Patterns

Chemo number 4 today. I think I have the routine figured out by now. 


Day 1:
Wake early, or else too late. Either way, end up rushing around at 7:50 trying to make lunches, pack bags, put on the washing machine, remember to bring the little pouch for my drug pump. 
Drive around the hospital looking for a parking space. Nearly always find the same one, yet I persist in looking elsewhere first. 
Take my ticket at the admissions counter. They call me in quickly, smile warmly, remember my name, ask about the kids. 
Sigh to myself as I walk up the stairs. 
Get assigned to a chair or a bed. Please please please let it be a bed. 
Nurse arrives with her little tray with my name band and the needle to go into my port. 
Bloods go off to the lab. All decisions rest on the results. I could get sent home (yay!) but they'd make me come back again anyway (boo!)
I sit and wait. (I'm not sure if angels contemplate my fate.)


The toxic stuff arrives down from the pharmacy in a locked industrial grey briefcase, carried by a lady in full Breaking Bad protective gear. 
Then they connect it to my bloodstream. 
You'd have to wonder really who came up with this stuff. "Hey Professor, I've found this really toxic chemical! I know, let's pour it into really sick people and see what happens!"

I sit and listen to the beeping, the vacuuming, the TV3, the intimate details of other people's lives and bowel habits. 

I get four different drugs. Folinic acid (a vitamin-type thing so it feels like it might actually be good for me), irinotecan (shocking awful stuff that banjaxes your guts any way it chooses for about ten days), fluorouracil (kind of a benign old thing really. Wikipedia calls it a suicide inhibitor! Maybe someone should tell the suicidologists) and panitumimab (the skin-assaulter).

It all takes about seven hours, give or take a lifetime spent waiting for doctors or xrays or swab results if you make the fatal error of telling them that there's anything wrong with you. 

I go home with a little plastic bottle of fluorouracil attached to my port. I stick it in the pocket of my hoodie. 
[I have a chemo uniform now - vneck top to access port without too much undressing, hoodie to carry the bottle, comfy trousers (though I refuse to wear a tracksuit), slippers, earphones. Smiley face.]

I am high on 8mg dexamethasone. Don't mind your crystal meth, dexa meth is your only man. I bombard social media, seeking validation and a fight. 
I don't sleep, because now I've decided I can't sleep, so I'm hardly going to. I can't lie on my left side, and the bottle is not nearly as pleasant a thing to share a bed with as a newborn baby, so there aren't really any upsides. 


Day 2:
I haven't slept, but I'm not tired. I take another 4mg dexameth. Whoop!
My face goes very red at about 11am. 
I potter about doing all the stuff I usually do, with a dry mouth and a headache that is very similar to a hangover but just a bit less fun. My thumbs go weird. 
I start to feel a bit weary and maybe a bit cranky (though I am quite sure that my mood stays perfectly stable throughout the whole cycle. Others may beg to differ.)
I sleep better. 

Day 3:
Another 4mg of dex. Off we go again, cleaning, washing, emptying cupboards, vacuuming walls. 
I try to concentrate on complicated work stuff. I convince myself I am a whizz with the numbers. I spend an hour on spreadsheets. It makes me feel good. 
I go back to the hospital, back to the smiling faces in admissions, back up the stairs and join the others waiting in the corridor. 
Generally I am whisked in pretty quickly, the nurse pulls out the needle and disposes of the empty bottle in a special Toxic Waste bucket. 
I go to work. The 4mg is still doing it's thing. I chat away to the patients, open worm cans, dig a bit deeper than usual. Superdoc is in the house. 

Day 4:
I've slept better without the bottle, but the brain is still racing a bit. 
No more dex. Downer. 
I am more able, but less able. I am unencumbered by a constant flow of lethal chemicals, but unboosted by the steroids. Perhaps, maybe, the mood slips a bit. I may shout, but only when necessary. "DO NOT LICK THE BOWL LIKE A CAT". That kind of thing. 

Day 5:
Okay. Things are slipping a bit now all right. Fighting the right words is a hit-and-miss procedure. My mouth is constantly dry, my brain is constantly foggy. I feel a bit like I did at 7am after a Med Ball. Not ideal for going to work. I'll have to stop doing that. 

Day 6:
I'm awake and I'm functioning, but I could sleep standing up. I could crawl upstairs and into bed until Tuesday. In a parallel universe like. 

Day 7:
A bit more awake, a bit more functioning. Would still bite your hand off for forty winks though. 

Day 8:
At last I see the light, and it's like the fog has lifted. But the stomach cramps kick in. They do tend to keep you quite awake. And sharpen your wits at work. 

Day 9:
Guts still as predictable as the weather, but the brain is able for complicated tasks like third class maths. 

Day 10:
Sure this chemo thing is easy peasy. Temperature going up a bit though, and white cells probably going down. Try to avoid eating the food off the plates of the snotty germ-factories. Try not to breathe in during consultations. 

Day 11:
Aches and pains, fatigue, short temper. Totally normal Mummy symptoms. Grand.

Day 12:
Skin beginning to heal. Spots less like Vesuvius, more like Sugar Loaf. 

Day 13:
Wholesome family activities, uniform washing, lunchbox preparations. Suppressing dread.

Day 14/Day 1:
And repeat.




Disclaimer: There are some sneaky hidden stolen phrases in there. I couldn't be bothered referencing them properly. Prize of a digestive biscuit for those who can spot them. And apologies to the copyright police if they're around.