Today started well with a walk to the village cafe, via the chemist of course to collect the latest prescription, to have breakfast with my partner. We had baninshed ourselves from the house due to my eldest daughter undergoing a skype interview for work. Having eaten, taken drugs and completed a crossword I headed for the barbers. My intention was to go No.1 all over in an act of chemo side effects defiance. “Get in first” was the thought. I chickened out and went for No.2 as a compromise, after all it is still quite warm for September and the look goes quite well with my linen Peaky Blinders cap.

As yesterday, I became more clothes conscious as time came close to leave for my first chemo. Nothing too formal but casually elegant and practical, after all they will need access to my arms to shove needles and canula in. So in the end it was cargo pants, lots of pockets, an ice hockey training top which is loose with big arms. I have found these to be good for those hot flush moments when I can circulate an air flow over me by jiggling the neck of the shirt. Of course the linen jacket, even more pockets, topped it off.

Loading the survival satchel up was the next task. Here is my list of essentials for my first trip: Phone obviously to record events and to make calls to the plumber, notebook for observations, pens, refills, book to read in abscence of kindle, steel drinking straw (so green), fan, old fashioned collapesable type hand operated, spare pair of pants (clearly a confidence issue), a Chilly bottle of cooled water and a packet of M&Ms and half a bottle of CK One. Finally the essential i pod. Music to make anything bearable. I figuered that if things got rough I could retrieve the Kendal Mint Cake from the boot of the car. All of this preparation was of course me keepng my self busy, trying to stay in control and containing the rising anxiety.

So far so good. My partner drove me to the hospital navigating the tortuous one way system to the visitors car park, which was full. We edged our way to the entry constantly watching the clock as it ticked closer to the appointment time of 2:15. We finanly got a space and gathered our survival bags and headed to the oncology suite. Full of “I can do this” I proffered my apointment card at the reception staff who took it, looked at it and told us to wait in the waiting area. “Youre be called”. How cheery was that for a first timer.

We found seats in the waiting area and settled in. We expected to be called quite soon, after all, yesterdays induction group had pounced and given us today as a starting date so we assumed there was some sense of urgency. My Fitbit nudged me and told me I needed another 169 steps to reach my hourly goal of 250 steps, so I dutifully walked up and down the corridor till I reciered a congratulatory vibration from my wrist. My partner was doing the same thing which seemed to be of interest to others waiting to be called. The next time my Fitbit nudged me I realised that I had been waiting to be called for over and hour and a quarter past my appointment time. My delusions or fantasies about urgency quickly left me and I settled down to read. And then I was called.

“Just go and sit in that orange chair that’s empty down on the left please.” I did. Unpacked the essential survival items onto the over bed tray and waited to be administered to. There were eight or nine of these chairs around the room, with four comfy guest chairs in the middle of the room. By each of the reclining chemo chairs stood a small machine attached to adrip stand, rather like metal flamingoes. Each treatment station was numbered. I was in lucky 13.

I knew that as I am not superstitious that what followed had nothing to do with being in poisioning chair number thirteen. A couple of chemo staff came to check who I was, name and date of birth, whether I had any allegies and that I had taken my steriods for the day. At induction I was lead to be believe that I would get the third degree via a huge checklist of questions, but no such luck, clearly being behind and needing to get people underway the the short version had been adopted.

So the chemo person came to put a canula in the back of my left hand, a procedure I was well used to from my March experiences of being in hospital in Jamacia, where they seemed to be able to quickly and neatly slip them into my veins with out hestitation, repetition or deviation. Not so in the less sunny climes of Leicester. The first go was aborted on the basis that,and I quote, “had a wobbly vein”. A classic example of blaming the patient for a medical procedure/drug not working. Not a hint of “I’m sorry I seem to have fucked this up”, not even an “oops I’m feeling a bit rushed today, sorry”. No it was clearly my fault, me and my wobbly vein. Second one no better. This time I was at fault because my vein would not bleed back. By this time I was having thoughts about the Merchant of Venice and whether part of me was happy to give up my flesh but I’d be damned if they were having the blood as well. But again my fault, I’m just not a bleeder. Chemo person wandered off leaving me with two white fluffy balls stuck to the back of my hand to find the nurse.

