A quick update to shine some light on our Wednesday.
I had a call from Dr Duenna yesterday to let me know that Monday’s PET scan has revealed a significant response to the treatment. My bowel tumour has shrunk and the liver also shows improvement. She told me that she doesn’t usually call people with scan results but she was “too excited” not to give me the results over the phone.
This is a huge win. Let’s just breathe it in.
And yes. I am celebrating this news but I am also aware that it doesn’t change my diagnosis and it doesn’t mean things can’t deteriorate again. A more cautious person wouldn’t be broadcasting the news to all and sundry via a blog post. But I am me and I have always been an open book (see: oversharer).
I choose to celebrate every win along the way. So last night I had three small glasses of wine, dehydrated myself and woke up with a UTI. CHEERS!!!
Please enjoy tonight’s glass of whatever your chosen poison in the name of our first win in Kicking Alan in the Dick.
The last post was dark, wasn’t it? We all left feeling a little shattered and less than optimistic. I must say, however, that I am enjoying how sweary you are all becoming as we go along. Some of your messages and comments have really made me laugh. Your anger on my behalf, especially in relation to Dr Dickhead, was more than validating.
Now let’s all take a deep breath…because we have had a good week.
Magro, Murray the Dog and I are making ourselves at home in Sydney. We feel completely wrapped up by family and friends and are so grateful to be able to fully concentrate now on the job of kicking A in the D. Special mention to our Melbourne friends who packed up our entire house over the weekend – there is just no way we can ever thank you properly for what you have done for us over the last two months.
Remember when I said I needed a villain and Dr Dickhead was it? Well, I think we may have found our heroine (besides me of course).
On Wednesday we were invited into the office of my oncologist here in Sydney. The conversation that followed, combined with the empathy and care demonstrated by this woman, have turned me around completely.
Ok, so she was hot. Magro and I both agree on that. She sort of had an Asher Keddie vibe happening only with slightly more nude stiletto action and zero flowing scarves. She had that air of calm and self-assuredness that somehow didn’t add up to arrogance, rather a sense that she was knowledgeable yet still actively curious about my understanding of the situation.
Over the last month and a bit, having been on the patient end of care, I am often left worried about how many people are going through this shit without the confidence to ask a question or to question the need for yet another invasive procedure. What about those who don’t have an ally sitting beside them or even a basic understanding of their diagnosis? Challenging, or even asking questions of the medical profession is intimidating and there is often an unspoken expectation around compliance. We know what works, so please let us get on and do it.
For the purposes of the blog, I think I am going to name my new oncologist Dr Duenna. Apparently, the name Duenna in English literature is synonymous with female guardians. Yes, I just googled ‘synonyms for powerful women’.
Dr Duenna is the kind of doctor who seems to really believe that you have a part to play in your treatment and that your opinions about how this might play out are actually critical to its trajectory. The very first thing she asked about was the Dr Dickhead shituation and what my new understanding of the Alan/Karen hookup was. Having dealt with Dr Dickhead’s kind throughout her entire career, Dr Duenna was unsurprised by his floggery and kindly, but unnecessarily, apologised that I had had this experience.
It seems that Dr Dickhead didn’t quite explain things accurately. I know, right? You’re not shocked.
Karen is treatable. We are either going to do a lumpectomy and evict the bitch or we are going to suck the living oestrogen out of her with a drug called Tamoxifin (please hold comments – I am well aware of the side effects). Following today’s PET and CT scans, the breast medical/surgical team will meet to discuss the results and recommend which pathway we follow. But ultimately I get to choose. I understand this is not a choice as enjoyable as cheese or dessert after the main course, but it’s a fucking plan.
