Five weeks ago I wore a new pair of shoes. They were lovely. A bargain in the Next sale. They rubbed the top of my feet – I thought nothing of it. New show wear in. Today the sores that are there now resemble an upside down mushroom. My skin no longer heals itself anywhere near as it once did. I am a bit clumsy, so good at knocking my toes on the bottom of the bed frame, or knees on the sides of cupboards. When I look at my stretched, off beige skin now, it is speckled with bruises and marks I can not remember doing. I only know some have been there for months. My feet and hands are drying by the day. Again, part of the profile of this chemotherapy. I am lucky enough to receive hand and foot creams from my friends. They help, but after a few hours I can feel the ridges and cracks appear again. My nails are sore. I catch the corners of my fingers, and my goodness do I yelp. They are no longer feeling anything from the tips up, and I can’t really feel any heat or cold against my fingers. My body is crumbling away and looks disgusting. Chemo has rid me of the ability to heal myself. It’s rotten.
I wonder how long it will take before my skin repairs itself again.
My limbs are weak and sometimes I am scared I will snap in half. I’ve noticed this when I have been sitting in the same position for a few hours. Early morning, mid-afternoon, late evening. I pull myself up out of bed. And off the toilet. I am slowing down and often feel I drag my torso along and my legs follow wearily.
It’s 6 days on and despite all of the ‘regular’ effects highlighted above, I stand up OK today. A little less harsher on my joints. It’s mad how you mark your performance of each moment with a percentage. Today, I feel about 10% lighter, and less strained than yesterday. Trust me. You live for these moments as there is the evidence you are doing well, and the chemo is lifting. You want this to happen as early as possible after each cycle, so you get the chance to live as well as you can before the next beating. Breathlessness is still my closest friend at the moment. I accept it and compromise my movements to accommodate my pal.
The kids still look at me with worry filled eyes when I start panting for breath. I have walked every day since chemo – another way of me taking control and getting on with it despite it’s presence within me wanting me to do the opposite. I struggle up the smallest of inclines and have to hold on to my children until my heart rate levels off and I get my breath back. I do feel so bad for them having to do this for me. This was never meant to happen to us. To my family.
I used to be able to run 5 miles without losing my breath. They get home and sprint through the house aka: ‘Tidy Heidi’. Now though I’m not able to get a tin of beans out the cupboard without having to sit down gasping for breath. It’s shit.
But as I near the end of this nightmare I look to what I WILL do again. Once the chemo finally departs, I’ll start to run again – 1 mile, then 2, then 3, then 5.
I’ll reach for beans and chopped tomatoes and then I’ll empty the dishwasher. In the same 2 minutes. No more labored movements. No more children getting ready to catch me, scared I’ll topple over.
They have been through so much with me. I might get my lung capacity back, but I’ll never be able to erase these memories from their young minds.
They’ve seen me in my darkest hours, and that should never have happened. They’ve helped put me to bed. Passed me my sick bowl. Fetched me my medicines and water to wash them down with. Seen the bruises chemo has stamped on my body. Heard the cries of pain. Smelt the metallic breath. Seen the dignity drip out of me as the chemo continued to tighten it’s grip. Seen the helplessness in my dull green eyes intensify as the cycles pass through their young lives. Stopped asking me for lifts. Started their sentences with ‘I don’t want to bother you but…..’ Held their breath as I sat eating my food waiting for me to throw down the cutlery in frustration at not being able to taste anything and watch me scrape my dinner into the food waste bin. Heard me moan and complain and clam up with anger. Seen me cry so many times.
Yes, they’ve seen cancer at it’s worse. Their Mum on her knees. Their best friend fall.
Have your children seen that? I hope not. Mine have seen real life, real pain, and real resilience. I hope it won’t leave a stain, or leave it’s mark. I want these images to fade and in their place memories of how I coped – kept going – wiped my tears – stood my ground – pulled my body through each long and lonely day.
I am so sorry for bringing this to our lives.