Oops

Now it’s suddenly hard work. Now I’ve exposed myself to appraisal and judgment and I’m flinching a bit.  Not that anyone is ever going to say an unkind word (I have cancer you know). But I feel like now I’ve committed to being Good At This Kind of Thing, the writing like. I’m hitting delete. I’m looking up words. That’s never good. 

Anyway. I had intended originally to muse, whimsically, about what it is like to be a patient when you are a doctor. I was going to laugh at the knowing-too-much, wanting to read my own notes and prescribe my own drugs, the finding it hard to keep my opinion to myself. 

But sure I’m not a standard patient and never will be. I will never be the same as the others. There’s no way that they all get the same quality of treatment and care that I am getting. Diagnosis to treatment in twelve days. Texts from oncologists on Sunday evenings, checking that I’m okay. Unremitting kindness from nurses and care assistants, radiographers and porters. Or maybe, maybe that is normal?

There is another doctor out there with a blog about being sick. I’ve become a bit obsessed with her. She has started a campaign called #hellomynameis, which aims to encourage all healthcare workers in the NHS to introduce themselves when they meet a patient. She makes out that HCWs are terrible at this and need to improve. She is getting an MBE for this sterling work. So now we know that any NHS staff member who introduces themselves to patients these days has this brave lady to thank for teaching them how to do it. 

Funny thing is, we don’t appear to need a soldier like her in Ireland. The majority of the people I’ve met have told me their name, confirmed mine, asked me about my kids, and been generally good eggs. Is it a cultural thing? Are Irish people friendlier? Possibly, but given that a good percentage of NHS staff are Irish you’d think that might rub off. There is the teeny tiny possibility that this lady might just be a bit of a crankypants....dear god I just insulted a woman Who Has Cancer You Know!!

(Also, she describes herself as having terminal cancer. She was diagnosed three years ago. I’ll be calling it “terminal” when I am on the flat of my back, Cheyne-Stoking, seeing bright lights and hearing beardy men calling my name. And not a moment before.)

Febrile Neutropaenia

You know a word means business when it’s got a diphthong. 

Actually it’s a grapheme. But it certainly makes a word a cut above the rest. 

Throw in febrile (much sicker sounding than “a bit of a temperature”), then what you get is some words that are less refined, but a good bit more sinister

Like “hospital admission”, “48 hours of iv antibiotics”, “isolation”.

The antibiotics aren’t even that cool sounding. I suppose the Tazocin might be Tazering little bacteria, but Gentamicin just sounds like sucky sweets, or something out of a hanging basket.

So two days of enforced leisure ensues. Lets face it, that’s pretty welcome in the scheme of things. But it’s very hard to be breaking little kiddies’ hearts, and big husbands’ reserves. And the incessant beeping does take away from the tranquillity somewhat.

The sense of injustice is beginning to creep in. The dreaded Linda Martins. Why me. 

I need to change the soundtrack. 

The Drugs Do Work

And who knows what else might be doing it: the praying by those who believe, the meat-free diet, the "positive mental attitude", the love and care of those around me, the vitamin B, the green tea.....
Whatever it is, a little thought is creeping in that this thing might not just be manageable, but, dare I say it, conquerable?
Now wouldn't that be nice?

Normal Service has Resumed

Back to positivity now. Sorry bout that.

They call it the Sandwich Generation - when you are caring for your children and elderly parents at the same time. That’s where Derek is at, although he has the lovely added bonus of caring for his wife as well. Like an extra dollop of mayonnaise that you really didn’t want.

I, on the other hand, have my parents looking after me and my children. So I’m like a bit of ham that wiggled out from between the two slices of bread and am happy out on the plate, wondering which mustard I’d like. 

Thank you Mum and Dad. 

A Momentary Lapse in Positivity

Today sucks.

Good Things about Cancer

Cake. Lots of cake.

My ability to care less about stuff has increased exponentially. Turns out that lots of annoying things don’t really matter that much.

Clichés are allowed. Spending time with friends and family really is the best thing in life.

I have a back-story, ready to be trotted out whenever I need it. “You can’t arrest me Officer, I have cancer!” 

I would win X Factor hands down. 

People bring pre-made dinners.

I can go for a nap whenever I want. 

What’s not to like?