Dr Duenna went through everything with us right from the start. I know it sounds like I am glorifying an already overly inflated profession, but I can’t stress enough how much information we have had to absorb and synthesise and how much fear and terror can shut down one’s ability to absorb and synthesise. It is not a small thing to explain things thoroughly so that the patient understands. It is not a small thing to prioritise the creation of a safe space for things to be said, heard and felt. I don’t know if these ways of being a doctor are just personality based, taught at doctor university or learned on the job, but they make a massive difference. They make a big difference to me, to my sense of hope, to my sense of autonomy and ultimately my trust.
Lucky is such a relative term. I’ll give you an example of what I mean:
I’m the unluckiest person I know because I just so happen to have two completely unrelated primary cancers in my body at the same time.
OR
I’m so lucky that my bowel cancer diagnosis meant that the cancerous tumour in my left breast was picked up whilst it is still very small.
Both of these statements are true and they provide the most illustrative example of a glass half full/empty scenario.
Truth is, I don’t feel lucky. I feel really fucking angry. I’m at that stage right this minute. You’ll forgive me if I’m not at all funny right now. It’s just really shit.
It feels like more than I can possibly handle emotionally right now and yet simultaneously just another small thing to deal with in the shitshow that is Life with Alan.
My least favourite breast surgeon called me yesterday while Mum and I were choosing soft furnishings in Target. You don’t get to choose when to have these conversations. So I am standing there holding a cushion while he tells me the biopsy confirmed the lesion is cancerous. Having previously listened calmly and carefully to my (lovely) oncologist as she had explained the possible worst-case scenario, I took a breath and responded to his abrupt explanation with: “Ah, ok. So, we do a lumpectomy and continue with treatment?”
Dickhead replies: “Well if your bowel cancer was curable we would recommend that but because yours isn’t, so maybe your oncologist will just decide to leave it and keep an eye on it.”
Thanks, mate.
This is also the flog who at our initial consultation asked: “So is the plan just to carry on with chemo until the cancer catches up with you?”
Yep, just like that.
The truth is, his questions reflected an understanding of my situation. On both accounts. But that didn’t matter. He was so casual about my cancer and I wanted to slap him across his too pretty, too confident little face.
I don’t care if he is the Stephen Hawking of breast surgery, that fuckwit will not be coming within ten feet of my boobs. I need a villain to hate right now and this guy is it.
Back to my left boob…
So it wasn’t Alan, after all, setting up shop in a new location.
It was Karen. And look, I know Karens have been copping it all year. But it feels like a 2021 Karen sort of thing to do. Like, really, Karen? Could you not?
Tomorrow I meet my new treatment team in Sydney. And I am pulling back my shoulders, standing up straight, and sucking back the angry tears because these people are going to have my back. And my front. My left tit, specifically.
When we found out we were headed into lockdown in 2020, we very quickly decided to invite our good friend Mel to move in with us. She lived in a one-bedroom apartment about 200 metres away so it wasn’t a big move. Each weekday morning, Mel would bravely grit her teeth and trudge up the hill to her flat to teach remotely (otherwise known as sucking the life out of everything redeemable about education) and she would return in the late afternoon.
At first, we sort of thought of it as looking after our friend. The thought of being alone during lockdown was unbearable. But it became obvious that Mel’s presence in our lives was actually benefitting all three of us. For Mel, it was a safety net in a time of potentially dangerous isolation – I think for others in a similar situation, the lockdown was horrific and dangerous. For Chris, Mel’s presence was a buffer to my unpredictable irritability and moodiness, a nightly conversation about COVID statistics, and a shared amusement for my tantrums and impulsive behaviours (see: cuts own hair into ‘shag’ do). For me, Mel represented humour and silliness, and play.
A lot of adults have forgotten how to play. But Mel and I understand what it means to play as adults. Get your minds above your belts, people! Even though some of you were bored enough to have entertained the idea that the three of us were involved in some sort of lockdown menage a trois, Mel didn’t make the height limit so that was never on the cards.
