Tuesday, 8 November 2016

Diversionary tactics

I haven't inflicted my burbling on you lot for ages.  Well your luck just ran out, I'm back.  I'm feeling twitchy, fearing that the scary orange git might actually win the American election.  So I'm trying some diversionary tactics which so far have included eating a bucketful of yummy shepherd's pie and tidying my underwear drawer.  Now I'm resorting to writing a blog post. Sorry.

Cyril gives the seal of approval to my underwear sorting
I had scan results last week.  The disease is unchanged.  Cue, yet again, surprise and relief.  As side effects go my eyes seem to be taking a hammering.  This is a known side effect of the trial chemo, SYD985, and can lead to having a chemo break or having to come off the treatment altogether.  I have regular eye examinations so we'll see what happens after the next one later this month.  I also seem to have some nerve damage, peripheral neuropathy, which isn't a known symptom for this particular chemo and caused the onc to get all excited. He prescribed a painkiller tailored to nerve damage.  I've adjusted to the painkiller now, and indeed it seems to be doing the job, but the first time I took it I felt like I taken a horse tranquiliser, then I spent a day being inordinately happy.  Normal service is now resumed.

The breathlessness, which I've been moaning about since forever, continues.  So yesterday I had another scan, an angiography, looking for blood clots in my lungs.  I should get the results in the next couple of days.
The slow hair loss persists.  I found a really lovely wig place in the seething metropolis that is Much Wenlock.   I realise that this is going to be local to just about nobody other than me, but if you are in the area and in need of some extra hair then you could do much worse than going to see Nicky, who really knows her onions (and wigs).  I went with the other-half.  I tried on heaps of wigs and some of them looked truly dreadful on me.  The highlight was when he pointed out that I looked like one of the blokes out of Buck's Fizz in one of the wigs.  Even the very professional Nicky couldn't help doubling up at that one.  Anyway in the end I settled on this (the frown lines were caused by the trauma of taking a selfie):

I could've done with the wig the other day when we went out on another wheelchair excursion, this time to our regular stomping ground, Attingham Park.  I learned two valuable lessons on this trip.  1)  Being wheeled around is flipping freezing, wear twice as many clothes as you think you're going to need, and a wig.  2)  On no account set off on a wheelchair perambulation thinking to yourself, as I did, "Oh I think I need a wee, but it'll be OK I'll leave it till I get back".  Oh boy.  Half an hour of being jolted about on uneven paths played havoc with  my bladder.  By the time we got back to the main buildings I didn't know what to do with myself. I leapt out of the wheelchair and sprinted up the path to the public loos.  Passers by must've thought I had a miracle cure.  On the plus side it was nice to get out and there was still colour in the walled garden despite the onset of autumn/winter.


While the other-half has been lovely, escorting me to numerous medical appointments and wheeling me about in my unwinged chariot, he has also been a major pain in the arse.

Exhibit one

Here he is panicking in a clothes shop (Fat Face for the eagle eyed amongst you) when he tried a gilet on and got stuck in it when the zip jammed.  Readers, he ended up buying it, I kid you not.

Exhibit two

Here's Nev having a bit of a tantrum.  He decided to sort out the kitchen cupboards where, unsurprisingly, half the stuff was out-of-date.  "I hate waste" he cried and generally grumped about the place for a good half hour.  Boo hoo hoo.

Then there are the Nevisms.  In the past he has uttered such classics as "that rabbit is memorised" (when he meant mesmerised) and "Is the Pope Jewish?", er no.  Yesterday he excelled himself.  We were heading off to the hospital for my scan.  He asked me which department we had to go to.  "Is it where you had your autopsy?" he asked.  Cheers Nev.  That's a happy thought.  (He meant biopsy by the way.  Idiot.)

Other family members have also been looking after me a treat.  My sisters are running a meals on wheels service to beat all others.  It's spaghetti bolognaise tomorrow night.  Mitts off, it's all mine.

Nearly all my hospital appointments now take place in Manchester (since being referred to the Christie by my local hospital).  This is, in many ways, a good thing.  It's great to get treatment at a centre of excellence.  However, it is a bit of a trek, one hour forty minutes each way.  I shouldn't moan really as many people travel much further.  Anyway, on our last couple of visits, with time to kill between appointments we've popped into the Maggie's Centre near the hospital.  Maggie's Centres are places offering all sorts of support to people with cancer (and their families etc) in an non-hospital enviroment - more info here.  We went in just to have a cup of coffee and what a lovely surprise it was.  I took a couple of photos which give an idea what it's like


If I tell you that the building was designed by Norman Foster you'll understand that my photos don't do it justice.  You can get a better idea of it by looking at the Manchester Maggie's website.  If you're in the UK there's also a TV programme on Maggie's called Building Hope (which is available for a few weeks).  I haven't seen it myself yet but it might well be worth a look.

Finally, I'd be putting a massive and false cheery spin on things if I was to pretend that everything is rosy-ish.  As I've mentioned before I'm a member of an online support group for people with secondary breast cancer.  This group is hugely important to me.  Recently we had five deaths in just three days.  This is, of course, the nature of the disease, killing as it does approximately 1,200 people in the UK every month.  All untimely deaths are tragedies and losing people you've built bonds with, both online and in person, is hard.  It's also a reminder of where this disease ultimately leads for all of us.  There's not a lot more to say other than to link to Second Hope, the secondary breast cancer charity which meant so much to the women we recently lost.


  1. Fat Face. Having to buy the gilet after trying it on and getting the zip stuck. Classic Nev. Priceless!! LOL.

    1. You've known him longer than me, why didn't you warn me? xx

  2. Warn you? No way, you might have backed off.....

  3. Again you're late with updates. I want to see weekly updates.

    1. Then want, as my old ma used to say, will have to be your master 😄 Seriously, it's nice to be in demand but I'm not sure even I can find enough to to whinge about to warrant a weekly post. Anyway hold on to your hat, I've got something brewing xx

  4. I just worry when you go along time without posting �� xx