Over 48 hours in and I’m still feeling OK. Not great – not well – not normal – but OK. OK is such a good place to be after chemo. OK was never enough or acceptable in my old life. You learn to manage your expectations when you have cancer. A good lesson I think. One I hope I continue to learn once the treatment is over.
The crisp, clear autumnal skies keep my mind optimistic today. There’s a bite in the air but this fades as the day runs on – leaving a warmth akin to a spring day. The kids and I relish the brightness and go for a late afternoon walk. A welcome break from my laptop and to do list.
It’s at times like these, when I hook arms with my daughter, and stand in the shadows of my 6ft 1″ son, I am at peace. At peace with the world and the disease within my body. It doesn’t stay for long. I am grateful for the sun that hits my sunglasses and ignores the tears welling up behind them. Please, please don’t take me away from them.
We haven’t been in the door five minutes when a wave of weakness washes over my body. It forces me to sit down. I wait a few moments – carry on marking students work. But it forces me to hit ‘ctrl – alt – delete’ and shut down. I can only think about going to bed. All other available thinking streams are no longer avaialble to me.
I’m alone in my head and I’m going through the motions of closing my files, putting the laptop away and unplugging the extension lead. Autopilot kicks in. A pint of water, my phone, chemo diary, hot water bottle, meds, and my journal appear by magic on my bedside table.
PJ’s on, I tumble onto my bed giving in to any pulls of resistance remaining in my bone dead body. It’s early Friday evening FFS and I’m going to bed. The sun is still sharp and the sky still blue but as I sink into my mattress and feel the pain and rawness of the side effects lessen their grip, I don’t want to be anywhere else in the world right now.
I breathe down into my heavy body and tease each vessel with oxygen and stillness.
I have no idea how long I lie here.
The quiet is all around me and I can’t hear anything. Except the breath reaching down to my toes and back up again through my head. My very own internal one way route.
This really is quite wonderful.
Then, as if a fire alarm has just gone off, I stir out of my subconscious state to the sounds of “Where is she?” – “Is she OK”? – “Mum”?? Half my family rush down the hallway with this desperate glare on their faces. Fear swims in their eyeballs. They’re worried. Scared.
Questions flutter above me and I clammer to answer them. They want to know why I am in bed.
“Because I am tired, and I felt like it”, …Was the best they were going to get.
My face gives nothing away but I’m grinning inside at the irony of this. For months they’ve been telling me to go to bed when the side effects kick in. And now, they actually have they don’t have a clue what to say or do. If I was asked once, I was asked 40 times am ‘Am I OK’?….’Do I need anything’?
My head lolls to the side and I peak out of the side of my eyelids at the parade that continues for hours. Children relay. One comes in, leaves it a few moments, then the other, then the other. Each passing the ‘Check on Mum’ batten. Reminds me of their sports days at school. The green grass covered in small people running, jumping, hopping, skipping their way to the wooden lolly stick that would reward them their glory. Now their relay looks very different. My heart breaks, but I cannot give this any thought as I am panting under the strain of my dense lungs as they stretch to their now maximum capacity to keep me breathing in and out. They feel so thick and hard.
I feel like I am watching myself – my life – my
family.
I don’t feel part of the scene. I don’t feel part of anything. Blurring in and out of the life that exists outside of my battered and broken body.
I stave a tear. I want this day, this week, this month, this year to go by so I can stand back up and have a Friday night that doesn’t feel like this one. Drenched in fear, pain and sadness. How did you spend your Friday night? If you have learnt nothing from my experiences, please check yourself for any unusual lumps, bumps or sores. Get to know your body, it’s shape and feel. Know it well. Because when you do, you’ll know if something doesn’t feel right. The earlier you get the message, the better the reply.
Nights like these mess with your mind and try to rid you of any joy and optimism. I burn up, cool down. Rub my clammy head – drink my water – take my temperature.
Pick up a book – write – read the news on my phone – throw my hot water bottle out of bed.
I hear music. I hear the oven timer beep it’s voice, and the buzz of three teenagers in the distance. Husband strolls in with a tray – burger and chips are placed on my lap. It smells divine and I am snapped out of my chemo coma and my eyes devour the meal before my mouth does.
One by one they descend – burgers and chips in hand and before long the five of us are sat hunched up on our bed eating dinner together as a family.
This feels so normal to me. Except it’s not normal is it? Keeping your Mum company in her bedroom on a Friday night because Chemotherapy kicked her head in. Again.