When I say play, I mean the act of fully leaning into purposeless, ridiculous, frivolous silliness and insanity. We took the shit sandwich that was almost a year of house arrest and turned it into entertainment and adventure. And of course, we made Magro play too. Lockdown Olympics. Festivus. Tiktok dances. If it was dumb and potentially injurious, we did it. And it made us laugh when there was nothing to laugh about. I know it made some of you laugh too.
And when the shit really hit the fan on the 30th September 2021; when Magro needed someone to drive him to the hospital and then pick him up again at 1:30 am, Mel was there for that too. And she has been here ever since. She has lived this nightmare with us every step of the way. And there is nothing we could ever do or say to thank her enough for what she has done.
Mel is the kind of quiet person who slowly opens up like a locked box of treasures with more locked boxes within. And every single layer inside is another joyful revelation. She is razor-smart. Witty. Funny. Rude. Mean. Creative. Inventive. Affectionate. Self-deprecating. Insightful. Empathetic. Centred. Generous. But mostly, the best caregiver (besides Magro) I have ever known.
To give you an example of what I mean, Mel and I spoke at length about my potential death and dying the other day. Nobody else is ready to do that with me yet and I find myself needing to occasionally air it out. That is how she is. She doesn’t want to but knows I need to, so she does.
She leaves our house today because we leave tomorrow for Sydney and more importantly, my family. I haven’t fully processed what it’s going to be like without Mel’s physical presence in our daily lives. It’s actually too hard to think about. Tears are running down my cheeks right now. It seems you can grieve people who are still very much alive.
The younger generations have made it abundantly clear that to call people is an aggressive, insensitive power-move made by middle aged folk who don’t appreciate the delicate balance of introversion. To pick up the phone and nonchalantly press the call symbol is an act of laissez-faire disregard for the busy, important life of the recipient, not to mention a lack of respect for their privacy. Nobody calls anyone anymore. (Except Boomers…yes I’m looking at you with the landlines). These days, it’s text or die.
I’ve always sort of enjoyed calling my younger Millennial and Gen Y friends knowing full well they absolutely won’t answer the call. This allows me to leave a message that is overly long and seemingly purposeless. Sometimes I will just comment about how uncomfortable my call has made them and how their need to screen my call is a weakness of character.
The irony, of course, is that I actually hate talking on the phone. I’m a ‘state your business and get off’ kind of gal. If my victim happens to answer, we will be skipping the usual greetings and getting right down to business.”We haven’t had a drink in a while. You should come over tomorrow. 5pm. Bring chips. Ok? Bye.”
But lately…
I have levelled up my aggressive communication mode by FaceTiming people without notice. Skip the voice message, I’m talking full frontal facial, right up in your camera, super close.
And what is excellent, is that even the most introverted, 30-year-old hermit feels kind of mean rejecting the call of the crazy lady with cancer. I don’t care if you are working or at the checkout at Coles. I’m not taking into account your nocturnal sleep habits or your preference for a pre-arranged call time. Right now, I am all about RIGHT NOW.
So if you refuse my call, that’s cool, but you will never know what I was FaceTiming you about. It might have been an opportunity for me to let you know that you are a really important part of my life and that we shouldn’t waste any time talking about stuff that doesn’t matter anymore. Maybe you’ll be missing out on some bolt of wisdom I feel is critical to both of our lives and I must share it with you before I forget.
But most likely, if you are a friend or family member, I am calling you because I’ve had a really satisfying poo today which is now a precious and rare thing, which needs to be shared immediately. Or that I have finally put makeup on and somebody needs to tell me I look good (not optional, I’ll just unsubtly remind you that you should probably say that I look good). My oldest friend in the world recently described my washed-out, drawn appearance as “Not good, like it’s not great, but it is salvageable.” I loved this description.
Perhaps I am FaceTiming to let you know that those biscuits you baked were excellent and I would like another batch, please. But most likely, it’ll be about my bodily dysfunctions. Overshare is my middle name.
