on top of your urgent yellow form and your ‘chemo due today’ clinical details. And the urgent yellow form is patented. Some patent. Now I wasn’t too adverse to waiting 45 minutes for my blood to be drawn, so long as my results were ready by 2pm. I had time to kill and what was proving to be a most enjoyable book to read. Once my very smooth venepuncture was complete, I ventured to a nearby coffee house in order to continue my 'search for the best long black coffee' crusade.  

Here, once again, I will deviate from my main story in order to indulge you with an oddity that occurred in the coffee house. I was perched at the counter, feeling rather contented with a particularly palatable coffee, when in walks this fellow, mid-late thirties, who was acting a little peculiar. I am sure even my Kiwi readers will be aware that Brighton, and especially Kemp Town, has more than its fair share of eccentrics. Unfortunately, this guy was not donning a sombrero or wearing a purple gold starred cape, nor was he, as has been witnessed in the past, combining both to form one epically bizarre outfit, no this dude was rocking completely nondescript attire. But he was swaying, and he did ask to see a full menu (which they didn’t have) and he did make exceptionally precise specifications as to how his ciabatta was to accompany his soup. And then he sat down beside me, letting out a long audible pleasure groan, smacking his lips, in the process. So I am starting to think this guy is a little strange. He emits another similar noise when he tastes his soup and further changes his ciabatta requirements, adding to my growing concern that he is a complete nutter. However I am mindful that I am being hastily judgemental; I mean it was a comfortable chair, and the soup did look pretty bloody tasty. Following the completion of his soup, he orders a coffee, it is a coffee shop after all, so this makes sense. His coffee choice? A long black with two sugars and a knob of butter served in a takeaway cup, oh and he has a tab so he knew from the outset that this particular coffeehouse did not have a full menu. I imagine his order to be the finest example of how to utterly destroy a long black.  

Tangent over now, I just thought I would chuck that in to bolster the word count. Back to the lymphoma/chemotherapy diatribe. Arriving at the day unit at 1:30 PM, an hour and a half after my phlebotomy, my results aren’t through yet. They’re still not through by 2:45 PM when my husband and parents arrive, although I have had my cannula inserted; right hand this time not left in an attempt to decrease next week's predicted arm pain. My chemo starts around 4 PM. There are only three of us left in the room, making it easier for my family to tag team into the companionship duties. I am sitting in an oversized dull teal chemotherapy chair this time by the way. The chemo itself is fairly unremarkable, waiting, waiting on the lab, waiting on the pharmacy, anti-nauseas, hydrocortisone, A, B, mild burning and itching, V, mild restlessness, D, ow ow ow my vein followed by an infusion rate decrease and some perpendicular arm positioning. I was home, exhausted, by 7pm, for some tomato soup (I crave strong tomato flavour post chemo) and a nifty concoction of green beans, broccoli, nuts and beetroot my mum whipped up. Oh and University Challenge. I can’t remember my score.

Monday night – Post chemo and I feel horrendously shit. The anti-nauseas mean the heroic efforts I am undertaking in attempt to expel the contents of my stomach are going tremendously under rewarded. A pitiful quantity and certainly not enough to relieve any queasiness I am experiencing. There is a line in Flannigans Ball about a patron dishing out ‘a terrible kick in the spleen’. I am not sure that heaving ones guts out was quite what they were referring to, but my spleen most certainly feels as though it has received one mighty boot. My left arm still ails from two weeks ago, whilst my right hand from chemo today. There are viper bite like marks on the said right hand, with oval blue bruises surrounding the pierce marks. Actually, they more closely resemble ghoulish red eyes peering from deep dark sunken slate blue sockets, mouth absent, in true spooky ghost fashion. None of this friendly Casper mumbo jumbo. My chest burns – especially when inhaling, my nose is persistently bleeding, I have detectable swollen lymph nodes in my gallbladder, neck, jaw, collar bone and near my parotid gland, mild bone pain, a weird itchy patch on my right shoulder with skin texture resembling rough brown leather, fatigue, restless legs, a sore throat, the aforementioned general malaise, a headache, my second period in a fortnight, three ovarian cysts (sorry boys) and tingly lips – but not an ‘Oh no I’ve had too much sherbet’ tingle, more a ‘crap crap crap, that was an entire jalapeno’.  Blah is not an adequate description. Lachrymose would be more suitable. Chemo is hard enough and now my body is throwing unexpected hormones into the mix? I have crazy bruising of indeterminable origin on my legs, supplementing the sporadic patches of hair growth; far from attractive lower limbs I can assure you. It is a very stormy night, ear plugs may need to be deployed. At least the wind deters the foxes from their brash twice a night mating ritual. What does the fox say? A loud cross between a dying parrot and an enraged chimp. Turns out Ylvis were spot on.

Tuesday – An interesting day. Sleep was surprisingly plentiful Monday night, despite having run out of nearly-empty-calorie-sleeping-pills and a feeling of utter despair.  I still awoke with a strong burning pain in my chest, one that burnt brighter each time I took a breath, although at least my overall general feeling could now be downgraded to blah. Here comes the interesting part, or indeed, the not so interesting part. I managed to lock myself out of my flat whilst signing for a courier parcel. I spent six hours sitting outside my apartment door (fortunately still inside my apartment block) wearing a khaki dressing gown (it really brings out the pallor), a hole ridden long sleeved top, comfy jeans and discoloured socks (the ones not suitable for public eyes), listening to the countless missed calls on my phone (safely locked up in my little flat) and trying to decide if I had enough artistic skill to replicate a Jackson Pollock using my sheading strands of hair. If anyone is wondering, I do not. I followed this up with two hours of ‘get to know your neighbour’ time, awaiting Mike's arrival home from work and my subsequent rescue. Not from my neighbour, she was lovely, from the entire situation.

Hindsight being the bitch it is, I realised, around midnight once tucked up in bed, I should have walked to the corner of my street where my GP surgery is situated, explained to them the situation I was in whilst politely requesting they phone Mike so he could sort things out. But I didn’t. Which is why this entry is a day late. Currently it is Wednesday morning. It was Tuesday night when I started this. I have had nada sleep, so please excuse the typos and poor grammar. My spleen is still painful, but only mildly, so aside from the fatigue and the hunger (easily fixed) things are not too bad yet.