And so it starts...

I know I said in a previous post that I thought my impending chemo was a bit like childbirth in that you approach it with trepidation, a little nervousness and dare I say it, a tiny bit of excitement (yes I know that sounds mental but at least it felt like I was making progress and fighting off any nasty invaders). 

Well I was right. 

I had no idea what to expect.

NOTHING could have prepared me for what was to come which is just as well or I may never have turned up.

My appointment was booked for 11.00am.  We arrived in the car park ten minutes early.  I was happy to sit there.  Not until my allotted time.  I would have just sat there.

Luckily Jeraldine decided it was far better to head inside.  Face up to it.  Meet it head on.  So we did.

They are so welcoming in the Chemo suite, rather anonymously named Room 10.  Greet you by name, or your preferred name, whichever you elected to be called on the copious sheets you fill in prior to treatment and say "take a seat" as if inviting you in for a cuppa and a chat, which in a way I suppose it is! 

The only difference is, and this could only be me, after all I have led quite a sheltered life, but generally when I turn up at a chum's house for tea and a chat someone doesn't walk up to you with a needle and insert it into a vein.  Call me naive if you like but it was about here the similarity ended.

Don't get me wrong.  The wonderful volunteers bring endless cups of tea/coffee/water/cup-a-soup and if you are unfortunate enough to be in there over lunchtime, that is provided too.  And there are biscuits too, but the fact that you are tethered to your chair by an IV takes away the sitting room feel a little bit...

Firstly I was hooked up to a saline IV to ensure the line was in correctly and running smoothly.  At this point I was approached and warned that unfortunately the pharmacy were running a bit behind and my drugs wouldn't be up until after lunch.  Pardon?  I had a momentary flash of annoyance - my time slot was booked, it was my first dose so why couldn't it be ready for me?  I then very quickly remembered that the drugs have to be made up as and when the patient arrives in a fit state to receive them as each dose costs several thousand pounds and only has a short shelf life.  But still.  Two hours?  We had nowhere to go so decided to stay put and chat.

I ordered and ate my lunch.  Jeraldine set off to the canteen, bought then consumed what she declared to be a delicious sandwich.  Although her enthusiasm seemed slightly out of ratio with that usually reserved for a two bits of bread encompassing a dollop of chicken mayonnaise, she explained that she so rarely ate sandwiches that it was a treat.

Lunch was followed by some anti nausea drugs sent down the IV then by more saline.  Finally at half past two my chemo drugs arrived.  A blue tray was brought to me for me to check that my name and the drug name were correct on each one and so my chemo nurse started to inject them.  No.  My chemo nurse does not, as it would appear, enjoy inflicting misery on her patients.  She is lovely.  Apart from the whole injecting thing of course.

I felt absolutely fine.  Even took a picture of the drugs going in.  Once again, not really something I thought I would be doing but hey, I don't have a hold on what is "normal" anymore. 

At the end, we ran through the anti nausea drugs they gave me, I wrote it all down meticulously and we set off home.  I felt absolutely fine.  Almost an anti climax.

And then it changed.  In the drop of a hat.  I went from sitting on the sofa feeling absolutely fine to all of a sudden feeling the skin on my face become tight, a pounding headache start and the most gut wrenching, tearing, frighteningly out of control nausea I have ever had the misfortune to experience.  I simultaneously felt paralytic and hungover.  So badly hungover that I should have been in The Priory.  Hot flushes.  Skin feeling like it was creeping off my head.  Mouth like the bottom of the aviary at Whipsnade.  In constant, unceasing, never ending waves. 

I can honestly say I have never felt so ill in my life. 

Somehow I did sleep a bit that night although it was restless and so uncomfortable.  The dawn however brought no respite in fact the birds have never tweeted so loudly and they started at 3.46am!

Tuesday was a day of horror.  I can't write about it yet.  Maybe, many years from now I may be able to describe it but for now let's just say the hell never ended.  I spoke to the chemo nurses at the Wooden Spoon several times.  They got prescription after prescription made up for me but unfortunately 3 out of the 4 items they asked for were out of stock at my surgery and at the chemist.  By the end of the day they had said I should come in at 9 o'clock the next morning and they would try and help. 

I had another horrendous night and started Wednesday in much the same way (with my head down the loo).  As soon as Ian got back from taking the monkeys to school he scooped me up and drove SO carefully to the hospital.  I was greeted by name by the nurse who I had spoken to the day before - I looked THAT bad. 

I was swiftly hooked up to an IV to rehydrate me, given an IV of anti nausea and handed a suppository to deal with (oh the indignity, but if I couldn't keep anything down, I suppose it was another way of getting drugs into me) and then left in a side room of the suite to sleep.  And boy.  Did I sleep!

By 2 o'clock, when they needed the room for someone else I was feeling more normal but was sent home with loads more drugs and told to take them.  Take them all!!!

I have also had to overcome my needle phobia as I have had to inject myself every day - Ian keeps on offering but I have so far managed to self medicate rather than run the risk of being a practise heifer!

There have been lots of tears this week.  The drugs (I blame them, not me, obviously) have sent me on a roller coaster of emotions including tiredness, panic and depression but also waves of determination that wash on the shore and fade but, thankfully, like waves, they too come back. 

One major low this week was the news from Kathryn that her beloved Mum, who has battled with the disease for nearly two decades, has sadly lost her fight and passed peacefully away at home.  Obviously my main concern is for Kathryn and her family as they deal with their loss.  Although I would be lying if I said it didn't scare me a bit.

I do now know that the nausea can be managed.  I also know that I can get through it and feel human again.  I have also been promised that they will not let that level of nausea happen again, even if it means they have to load me with so many drugs that I sleep for five days, I will not feel like that again. 

So.  Fingers crossed.

And Rest In Peace, Christine.