So here’s how I justify this kind of digital terrorism so willfully inflicted upon others:
Besides writing, I really only have one hobby. My people. Belonging to and connecting with people who are important to me, is what gives me life energy. And now I find that time is quite suddenly, of the essence. Never before have I felt such urgency to let you know that you mean something important to me. And my poo anecdote, is evidence of that.
Despite the exhaustion it seems to cause, I want to be with everyone right now. Even though I sometimes can’t, I still want to be right in the thick of it. And if I can’t physically come to you, and you can’t physically come to me, I might just FaceTime you whenever it suits and even when it doesn’t.
PS: Please don’t start Facetiming me. I thought of it first. No returns.
Preface: On my initial PET scans, things lit up; my colon cancer, the liver metastases, a small lymph node adjoining those two organs (think of it like an airbridge between Myer and David Jones) and…wait for it…a small blob in my left boob. According to my oncologist and the breast surgeon (a real dick – more on him later), it is probably nothing – maybe fibrous tissue, maybe a cyst…but also, possibly, a slim chance but worth checking…cancer. If it is cancer, then it may be my Primary cancer, thus making Alan an unlucky bout of another cancer. In which case, my chemo concoction would be all wrong. Whilst this is all rather unlikely given the size of Alan’s McMansion and proximity to the liver, it should be ruled out. (If cancer were real estate, the liver would be equivalent to Sydney water frontage with a private jetty…you want to buy all of it as it ensures access to pretty much anywhere).
So how does one rule out cancer of the tit? Well, my PET scan was inconclusive, as was the mammogram. So next option…MRI.
Ah shit. I was hoping I’d get away without having one of those. Look. I’m not typically claustrophobic, but when every single clinician dealing with you and the MRI starts out by asking, “How are you in tight spaces?” you start to reconsider your confidence level.
This photo is what I was expecting. And I wasn’t super keen about it. I’m large, the tube is small. The sound is apparently quite loud. And you have to keep completely still.
So you’ll understand my confusion when I was ushered into the room in all my whitegown glory to be greeted by what looked like an industrial-size massage table but for two empty holes just under the face positioner.
“So for this MRI you will be lying face down,” explains the radiographer.
“Sorry, what now?!”
The radiographer laughs nervously, “Yes it’s a bit different for a breast MRI. As you can see the two spaces are where your breasts will go. They will sort of hang into empty space so we can take the best images.”
It was at this point that my nervous energy converted into slightly maniacal laughter.
So there I am, face down, trying to perfectly position my now pathetically small chestnuts into the cavernous space below. All women know that a vertically hanging breast is the least photogenic breast – it is the exact moment we are reminded of its resemblance in both function and appearance to a cow udder.
Add to that vision, a cannula in my left elbow which is set to administer a radioactive contrast into my body which “usually feels just like your arm is getting cold but let us know if you feel anything more serious”. My arms are ‘resting’ above my head as my face is guided into the face hole, covering my eyes. The disposable headphones (shitty headphones) are inserted my ears and then covered with ear muffs and a head stabiliser. My right hand is offered the ‘panic button’ which I fear I might accidentally push, in some sort of nervous spasm resulting from me trying to stay still, thus ending the whole show and starting again.
Picture all of this and you have an appreciation for the exact position I am required to maintain for approximately 30 minutes.
Now for the noise the machine makes. The radiographer ensures I understand that the machine makes VERY LOUD NOISES. She describes it as something akin to a jackhammer about ten centimetres from your head. Nice. Having lived it, I would argue that it’s closer to this: If a jackhammer and a dot matrix printer straight out of 1995 had sex, and made a ‘jackdot’, it would sound like an MRI. And yes, it’s VERY FUCKING LOUD. And it’s ten centimetres from your head.
So as my ever-chilling lady lumps hung into the abyss, the million-dollar machine whirled and jackdotted around me. GOLD FM Rickrolled me in both ears, interspersed with the encouraging but indecipherable words of the radiographer as I tried very hard not to move. For 30 minutes. Which, I suspect in MRI time, is the equivalent of having to watch more than one innings of over 40s, local, amateur cricket.
