I have been awake since 01:10 am – I lay there for 4 hours. It went by so fast. Normally drags in the night but the clock was kind. Makes a change.
My husband gets up at 05:30 am and goes to the gym. I didn’t hear him leave so I’m guessing I’d dozed off.
My chemo friend had her final op yesterday. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I was anxious for myself too. How will I be feeling with the surgical socks on, pre-op’d and ready to be knocked out – boob sliced open.
I’ve never had an operation before so I was asking questions to decipher what to expect. She is sore, and tired and back in her hospital bed recovering. I’m so glad she messaged me because I just wanted to know she was OK.
Chemo is powerful, but so are the people you meet along the way. I’m lucky to have met her and I hope we remain friends on the other side.
I’ve curled my wig again – on husband’s head – and opt for skirt, tights and ankle boots. These nurses have never seen my legs out so they’re getting it today!
I bounce in like I own the place. “Hi Holly – Hi Sally”….”You know me now, yes tea please with milk no sugar”….”In a mug my lovely”. My northern tone wrapping around the words and sentences. Spoken like a pro! I smile as I recall my first treatment when I met my chemo friend. Longing to be as familiar and at ease as she was.
I have arrived!!
Ironic really as I am leaving in 3 weeks…..!!
I sit in my usual chair – eyeballing the room and it’s residents. Only recognize one other person. I wonder where the others are. My heart drops a little. I hope they’re OK. Maybe they have finished too – they have had their ending and they are now recovering and moving back towards their lives and their families.
As I wait for my chemo to arrive and treatment to start I become fixated on the clock facing me. It is one of those that has the time, day and date.
10:14 am Wed 14th Oct
It screams at me. I flinch. It’s not real but my it feels it right now. It’s an innate object but it’s shouting the date at the top of it’s voice. I swear I feel it’s spit hit my face. It’s October it’s telling me. Not June. I sat in this very chair on 12:06 pm Wed 10th June.
No shouting at me then. Oh no. It looked down at me with it’s wide black and white face. Sullen. It knew what was going to happen to me. It has seen 1000’s of others in my place. In its chair. The clocks chair I will remember it as now.
As this memory solidifies, I glance around the unit locking in other images my mind rushes to devour. What the hell is going on?
I feel this urge to cement so much in to my mind about the hours I’ve spent in this large open room. It’s not airless and windowless like the rooms I first met cancer in. Despite it’s purpose, it has life. Life clings to everyone sitting in these chairs – they are all here – I am here – to stay alive and to live. This is just a halfway house back to life as we knew it. A stop-gap as we get cured, get better, and get the prognosis we hope for. A room where the drugs get in so we can get out. Out of chemo land and back to carving out some future where the chemo is no longer needed.
I see the same people doing the same things every time I am here. But today I am searching for parts of this experience I haven’t yet encountered.
I find some and I store them in my filing cabinet in my head.
There. That’s better. I feel better now.
The worst part of the treatment for me now is having the cannula fitted into the top of my hand and into the vein. The nurse opts for the left hand this time, to give my right hand (the dominant one) a rest. I’m good with this as I want to write whilst I’m waiting for the toxins to pump through. I wince as usual but this time there’s less grip and I remember to breathe. I chat shit and count down from 10 when it goes in. Others hear me but I am not bothered.
The wash goes in, then the Docetaxel and when it’s 250ml has drained itself from the bag hanging above my head into my now plump, thirsty blue vein, the machine beeps it’s message. It’s in – she is done – she can go. It takes about 70 minutes to drop into me.
250ml. Not even a can of diet coke in volume.
250ml. I don’t put that much milk in my over night oats.
250ml. A LARGE GLASS OF WINE (That I can no longer f***ing drink thanks to THIS 250ml of crap)
I wonder at what actually has gone into this amount of liquid. It rips my nose, throat and face apart. It gives me an upset stomach for a week. It stops me feeling my tongue and tasting my food. It dries out my skin and turns it into leather. It takes the tips of my fingers away and still won’t give them back. It keeps me awake at night for the whole cycle. It brings out hot flushes and icy blows of air through my body. It keeps me on the edge of tears every second of my life now.
How the f*** is it made? Where is it made? Who makes it? My mind races off again and the chair clock winks at me….
“Get out of here you idiot. You’re done”