Full up

Guardian of the dung heap

It’s been all go since I last posted.  I’m now all full of another lot of swamp juice, herceptin and I’m all freshly CT scanned (results next week). 

Chemo day wasn’t particularly inspiring as my white blood count was initially deemed too low for me to receive treatment (this would have meant a week’s delay).  Before every chemo session I have to go to the GP the day before for a blood test.  In this case as chemo took place on Monday the blood test had been done on Friday.  So the chemo nurse took another blood test on Monday morning and thankfully my white blood count had recovered over the weekend.  Hurrah for the steroids which I’d started taking on Sunday and which the nurse thinks did the trick.  Have I mentioned that I love steroids?

Also, while I’m whinging, my veins have started to rebel.  There was a bit of a struggle with the blood test and getting the needle-y thing in for the chemo.  The nurse reckons the blood count palaver and the vein mutiny are part of the chemo taking its toll.

On a more positive note my heart scan was OK so I was able to have herceptin and I didn’t have an allergic reaction.  However, my blood pressure dropped after treatment and I had to stay at the hospital until they were happy that it had reached an acceptable level.  This was not helped by a dopey health care assistant who kept forgetting to take my blood pressure at the required intervals.  The nurse was not impressed.  Neither was I.  That’s the medical moaning over with.

The other-half has now started working like fury on the front garden, lowering the wall to incorporate railings.  In between dismantling the wall, during the frequent rain showers (which cause more inventive swearing on behalf of his nibs), he is pouring over salvage yard websites for railings in case the ones he’s got don’t fit the bill.  It all makes my brain hurt.  We have stacks of smelly compost in the back garden ready to go round the front of the house when the Great Wall of Spa Street is finished.  The compost pongs.  Cyril loves it, the little stinker.