Despite all this, I’m aware that access to this kind of, let’s face it, incredible technology is a privilege that not all people are afforded. And so, despite my small amount of discomfort, I will take the boob-droop MRI and thank the team for their care and time. And I will hope, that my 30 minutes of adventure will result in photos of saggy breast tissue and no Alan outposts. I mean, if that fucker got so confident as to extend the finances to a timeshare on the boob coast, I’ll really have to get a bigger boot.
“AHHHHHH SHIIIITTTTTTTTT,” I bellow from the laundry.
“What?!!” Mel calls in response.
“I just remembered.”
“Remembered what?”
“That I have bowel cancer.”
I had just been going about my morning, quietly immune to my own condition before spying my ‘downstairs’ toothbrush and toothpaste in the ‘mouth care’ jar we have set up in the laundry.
Ahhh the remembering. It is the worst. And it happens about 18 times a day.
The first remembering is the one just after you wake up. I’m getting used to that one. It’s not as punchy as the first couple of times. Now it feels familiar and less scary.
It’s the others that catch you off guard. For me, they tend to happen more frequently in the second week of the chemo cycle. For all intents and purposes, I look like myself. I have more energy. I feel like me in the second week. So it continues to take my breath away when I am reminded about Alan and his comfortable residency inside my abdominal organs.
The weirdest things remind me of the fact that I’m seriously unwell. The sight of my ever-thinning face in the mirror. The smell of my own skin which I never used to be able to smell. People asking me how I am (please don’t stop – it’s mostly lovely to be asked). The ad on TV reminding all the over-50s to do their annual poop scoop to check for bowel cancer. Our dog Murray shadowing me around the house because he senses I need looking after.
Most of the time I am good. I’m me. I’m laughing and eating and taking the piss out of myself, Alan, my friends, and my family. I listen to podcasts and laugh at old episodes of Spicks and Specks every night like we have always done. I figure my brain must be producing its own form of Rohypnol so as to protect itself from knowing all the time that I am harbouring a terrorist.
Because when I remember, the tears ping as if they were just there at the rim of my eyelid waiting for this exact moment. The air escapes so quickly from my lungs – sometimes mid-sentence. And in my mind, I’m facing Alan and he isn’t a joke I created so as to cope. He isn’t a cartoon human on a deck chair. He is an IT. It is a necrotic, organ-eating monster, growing at an exponential rate throughout my body. It is invisible to me except in occasional discomfort and of course, the consequences of its presence…treatment.
I think remembering will eventually become knowing. And that, I think, will be easier.
In the meantime, Chris (and my friends), but especially Chris, catches me. He holds me in the scary space until it passes. And we do the quiz in the paper or play with Murray. And I remember something else…I’m actually still me. I’m still here. I’m feeling good. I’m alive and not even ‘just alive’. I’m really alive. I’m loved. I love. Life is good. My life is being lived.
Most recently, I have developed a terribly crass but highly amusing hobby. I find it increasingly entertaining to use Alan as leverage for all sorts of negotiations with my friends and family. Some of you might be familiar with this behaviour and have heard it described as playing the cancer card. Judge away, folks!
Here is an example of the kind of interaction I mean:
Mel: I’m ordering an ice-cream delivery. What flavours do we want?
Me: Salted caramel and vanilla and you have to order those because I have cancer.
Mel: (sigh) Right. Yep.
Here is another:
Dad visits from Sydney and we all go to jump in the car to drive to the pub.
Me: Shotgun, Dad. I have cancer. You’re in the back.
Dad:….
And another:
Every week almost everyone in my family does the Saturday quiz in the paper.
My brother (types his family’s score into the family chat): We got 16 this week.
Me (types into family chat): We got 16 this week too. 2 extra cancer points brings us to 18.
