I am not sure where I am going with this one

Many times this week I have attempted to write a post; started it with a few weak sentences, stared blankly at the screen, glanced around the room, back down to the keyboard, typed another feeble sentence, gnawed on my thumb nail for a bit, retrieved a beer from the fridge, thought better of it, returned the beer to the fridge, readopted my dazed and confused expression, stuck out my bottom lip, let my fingers slide across the guide bumps on the keyboard lightly tapping the keys without actually committing to a letter selection, changed music playlists, then gave up.

Even as I type now, I am distracted. It seems I reached a pivotal moment with the last post, a season finale if you will. How do I follow that up? Where do I go from here? Do you wish to continue hearing my vile self-pitying tripe? It was not only a milestone entry, it was a major turning point for me, and for Mike. I should be more excited about it than I am. I am aware of my feeling of indifference, and as a result, am disappointed in myself. The savage whips himself again. The rational, sane Liv, you know the one none of you have ever met, is aware why this is happening. Prior to the scan results I had this background knowledge that no matter how bad I felt there was the potential that everything could get much worse. This, in a way, was a comfort. I believe I had set the two month mark as a sort of pseudo summit, and once I had reached the top I realised there was another peak, previously obscured, only now visible. I don’t like ascents, although to be fair I don’t really care for descents either; so the prospect of this new climb made me exceptionally cranky. And then a little angry. And then a lot angry. Using the word ‘prospect’ implies two falsities. Firstly it suggests that I have a choice in undertaking the next part, which I do not, and secondly it infers I was unaware of the ‘hidden peak’, which again I was not. My poor reaction to the good news makes me wonder how negatively I would have received the bad news. At the time I believed I was mentally prepared, however with the benefit of hindsight, I seriously doubt I was. This is a somewhat irrelevant thought, but never-the-less it occasionally plagues my brain, usually around 3 a.m. in the morning.

Apologies for the exceptionally overused analogy. I am aware you are probably thinking ‘a mountain climbing simile? Really? Far from your best work I must say.’ Well you’re correct. Very unimaginative. I have utilised it in an attempt to explain how I felt that first week of my silence. The analogy was longer; I severely edited it so be grateful. What I am trying to convey is that emotionally I was in a bad place. Physically I was not much better. The two tend to go hand in hand. The chemo side effects that week were particularly severe. There were some positives, as this time the drugs were administered via my new fandangle appendage (i.e. a pipe sticking out of my arm), the dacarbazine only mildly hurt. The pain was so slight that I am only mentioning it here for interest’s sake not as a complaint; it hurt a little which I found interesting. It doesn’t make much sense for the pain to exist at all, certainly not in the area it was located, which was on my inner side of my elbow joint, below the drug administration point. Thankfully, it did not hurt my heart. Given that my PICC line ends just above the vena cava, I thought heart pain may have been a possibility. Happily, you no longer have to bear the burden of listening to my constant whining about my arm ache. I wish I could say the same about my spleen, but unfortunately it is still reminding me of its existence.

Whilst undertaking my PICC line research, I read a couple of posts from HL patients. The general consensus was that the third chemo cycle sucks more than a Rob Schneider film. I am inclined to agree. The fatigue was inexplicable and the nausea escalated from an initial sensation to many, many, physical actions. Along with the physical dilapidation, the mind was slowly sinking into desolation deep enough to warrant an inclusion in Dante’s Inferno. I then felt guilty about my own defeatism. These three process were combining to form a rather vicious feedback cycle which, much like my mutated B cell MDM2/P53 cycle, was struggling to arrest (yes I am a nerd). That was a week ago. It was a dangerous time for writing. At one point, in a desperate effort to feel normal, I attempted mascara. This was a mistake. The combination of my pallor, my rosy red nose and my eyelashes, which have sufficiently thinned to allow clumping of an epic scale, lead me to resemble a psychopathic clown rather than the intended 21^st century woman. Of course my eyebrows have barely been affected by the chemotherapy, so I believe I was also rocking a Bert style mono-brow. I am nothing but style and class.

You may be pleased to know that although I fell rather hard after my last chemo, I actually bounced back with equal vigour. This prior week has been extremely successful in terms of my physical health, which in turn helps my mental wellbeing. I may have even busted out an enthusiastic but arrhythmic white girl boogie at one point. I am unsure if this good health is because my body is beginning to familiarise itself with the chemotherapy regime, or whether the decline of my underlying disease is leading to an increasingly healthy base line. It is quite possible that a couple of quiet weekends followed up with remarkably laidback week has led to my generally healthy mood. But that option is no fun. I would appreciate it if you would all join me in striking that last reasoning from the list. I will come up with valid justifications for this action at a later date. I am rather proud of my bone marrow as it seems to have adapted to the constant bombardment and kicks in sufficiently post chemo; I haven’t been required to inject myself for the last month. This most certainly has added to my good mood. I know when my marrow is working, because I occasionally feel it in my sternum and femur. It is that proud sort of pain that one achieves after a successful gym workout. This is a far more agreeable solution than GCSF. So keep it up not-so-little bone marrow. You are doing a super job.  

It seems I need a distinctly set level of despair in order to trigger my creative ambition. This past fortnight I have either felt too well, or have been completely inconsolable. I need a little angst to keep things interesting. Nobody likes an over-animated bright eyes and bushy tails attitude. It makes us reach for a shotgun. It makes me, a firearm despising left wing vegetarian who loathes conflict, reach for a shotgun. Anyone who has watched Critter Christmas would think twice about bright eyes and bushy tails. Today, sufficient angst has been supplied; I have chemo tomorrow and I am throwing a minor Warren Gatland strop about it - scrunching up my mouth, dropping my mono-brow and accentuating my forehead creases. Sufficient optimism has been supplied by the good behaviour of my body. Only my spleen is causing me discomfort, and it is merely discomfort. Although the charcoal rings beneath my eyes are ever prominent - a reminder of my persistent inability to sleep. I shall have to avoid the temptation to watch a particular cricket match tonight; an all-nighter prior to chemotherapy is probably not the wisest move. But then again if I can’t sleep….