CYCLE 2 DAY 1

So this was it, day 1 of cycle 2 and its throwing it down with rain, which creates havoc in selecting what to wear and stay looking good, or at least like cancer is not beating me into jogging bottoms and a T shirt, I have a morning to fill with life admin and making arrangements for a couple of nights away. I am determined that to do what I want to do, and what I would normally do. I know what to expect this time, possibley, bearing in mind that everyone says it’s unpredictable, but I cannot hang around I’ve got a PSA score to drive down to zero. Resilience is the key and maintaining direction, a true north is crucial.

I find I have downed my pills and downed breakfast and played on the computer when I realise that I’ve got to Pop Master on radio 2 and therefore must of course stop and prove to myself that I know nothing about pop music. I am afraid the prizes of a blue tooth speaker or a digitial radio are far beyond my knowledge. I buckle down to some more serious life admin after this and before I know it my partner has returned from work to chaffeur me to chemo. However before setting off I have a bath, always considersate of those that are going to have to handle me. Finding a rather nice silver star bath bomb in the sink rack I lob it in and at first I am dissapointed as it is not silver all the way through but just coated. My dissappointment turns to happy when I realise its packed full of glitter. Usually in these situations the glitter has all dissapeared once out of the bath and dry but today I emerge glittered, not that I noticed untill the nurse playing hunt the vein noticed I was sparkling and commented on it. Once pointed out it was obivious that I as liberally covered in gold. Pulling out my black fan to waft away a hot flush might just have been the last touch for some of my fellow C club members in for thier peculiar dose of poison.

But first its the journey into the hospital, or rather the tortuious journey trying to get into the hospital car park. It is always full with the result that there is always at least a forty minute wait to get to the barrier to get in. Its a nightmare, made worst by sitting waiting for the red FULL sign to turn momentarily green and allows you to waft the prepaid saver card at the machine to raise the barrier. Then its a head long plunge to the multistory car park where on levels 4 to 6 there are enough spaces to park a fleet of taxis. Its crap and about the most poorly managed parking area I’ve come across. At one stage an old woman was ushered into a wheel chair from a car in front by her daughter and wheeled away in pouring rain in order to get to her appointment on time because they had been sat in the queue so long and were still an entire two streets away from the barrier. Like I say its crap and sooner rather than later I suspect someone will make a safeguarding complaint or the CQC will pick it up as poor leadership and care.

Anyway we get in and make our way to the chemo poison shed and announce our arrival. As usual we ae told to wait outside in the waiting area. So I go for a preemptive pee and stock up with bags of Maltezers. I settle down with my new touch screen Kindle and begin to read Randall Munroe’s What If? Serious Scientific Answers to Absurd Hypothetical Questions. A strange but very endearing book so far, with answers to questions like, ” If every person on earth aimed a laser pointer at the moon at he same time, would it change color?” or “What would happen if you made a periodic table out of cube shaped bricks, where each brick was made of the corresponding element?” The answeres are serious scientific attempts to answer the question and with surprising results. And then I get called and directed to my chair for the day. I am displeased. No lounger for me this time just a soft backed chair with no recline or foot bar or table for my goodies. I feel I’ve ben demoted. I’m not feeling the love, and I’m thinking this does not bode well, and I start hoping my veins donn’t wobble again like last time.

Three nurses, five stabs at it and finally they got one in. I knew from last time that although my veins look good on the lower part of my hand the successful placement was further up the arm. I sugget this and get the “we are trained to start low because if we start at the top and it doesn’t work we cann’t go low”. I’m thinking go once low and if you cock it up go high on the same hand. No chance, so three goes low on my right hand: wobbly vein, vein with valve push back, vein collapse and we move on to the right hand low. Surprise surprise no joy, “its popped”, must be a technical term for “its your fault again”. Finally we go high and bingo its in. Relief all round and the third nurse gets have the smile of achievement. I am finaly hooked upto my bag of poison and left to get on with amusing myself,which consists of taking pictures of my machine and other stuff.

Luckily all went well and I was able to look around the poison shed to see what new things there were to see. I spotted a bell and could not resist a photo.

Apparently these bells are part of the cancer chemo culture. I am a bit mystified by the adoption of this ritual. All it does is remind me of the Lloyds Marine Insurance bell on the old stock exchange. It was rung when a ship went down at sea and Lloyds had to pay out. I suppose its meant to be a signal of hope to all those sitting in their chairs (recliner if they are lucky, still miffed) going through the pain and anxiety of their chemo. I’m not sure how I would respond to hearing it, I suspect my grumpy bit would be muttering “your be back” but I know that some are lucky. Its just my Gleason score of 9 that’s talking.

I got into conversation with the bloke in the next seat who was clearly further along the advanced path than I am. He was very forth coming about his conditiion and about his current state of uncertainty about how his many conditions were being dealt with. At one point his doctor chatted to him and went off to check things for him. On his return he reassuered the man about his scores and what medication he should be using. He was very reassuring and told him everything was okay and not to worry. As I listened I realised that this was not the case but I was watching a doctor trying to deal with a person who was struggling to cope and trying not to raise his anxieties any further. We continued our conversation, much of it repeated but what came across was how confused and anxious this man was and how he knew he was struggling to keep a routine in place to keep himself as well as possible. He wanted to fight but was finding himself ground down by multiple worries and conditions. He did however pass on one tip. When he got bouts of nausea he found having ginger helped. A friend had told him this so he tried a combination of old jamaican ginger beer, ginger cake and ginger biscuits. He said he never felt nausea agian. I noted this for possible future use as I like all three of the magic ingredients. They sounded better than the pills the nurse tried to give me when she was stocking me up for this and the next cycyle. I pointed out I was not taking nausea pills so she could hang onto my packet and just give me the five stab sticks and the next block steriods doses for next time. She was a bit taken aback when she realised that I was taking one steriod twice a day as well as my three day block dose. “Oh” she said “your suppossed to stop the two a day when you are on your block dose”. “Oh” says I and I think “can I be arsed to redo my weekly pill case.” Probabley not.

At last I am done. Cannula out, four of the white fluffy clouds removed from the backs of my hands along with some arm hair, which as hair I am beggining to cherish. We gather my drugs and chemo goodies, don my peaky blinders cap and we are off, wishing our conversational friend good bye. He spotted I was from London straight away, no idea how.

We escape the car park and get home to pick up or gym kit and get off out again.I was determined to get this chemo poison stuff round me and through me as quickly as possible. Plus the fact that I am full of steriods and this is an opportunity not to miss. With luck I might put some muscle on as well as keep the flab at bay. It would be nice to see some “dints” appear again around my some what flabby gut. So poshed up in my new Bamboo gym gear I did an hour, and I shed 767 calories, which is the equivalent to roughly nine and a half chocolate digetives. A shower, home and pasta before fitting a new shower head to the downstairs shower, watching an hour of TV drama and then playing hunt the phone to computer cable so that I could embelish todays blog. The family go to bed and leave me to blog to my hearts content. Also to drink copious amounts of water and use my cycle 2 toothbrush before sleep.

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