I know. This reflects VERY badly on me. It doesn’t fit well with the dignified cancer patient image we all shared until now. But here’s the thing…
It’s funny to me. It allows me to say the word cancer in a context that makes people laugh and roll their eyes and want to slap me. I don’t want cancer to be a word I trip and fall over when it catches me off guard. Every time I play these shitty little games with my friends and family, as wrongtown as it might seem, it makes the cancer smaller in my mind.
Fighting looks like a lot of different things. And I’m learning that people with cancer are all kinds of people. Some are serene and wise and patient. Some are angry and active and getting shit done. Some are stoic and private and able to compartmentalise things. Some are smart arses who enjoy annoying their loved ones with their newly found sense of entitlement.
Sometimes I am laying flat out, staring at the ceiling, on my bed at 3 am having woken up in a liver mets sweat (if you know, you know) and I am overwhelmed by the Alan in the room. The Alan in me. The reality of what could possibly happen is a ledge I am just barely acknowledging, let alone one I can contemplate deeply. This is the tiny room of terror in my brain. Sometimes I am in here.
But when I’m not, I’m fighting Alan the best way I know how – by making the fucker smaller in tiny increments of distaste and laughter. And by making my army laugh (and cringe) too.
One of my favourite past times is watching five-year-old children turn up to the first day of school carrying everything they could possibly need for the entire year. The backpack itself is inevitably way bigger than the kid themselves and threatens to unbalance them as they approach the classroom.
Another classic is the first day of year 6 camp. Anxious parents scour the list of supplies with a fine-tooth comb. Debates are had at home over the need for four pairs of fresh, dry socks and intense googling over the definition of a ‘wet shoe’. Is it possible that a second pair of trainers will do the job of being the wet shoes or is this pointing to a full-on last-minute rush to Kathmandu situation?
Either way, one doesn’t want to be seen to be lacking essential stuff on the first day of a major milestone. Cue meltdown in car on the way to the drop off zone and the child in question is either wailing:
“Mum!!!! This bag is massive! Everyone is going to be staring at me!”
OR
“Mum!!! I TOLD you I needed a chamois towel as WELL as my bath towel AND the beach towel!”
I’ll admit this:
I too wanted to seem to be cool and prepared about turning up for the first day of chemo. However, given the fact that I felt like poo, I was happy to leave this in the capable hands of my crew, who went about pimping out my backpack so that my every possible need would be met over the course of the day. I approved every item on this list and concurred that all were ESSENTIAL to my first successful day of Kicking Alan in the Dick.
List of stuff:
Laptop – apparently I would find the concentration, time and emotional stability to write another blogpost or complete my leave application
Brand new Sony headphones – for watching Netflix, listening to guided meditation or music. Despite my home coaching sessions, I couldn’t work out how to connect the bluetooth so for an awkward three minutes I thought the podcast was coming through the headphones but it was, in fact, just blaring out of my phone on maximum volume. Way to make friends, Gibbo.
Packet of ginger nut biscuits – ginger is known for its anti-nausea effects but given that I was unlikely to experience any nausea while the treatment is being administered, it might have been overkill. Further, the clinic provides meals.
A blank moleskin notebook, packet of coloured pencils and a new set of coloured markers. Doesn’t everyone feel like making intricate artwork whilst being flooded with cytotoxins!??
The most gigantic water bottle known to mankind. This sucker holds over 2 litres and can be slightly overwhelming at first glance. My goal was to flush out the chemo before I left the chair. Note to other rookies: this isn’t a thing.
Lip balm, moisturiser and hand cream – the attack on my high proliferating cells could happen at any instance and it just made sense to be prepared.
My Treatment Diary which had been supplied by the hospital. I actually asked if people fill it in and this is the response I got from the nurse, “You can. It certainly wouldn’t hurt.” Translation: “No, that’s a bit dorky. Our marketing department just makes us give them to every patient.”
