Clichés

Having “I Will Survive” in my cancer playlist was inevitable. I avoided that song Survivor, by the girl with the large bottom (or is it when she’s with the other two girls with large bottoms, anyway you know which one I mean. She wears camouflage.)

But you cannot go through this whole cancer rigmarole without tripping over saccharine over-obvious inevitabilities, like someone buying you a cosy hat, and finding yourself saying things like “life really is too short.”

There’s nothing wrong with the cliches. Sure where would we be without them. 

I am back at work two days per week. The first few patients I saw back in July must have thought I was on speed. I was glowing with enthusiasm, hurling open the waiting room door and shouting out the next patient’s name, beaming at them when they sat down in my room, bellowing “how are things with you then?” gleefully. Thankfully, most of them I had never met before, so they did not know I had been AWOL and just thought I was a ferociously naive new girl. Helped by the acne making me look about twelve. 

It felt bone-tinglingly great to be back at my desk, doing my thing. I kept forgetting the names of things and people, but felt no shame in admitting it. 

I felt alive. (c.f. first paragraph...)

After a few weeks I started getting cross with people. Thinking, “get over yourself, there’s divil-all wrong with you."
Another cliché.

I was blown off course a bit by a fella coming in to me, who I don’t like much, for reasons I won't go into. He had been in hospital the week before and came to me with his discharge letter and prescription. I had a not-very-well-hidden shneer on me.  “Terrible news”, he says. “Oh yeah”, says I, thinking he’ll have had a bit of pneumonia or a dose of gastro. I open the letter. 

Diagnosis: Colorectal carcinoma with multiple liver metastases and suspicious pulmonary nodules. 

Ah.

I take a little gulp. He says again, “Terrible news.”

Hmm, I say. You never know. 

He has cancelled his appointment for the oncologist. He doesn’t want to go through what his wife went through. 

I say to him maybe it won’t be that bad. “I’ve heard the type of chemo they use for this isn’t the worst.”

“Really?”

“I heard you mightn’t be sick at all.”

“Oh.”

If it was anyone else, I may well have let the professional facade slide and told him my tale, and we could have formed a little support group right there and then. But I didn’t, and he left, possibly a bit more inclined to go for the treatment, but still believing his life was guaranteed to suck from here on out. 

I cannot decide if I should tell my patients about my diagnosis or not. The people I have nearly told so far are: a nun; a gentle single lady in her 70s; a young mum with a life-threatening brain condition, and a 99 year old with dementia.

Go do your work there, amateur (and professional) psychologists. 

I wonder what would happen if I did tell. I guess l it would slow up my consultation rate quite significantly - it’s not really the kind of thing you can just slip into conversation and then move casually back to examining bunions. And once it’s out there you can’t take it back. I would have the inevitable outpouring of sympathy and platitudes, and the usual foot-shuffling and looking away. My practice has a large elderly population, “salt-of-the-earth” types, with traditional working class values and expectations. These are people who say “the big C” under their breath, and bless themselves. They don’t want a brash cancer-whupping atheist messing with their world view. 

And how many of them will think feck this I’m out of here, in case it’s contagious! Look at her with her big open sores on her face! Get her a bell!!

But if I don’t tell them, they’ll invent their own truth. 

“I heard she had post-natal depression, couldn’t handle the third baby. It’s another redhead, you know.”

“I heard she hurt her back in an accident and is taking a case, she’s going to get millions.”

“No sure, she ran off from the husband and shacked up with one of them foreign fellas that works in the hospital, I sees her down there waiting around for him to finish his shift.”

“Go way out of that girl, I know for a fact it’s the drink....”

You can’t escape the clichés.

Soundtrack

I feel bad for dissing the chemo ward in my last post. It was a case of familiarity breeding contempt. I'll be all enthusiastic when I go back, I promise.

The last time I was there, I was getting particularly annoyed with something or other, when "Helter Skelter" by The Beatles came on in my earphones. 

I thought, how fantastic would it be to plug this in to a few gazillion watt amps and blast it through the place. That would get Sheila's constipation sorted I tells ya. 

So I though a bit more about a possible Chemo Ward playlist. Here's what I have so far:

• Irene Cara - Fame
• Gloria Gaynor - I Will Survive
• The Jam - Going Underground
• Journey - Don't Stop Believing
• Leonard Cohen - Ain't No Cure
• Joe Jackson - Cancer
• Damien Dempsey - Sing All Your Cares Away
• The Ramones - I Wanna Be Sedated
• The Specials - Enjoy Yourself 
• The Velvet Underground - Beginning to See The Light
• Dylan/Clapton/Rose - Knockin on Heaven's Door (Axl wins for me)
• Tom Waits - Looks Like I'm Up Shit Creek Again
• The Frank and Walters - Fight
• The Beatles - Getting Better
• The Pogues - Fiesta (If he's still alive and happy there's hope for us all)

Any other suggestions?

**Updated 24/9**

• Just for you, Gary
• And in an uncanny link, this one's for Niamh (I love one of the comments underneath - This is like attending a production of Annie and the jerk right behind you is talking out loud.)

Good Behaviour

It dawned on me that my recent posts here haven't been particularly informative. 

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". 

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.