Chemaromatherapy

Session number 2.
It really is very horrible sitting there watching these gallons of chemicals getting shoved into your veins, but the nurses are so fab that you just end up chatting away as if you're having a cuppa.

In the days of the dreaded breast clinic waiting room, you sit there quietly worrying; studying the faces of other women quietly worrying. Whenever I was there, there always seemed to be another young woman there. She always had her elderly mother with her, and I always had my lovely husband, and we never spoke to them. Neither of us knew how the other was doing.

At the first chemo session, I was sitting there getting the dreaded chemicals, and I spotted the girl's mother first, followed by her daughter. The mother's face lit up like a beacon when she saw me, with a mixture of what looked like relief, recognition and happiness - like meeting an old friend.
I guess that sometimes, without realising, a million things can be said between people without uttering a single word.

She was there again today - and we have become chemo buddies, comparing notes on hair, and various other side effects. She seems to have had a rockier ride than me in the last 3 weeks, but she's doing ok. In fact, she even has the same wig as me! How wierd is that!

After the chemo, I was rewarded with an aromatherapy back massage - what a delight! The gorgeous lavender oils took me somewhere off to the South of France for a while. I wasnt quite glugging red wine and eating garlic prawns, but the freezing snow, tufty head and pink cricket bat did drift away for a little while at least!....

The Chemo Shop

Been for the first chemo.

What a wierd experience. There was a young staff nurse there who had the job of putting the hoofchoof into my vein. When you go to the chemo shop for the first time, you want the nurse to say - 'Hi, I'm Vera, I've been doing this for 27 years, youre gonna be fine.' But this young lass said 'Hi, I'm Jo, I've just started here and I'm having a really bad day.' Oh my God!

Needless to say, she had a 'mare trying to get the doofah thing in, and made me bleed everywhere. I did feel sorry for her, cause everyone has to learn in 'real life' situations. But I have to admit, I was glad when she disappeared to make some tea and nurse who knew what she was doing took over and got the doofah in no problem.

Bit of saline solution in first to test it, then in go the anti-sickness drugs, then the chemo drugs - the first one is like the monkey blood sauce you get on ice cream. I told the nurse I could taste raspberry in my mouth at this point and she believed me - just for a minute.

There seemed to be about 157 syringes in total, but they finally came to an end.

An 'alternative therapy' lady came to see me next, and offered me a nice aromatherapy massage or some reflexology for next time, so I booked in - all funded by donations from former patients and their relatives - amazing.

I'm home now - waiting for the kids to boole in and say - 'WHAT'S FOR TEA?!'

Nothing like a bit of normality after a trip to the chemo shop!

Jolly Hockey Sticks!

Bumped into a hockey pal today.

Well, I say hockey - its not REAL hockey - its uni-hoc. A game played in a sports hall with a plastic puck and plastic sticks. I'm not sure if anywhere else in the world takes the game as seriously as we do in our little town, but we have a summer league that is incredibly competitive. 3 boys and 3 girls on each team - all bashing hell out of each other on the pitch, with the objective of getting the little puck into the opponant's goal.

The physio gave me my exercise sheet after my 1st operation. It said the following -

Week 1 - Do nothing
Week 2 - Light Dusting
Week 3 - Ironing
Week 4 - Hoovering

'When can I play hockey?' I asked.

'Next season,' she smiled kindly.

I suppose one of the advantages of getting breast cancer is that your house will become spotless and everyone in the family will wear beautifully pressed clothes.

Maybe the physio wouldn't mind if I set up a couple of hoovers as goalposts and used a feather duster to whack an iron about the house. The house would stay a tip, but it'd be much more fun!

Little Red Book

Had my pre-treatment visit to the hospital.

Felt like a total imposter. There was a lady having her chemo in a nice lounge area. She had bruises all the way up her arm and she was watching 'Doctors' on a big telly.

The lady and her husband were lovely, really chatty, but I felt like saying 'I'm not really supposed to be here you know. I'm not poorly.'

The nice chemo nurse took me into a private room to tell me all about what would be happening in the next few months. She took some blood, temperature, blood pressure etc. and asked a few questions. She reminded me of one of the receptionists at work. Kind, wise, caring. In a way, I wish people would be rude and horrible. When people are kind and nice it makes me want to cry.

I've come away with a little red chemotherapy record book, a car park pass and a wig voucher.
I know they're mine, but only because they have my name on them.

The Nuclear Mother

The day began with a big 'radgie.'

My 8 year old doesn't bother with the insignificant little push buttons. He always goes straight for my big red nuclear launch button.

I can't even remember what the row was about, but he does a 'face' which says 'oh for Goodness sake mum, you're so tiresome.'

Its that face that sends me into nuclear mode, so we parted as enemies at the bus stop which set me up for a bad day.

I'm pretty sure he'll have sat on the bus and chatted happily with his pals, forgetting all about his radgie mother. Meanwhile, I had a good cry, and stomped 3 miles around our village muttering madly to myself.

By lunchtime, I had become a little calmer - thanks to a visit from our local vicar.
He had heard about my situation and wanted to pop in to see if everything was ok. He's a really lovely guy, and he did make me feel better.
Not sure if God sent him to my rescue, maybe my 8 year old had rang him up and sent him over in a moment of guilt. You never know!

Hard Hats and Wheelbarrows

Went to the very fancy new cancer place yesterday to see Dr. B, the chemo man.

What a mare of a place. Its a lovely new building - open, airy, light etc. But when you're in the waiting room with all those worried faces its bloomin awful. There was a young lad in his 20's who looked like a skeleton. It really hit home to me sitting there.

Anyway - Dr B was a lovely man. He basically said 'the cancer's out, but we want to prevent it from coming back, so I would lean very heavily on you to have radiotherapy.'

He then said: 'there are other treatments which I wouldn't lean quite so heavily on you to have...' and then he started going on about wearing hard hats in the street just in case something fell from a building and hit you on the head and that you'd look an idiot but you'd be pleased if something did hit you on the head unless it was a wheelbarrow...

I stopped him and said - 'I think what you mean is that if I had chemo, it would stop the risk of the cancer coming back even though I might look funny with a bald head.'

'Yes.'

'I don't mind looking like a prat if it means the cancer won't come back.'

'Fine. Good. Sign here then.'

So that was it, and he booked me in there and then for a week on Thursday (4th Feb) to begin treatment. It'll be 6 treatments with 3 weeks between each one. (I think he said 6 - I was too busy still trying to work out the hard hats and wheelbarrows story to be listening properly!)

When the chemo finishes, I'll get a month off, then radiotherapy for 3 weeks.
Its highly likely that I'll be a baldy coot for a while, so I'll probably go and get my lovely locks chopped short in the next few days.