Spare batteries.
Laptop and phone charging cords – which apparently don’t take priority over the medical equipment in terms of accessing the power points.
A novel. “Yes, hi, I’m so relaxed I’m just going to devour a couple of chapters of this contemporary hardcover while you access my portacath a dozen times and explain a million potential side-effects to me.”
Vomit bags. I know. We even questioned that one.
So when I walked in the front door of the Day Oncology Unit (early of course because…nerd), I had to sit down pretty much straight away. My big backpack of chemo merch was weighing me down.
As the day progressed, the contents of the bag were gradually revealed. The nurses (actual real-life angels) had some giggles. One of them commented that my backpack merch was so thoughtful and cute and obviously curated by people who really care about me. She made no argument about it being completely unnecessary.
What did I end up doing with all the stuff, I hear you ask? Absolutely nothing. I didn’t read, draw, write or listen to anything. I spent the whole morning taking in what was happening around me, to me, within me.
But here is what we do when someone is really, really fucking scared. We take care of everything they could possibly need. We put our energy into giving to that person, doing for that person, and reaching out to that person. I see you all doing that for me – in all the ways – even if I don’t respond.
My friends and partner pimping out my chemo backpack was another expression of love. And I’ll take it.
First of all: a disclaimer. A few years ago I listened to someone interviewed on the radio whose partner had died of cancer. This person, mid interview, stopped to make the insistent point that when talking about people who have cancer we should stop calling it a battle. Someone’s ‘battle with cancer’. As if dying, is somehow a loss at battle.
I want to be very clear here. Whilst I plan to kick Alan in the dick, I understand that it is every cancer patient’s goal to be rid of cancer. Nobody loses because they didn’t try hard enough. Some of the strongest people I know have died because cancer is a nasty fucker and it’s terrible luck that sometimes the treatment isn’t able to kill all the cancer. Out of respect for those people and their families, I just want to make it clear that my personal strength and determination, whilst helpful in getting me from day to shitty day, are not going to be the biggest deciding factors in me surviving cancer. Instead I put my trust in science and medicine.
On that note: Anti-vaxxers, you can now kindly fuck off with your nonsense. Do not come one foot near my immunocompromised person. I shall fart on you. Then you’ll wish you had also been wearing a mask.
Which brings me to the science and medicine. My brand is called oncology and more specifically, chemotherapy. Those of you wondering about surgery and radiotherapy, I’ll go into why those aren’t options at another time.
I start chemo tomorrow. And I, whilst supportive of my doctors’ decisions, would much prefer to not have to be doing it. In a moment of theatrical sobbing the other night I wailed to Chris and Mel that I was relating hard to pre-crucifixion Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. Take this cup away from me Dr Wann!! I know – my sense of the dramatic knows no bounds. Needless to say we all started pissing ourselves at this moment. I mean, chemo is WAY worse than crucifixion!
I think of chemo as one of those shithouse carnival rides you go on because someone drags you on to it, kicking and screaming. You know the kind:
You might throw up. Because people often do, but it affects everyone differently. You won’t know until you ride.
You might shit your pants. Diarrhoea is common but…it affects everyone differently. Start clenching just in case.
Your hair might completely fall out, fall out in patches or not fall out at all. Ok this doesn’t normally happen on a ride but I was never going to be able to keep the analogy going for ever.
You will be exhausted. You might get mouth sores and ulcers. Your immunity will be so compromised that hearing a sneeze three blocks away could send you into hospital with a temperature and that’s not good.
You might. You might. You might.
You might not. You might not. You might not.
I am so scared. I can’t predict anything. I’ve imagined everything. I’ve spoken to friends who have been through this and they all say the same. It sucks. But if anything is going to work, it’s this. It’s the hardest thing you will ever do in your life. But you keep getting up and doing another day. You just walk towards the ride every day. Holding a vomit bag, and clenching all the way.
