Speaking Up

I'm about to do it again. 

Parade myself and my cancer-ness around the place. 

Flaunting my flaws. 

Dribbling on about myself, my wellness, my illness.

Exposing myself to accusations of bravery, or resilience, or miraculousness.

Exposing myself to the possibility of no one caring less, or throwing their eyes to heaven.

Would she ever shut up. 

Yeah yeah we know we know, stop going on about it. 

Oh well.

Too late now. 

I have cancer, you know. 

 

Still Working

I tell people I am getting chemo every two weeks, but that is not entirely true. 

I am often tempted by my innate tendency to divilment, to write things that are not fully veracious, just for the giggle. I could tell people I have been cured by angels, or that I take ivermectin every second day, or that tequila slammers have been the key to my recovery.

None of those things is true. And in the spirit of full disclosure, I am not actually getting chemo. I am getting cetuximab, which is a monoclonal antibody and therefore known as a targeted therapy, rather than a chemotherapy. 

Collectively, the various gunks that they administer to knobble cancer are called Systemic Anti-Cancer Treatment, or SACT. 

As in, your cancer gets sacked. Out on its ear. (Unless you have ear cancer, in which case out on its something else).

Redundified. Severanced. Forcibly quitted. 

Or, if you are of a more medieval mindset, pillaged. Ravaged. Destroyed.

That is the plan anyway. 

"Medieval" comes to mind when I feel the teeny but acutely painful paper cuts around my fingernail as they greet an unexpected drop of lemon juice or try to press on an unyielding remote control button. Persistent, consistent, insistent shoots of pain all day and night, from pathetic little scars that look so insignificant. 

This is the main side effect from the cetuximab. Other little joys include ridiculously long eyelashes which brush off the inside of my glasses, and a lovely pustular rash on my face, back and chest. I may have mentioned this before, but don't at me, as they say. 

It doesn't cause my immunity to drop or make me particularly tired. It takes about 4 hours to administer and I pop into the lovely "chemo" ward people every two weeks where they sort me out. (I think the chances of them changing the name to the SACT Ward are small). 

I had scans before Christmas which show a sustained improvement in my liver tumour and nothing new anywhere else, so all is good. 

I have come to accept the likelihood that I will need to stay on some maintenance treatment into the future; like, looonnnggg into the future. I was ferociously lucky to get away without it before. Nearly every other Stage 4 bowel cancer patient I know has needed some kind of ongoing therapy to keep them ticking over. I was special but now I am definitely not.

It's fine, like. 

It messes a bit with my thoughts about returning to active duty as a GP.  I will have to ponder that. 

For the moment, I am delighted to keep working with the wonderful people in the National Screening Service, while the wonderful people in the Mercy University Hospital are still working to keep me alive and well. 

Update

So I left ye hanging there after my last post. Apologies. 

Since then, I have had six doses of Folfiri chemotherapy, one hospital admission for neutropenia (low white cell count which made me vulnerable to serious infections) and  at least 14 boxes of Leonidas chocolates. 

I have walked 82 miles in a month for charity, because I misread the advertisement and thought it was going to be kilometres.

I am still getting chemo every two weeks, but just fluorouracil and cetuximab now which are easy peasy compared to irinotecan. 

I have lost about 80% of my hair and I am getting skilled at the comb-over. I bought a cheap wig which I immediately had to return because it was so hideous. (It is hard to describe just how hideous it was).

I went to Belfast for the weekend where we held our annual WiMIN conference, with 120 other lovely women in attendance and a few dozen more tuning in over Zoom. 

I had a scan a few weeks ago which showed that my liver tumour has shrunk quite a lot, which was excellent news. I am due to have another scan soon to see what’s next. It seems likely that I will continue with some kind of chemotherapy on and off for the next while, just to be on the safe side. 

I am well enough now to return to work, because the chemo regime I am on now doesn’t cause fatigue or low immunity. Also, I will lose my mind if I don’t have something to keep my brain busy, so work is therapeutic for me. I am very thankful to have an understanding employer (in fact, any employer – the last time I was off sick I was self-employed, and the luxury of a PAYE job has become very clear to me in the last few months). 

I find myself getting irritated by vapidity, and then I remember that Instagram is a choice and I can just delete the app. 

I still cannot bring myself to look at the videos from Gaza. And now there are videos from Lebanon to turn away from as well. I am a coward and, therefore, complicit. I just don’t know how to cope with the inevitability of it all. They will not stop until everyone is dead. I don’t see any alternative future. 

I wish the world was different, but I am glad that I am looking out at the autumn leaves in the low October sunlight, and I am healthy (relatively speaking).