Nurse arrived, a clearly experinced chemo person who if pushed could embed a canula from twenty feet with out the patient flinching. A true master of the vampire skills. I was right, he was excellent and with a flick of the wrist the canula was in without even the “slight sting” comment that is usually made. So there I was all ready for my first bag of poison, which was duly hooked on to the drip stand in its black plastic bag, because its UV sensitive. Even the poison has vampire tendancies. The tube was threaded through the driver, buttons pushed and off we go. So far more or less so good, apart from being late and having two minor clouds stuck on my hand. The nurse returns and says “I’ve got your injections”. I think “what fucking injections, this is news to me” and actually say “Are you sure they are mine”. He assures me that they are part of the treatment and that I have to self inject five times post chemo day by three days. He assures me it is easy. I start by pointing out that this is all news to me and not what I consented to. I pointed out this was not something I was expeceting and was somewhat taken a back. We went back and forth but its difficult to argue coherently when hooked up to a poision bag. It felt like being back in Jamaica when the blood bank refused to release blood to me as I was not a high enough priorty unless my partner paid in a unit of her blood in return. I dislike being held to ransom by the medical profession. It feels like once they have you they can expect compliance and at the end of the day shroud wave at you with “if you do not do this you will die or your treatment wont work”. So in a couple of days time I will be jabbing away at my stomach’s fatty bits and injecting myself. Another skill like cathertising yourself that does not sit easily in anyones CV.

To top this off the same nurse then produced yet more steriods for me to take every day until my next chemo day. I had half expected this, as this had appeared in some of the information given to me, unlike the block dose that had been sprung on me at yesyterdays induction group. I just wonder what is next. At some point can I expect divination of goats intestines or the pointing of bones. Perhaps a little rune casting or tarrot cards to see how its all going. The final free gift to arrive only a few minutes later was a bright yellow mini sharps bin for my spent needles. Prominent on its side was the word DANGER. All I could do was laugh.

My partner went off to purchase a cheap car park pass while I plugged in the ipod and turned to Frank Zappa for solice, Hot Rats and Willie the Pimp was just what I needed whilst reading Robert Macfarlane’s Underland, a magical book that I would urge all to read. My partner returned triumphant after having had the fore thought to ask the staff if there was a form she needed to fill in. There was and it had to be signed by the unit staff, so lucky she asked as no one had volunteered this information. At this point we had a brief chat with the man in the next treatment station about how he got a blue badge so that he can park for free in the reserved blue badge car park. Apparrently if an Occupational Therapist does a report you can get one, it had saved him a fortune. Useful conversation. When he found out this was my first time he explained that I would be fine to start with but by the third cycle it would hit me and I would become lethargic and do nothing. The conversation kind of dwindled at that point, I suspect it was not the kind of thing I wanted to hear and reverted back to Frank Zappa. As I psycholgist I should have realised earlier why I had chosen Frank to listen to. Tonight as I write this I remembered that Frank died of prostate cancer. I love the uncoinscious and how so much of what we do is driven and guided by a process that we are not aware of at the time. Its always so difficult to stay mindful and to ask the questions of why now, why this? I guess I am as vulnerable to the unconscious as anyone when I am trying to deal with my own anxieties and trying to make meaning of my universe in advere times.

My poisioning comes to an end and I get a quick saline flush. I am unhooked, canula out and I am asked if I have questions. I ask if I can go to the dentist on Friday to have a filling repalced that I have lost. No is the clear answer, you must talk to your doctor. We gather up our survival kits and the goody bag of drugs and sharps bin and head out. I dive into the toilet and in the mean time my partner chats to the nurse about dentists. He advises that if I can get it done tomorrow before the chemo depletes my white cells thats a possibility. Its either that or waiting till the very end of the cycle and going the day before I go to see the doctor. We thank him and leave.

On the way home we drop into the dentist and manage to negotaite with the reception staff an early appointment for tomorrow morning, they could not have been more helpful. So I have a fun day awaiting me.

Back home I unwrap my Amazon parcel of all the things I ordered before the end of yesterdays induction group. So I now have hand sanitizer, childrens tooth brushes, a litre of mouth wash and an” in your ear “thermometer, which I could not resist trying. Hurray my test temprature was well below the dreaded 38 degrees.

I end my day cooking curry for the family, taking more drugs, finishing a box of maltezers, drinking three pints of water, watching TV and then settling down to write todays blog. I’m tired and my dyslexia is having a field day. I have yet to get spell check hooked into my system. I am aware that at the moment this blog is all words when my natural urge is to include pictures and pretty things. These are skill I have yet to learn but I hope to soon be able to do more for all of you who take the time and trouble to read my journey. Please feel free to comment, make suggestions and to share this blog with anyone who you think might get something from it. Good night.