Useful and all as it is to know that my laptop was broken and is now fixed, or that my children are adorable, it doesn't really give much away about how my treatment is going, or how I'm feeling, or what's happening next. There are no clever tips about how to manage those pesky side effects, or what clothes to wear when you go for chemo, or what to buy a cancerhead for Christmas. These are the things people want to know, right?
Not to mention all the wonderful insider information I was going to be able to reveal as a doctor who has "crossed over".
I am currently receiving immunotherapy, ye olde Vectibix, every two weeks. Though I'm not actually, now, because I petitioned for a reprieve for a few weeks to allow my poor skin a chance to re-porcelainise in time for my brother's wedding.
So.
I am currently receiving immunotherapy, ye olde Vectibix, every two weeks. Though I'm not actually, now, because I petitioned for a reprieve for a few weeks to allow my poor skin a chance to re-porcelainise in time for my brother's wedding.
No pressure there skin, in your own time, but dear god let me be free from spots and itching and cracked fingertips just for a week or two, please.
I am having a PET scan this week which will load me up with more radiation (did I imagine it, or did someone once mention that too much radioactivity might be bad for a person? Hmmm).
I haven't the faintest idea what a PET scan entails. So much for the insider doctor knowledge then.
Afterwards all the chin-rubbers will fight about who gets to do what to me next. I'll probably just nod and agree. I'm kind of hoping that Surgeon beats Radiotherapist beats Oncologist in this particular rock-paper-scissors scenario. But sure we'll see.
Getting a break from treatment has the other significant advantage of not having to set foot in that bloody chemo ward for a while.
Funny how a place can change from being a warm welcoming haven (slight exaggeration there) to a miserable drab hellhole in the space of a few months. Most people have a defined period of chemotherapy, usually around six months or so, so they nearly always know when it's likely to end. No such luxury for me. Nine months and counting (that's a good thing!! Not complaining there at all Karma/God/whatever else I need to hedge my bets with!!) of sitting in the same plasticky seats, of which about half have a functioning recliner function but of which 100% are made from the same faux-leather as the back seat of a 1980s Renault. So here's a tip on what to wear to chemo - nothing that allows any part of your skin to come into contact with the furniture, or else you may be stuck there like a Mickey Mouse sunshade to a child's car window.
There are eight of these beauties in the room, four facing four. I usually opt for the one nearest the door or nearest the nurses' desk. I eavesdrop unashamedly on the nurses' handovers, so I know that Michael's oxali has been ordered but they're waiting on his bloods, and that Sheila's constipation needs to be reviewed by the SHO. In fact, I wouldn't really call it eavesdropping, since that implies some kind of strain or effort to hear what they are saying, whereas you would need industrial earmuffs to block out their "discreet" tones. But it is reassuring to me, listening to the medical lingo, thinking my own thoughts about how I would tell Sheila to eat fewer Count On Us meals and take the odd walk, rather than loading her up with Movicol and Senokot.
It is not so reassuring, though, to be able to hear every minute detail of each patient's responses to the same dozen questions they roll out at every visit. "Any problems with the waterworks?" "How are the bowels?" "You don't have any pain, do you?" There is a question about appetite, but nothing about sleep. There is a question about chest pain, but nothing about fear. There is a question about energy levels, but nothing about hopelessness.
I don't know if they purposely designed the review sheet to exclude any possibility of finding out how a person actually feels, but it certainly works out that way. Just as well, because the communal wailing would probably put the nurses off their cupcakes.
Of course, some clients are only too happy to tell their tale, over and over. And if the nurse won't listen, surely some other poor sod in the same boat will. So there are the Strainers, the Rubberneckers, the ones with their heads twisting around on their shoulders trying to catch the eye of the unfortunate fellow patient who hasn't had the sense to earphone their way into anonymity. Occasionally you get the serendipitous delight of having two such sharers in the one room, and they strike up a loud conversation comparing their experiences and the rest of us are left in peace.
Jeremy Kyle with the sound down is really only marginally better than with the sound up. That man must do some serious meditating when he gets home. I hope.
The tea is good, and Martina who brings it, and the chocolate chip cookie.
The nurses are nice. ("Angels" is the official Cork term.)
The concept is beyond reproach ("line them up, pour drugs into them, keep them alive.")
I'm just really glad to be staying out of there for a while.
There are eight of these beauties in the room, four facing four. I usually opt for the one nearest the door or nearest the nurses' desk. I eavesdrop unashamedly on the nurses' handovers, so I know that Michael's oxali has been ordered but they're waiting on his bloods, and that Sheila's constipation needs to be reviewed by the SHO. In fact, I wouldn't really call it eavesdropping, since that implies some kind of strain or effort to hear what they are saying, whereas you would need industrial earmuffs to block out their "discreet" tones. But it is reassuring to me, listening to the medical lingo, thinking my own thoughts about how I would tell Sheila to eat fewer Count On Us meals and take the odd walk, rather than loading her up with Movicol and Senokot.
It is not so reassuring, though, to be able to hear every minute detail of each patient's responses to the same dozen questions they roll out at every visit. "Any problems with the waterworks?" "How are the bowels?" "You don't have any pain, do you?" There is a question about appetite, but nothing about sleep. There is a question about chest pain, but nothing about fear. There is a question about energy levels, but nothing about hopelessness.
I don't know if they purposely designed the review sheet to exclude any possibility of finding out how a person actually feels, but it certainly works out that way. Just as well, because the communal wailing would probably put the nurses off their cupcakes.
Of course, some clients are only too happy to tell their tale, over and over. And if the nurse won't listen, surely some other poor sod in the same boat will. So there are the Strainers, the Rubberneckers, the ones with their heads twisting around on their shoulders trying to catch the eye of the unfortunate fellow patient who hasn't had the sense to earphone their way into anonymity. Occasionally you get the serendipitous delight of having two such sharers in the one room, and they strike up a loud conversation comparing their experiences and the rest of us are left in peace.
Jeremy Kyle with the sound down is really only marginally better than with the sound up. That man must do some serious meditating when he gets home. I hope.
The tea is good, and Martina who brings it, and the chocolate chip cookie.
The nurses are nice. ("Angels" is the official Cork term.)
The concept is beyond reproach ("line them up, pour drugs into them, keep them alive.")
I'm just really glad to be staying out of there for a while.
