Captain Haddock

Captain Haddock (picture from here)

Oh dignity, the ways in which you chose to leave me are many and cruel.  My lovely steroids have caused me to grow a full on whiskery beard.  I look like Captain Haddock.  So over the weekend the other-half smeared my lower face with hair removing cream and shaved me with the horrible plastic spatula thing.  Who says romance is dead?

Yesterday we were out in the car and Nev kept looking over at me. Now given our circumstances I'd be a liar if I said we didn't have wobbly moments.  I was concerned this was going to be one of those times.  Or was he perhaps worried that my portable oxygen wasn't working properly?  Or checking that I wasn't tired?  'What's wrong?' I asked as gently as I could.  'In this light', he replied, 'I can see some whiskers on your face that I missed'.   

So anyway, I'm glad to say the getting out and about has continued on some days (other days I'm a bit too knackered but I'm certainly not stuck at home all the time).  Look here's a picture of the techni-colour park to prove I do get out.

I've also been out and about to less exciting places.  Like the sodding chemist.  A couple of blog posts back I said I was changing chemists and that the doctor's receptionist had sorted it all out for me and it would all be wine and roses.  Ha ha ha ha ha.  I've gone from the frying pan into the fire as far as customer service is concerned.  Trouble is, another thing the steroids have done is made my voice go all weebly.  So when I tried to tear a strip off the inefficient, surly pharmacy 'assistant' the fact that I sounded like a nanny goat on helium lessened the impact somewhat.

I saw the lovely hospice out reach nurse last week.  She's confirmed that I can continue on my current dose of steroids. I'm pleased as, so far, the plus of having more energy out weighs the hairiness, weebly voice, red face and saggy skin.  She's also arranging for me to see the hospice palliative care doc again, who is also brilliant. And said doc is going to try to put a bit of a rocket under my local onc to arrange the sodding scan I asked for three weeks ago.  Watch this space.

   

Summer shenanigans

I've had a busy few days and I'm in the mood to bore you with them now, so stand by.

Firstly the other-half and I (and lots of his family) went down to Guildford to help celebrate a family wedding.  It was lovely.  Happy couple, lovely atmosphere, delicious grub, 10/10.

We then spent the night in the noisiest hotel in the world.  We were kept awake by the sound of people coming back from hen/stag nights and other weddings, so for the most part although they were noisy they were jolly.  Not so on the third floor however (we were on the second floor which obviously attracted a better class of drunk).  One of my sister-in-laws* was on the third floor (say no more) and she had the thrill of listening to a drunken argument taking place in the next room at daft o'clock in the morning complete with random door knocking and the added delight of the row continuing when the guests woke up in the morning.  Deep joy.

(*You may have noticed that I allocate my three sisters numbers, nos 1, 2 and 3.  It may seem odd that I don't extend the same 'courtesy' to my sisters-in-law, but there are seven of them and it gets a tad confusing to say the least, especially as they won't keep still for five minutes).

After our sleep deprived night, we went on our weary way to Cornwall, where we stayed in a holiday cottage for a few days with two of my sisters-in-law and their husbands.  Those of you with no lives of your own will remember that I did the same last year.

Last year the weather was spectacular.  This year we feared the worst.  Monday was cold, rainy and increasingly stormy as the day wore on.  To add to the meteorological drama I decided to throw in some excitement of my own by suddenly feeling like, to use a medical term, a bag of bollocks, feeling incredibly cold and developing a rapidly increasing temperature.  The other-half rang my local chemo helpline and they said he should call an ambulance to get me to the local hospital.  He sensibly pointed out that we were in deepest rural Cornwall and it would be much quicker if he took me to hospital himself.  

This might sound a bit over dramatic but one of the problems with chemotherapy is that it can impair your immunity so infections can take hold very quickly and sometimes very nastily with the risk of neutropenia.  

So the other half and I and one of his sisters (riding shotgun) headed off for Truro hospital.  I did feel somewhat let down by said sister-in-law refusing to stick her head out of the car window as we drove along in the teaming rain and shout nee-na-nee-na like an ambulance siren.  Some people are just so unhelpful!

Anyway, we got to the hospital and I had urine and blood tests, an ECG and a chest x-ray.  But other than low pressure and a slightly high heart rate they could find nothing.  They suspected an infection of some kind but couldn't trace its source.  My white blood cell count was OK so thankfully they didn't keep me in but sent me home with a bucket load of antibiotics.  In fact the doctor looked at me and said "Hmm, if you were on a desert island I wouldn't bother having you airlifted off".  I'm still not sure if that was meant to be disdainful or reassuring.  Anyway, on the whole, the way and speed with which I was treated at Truro A&E was impressive. 

So we drove back in the dark and increasingly stormy night to the holiday cottage.  By this stage I was already feeling much better and let myself be plied with tea, toast and sympathy.  It was almost worth having felt grotty and enduring the scary car journey home.

The next day I felt fine.  The weather had transformed itself into warmth and sunshine, so we set off on a walk where we came to a beautiful deserted cove

complete with seals

and gorgeous wild flowers.

The walk ended up in the local pub, which is where it all went a bit haywire.  I'm afraid alcohol was taken, and quite a lot of it by me.  If I tell you I ended up playing pool and being a right old sweary Mary at the same time I'm sure you'll get the picture.

The next day was, of course, hangover hell.  Eventually I managed to get outside in the sunshine and walked (in a rather fragile manner) through a stunning meadow of buttercups

and along colourful roadsides

Seeing farm animals who clearly felt much like I did

(don't worry he wasn't dead, just having a snooze).

Sadly, the next day was time to come home (for a pre-arranged hospital appointment, big sigh).

Since coming home, as well as treading the straight and narrow, I have been lazing about (much like the pig only not in a cute way)

(please note that is WATER in the glass),

pottering in the garden with Cyril (the three-legged monster cat) taking residence, not very helpfully, in a seed tray.

Home isn't such a bad place to be.  Cornwall is stunning but, if I say so myself, I'm pretty chuffed just sitting and looking at my tiny garden 

I know it's too chaotic for a lot of people's taste, but it's exactly my cup of tea.

Hoping now for a couple of quiet-ish weeks so I can regain a bit more oompf to carry on with more summer shenanigans.  Ta ra for now.

Still standing (just)

(Get it? This is Mitchells Fold, a stone circle in South Shropshire. If anyone tells me that standing stones are not the same as a stone circle and so my caption doesn’t work, I will throw a hissy fit – so don’t.)

Today was looking at wigs day. I went to the recommended hairdresser and was ushered through to the back room – very hush hush. I felt like I ought to be buying black market sausages or nylons or something. I expected a room full of wigs but it was mostly a room full of catalogues. And what catalogues. Some of the wigs were OK but there were an awful lot that would’ve gone down a storm with the cast of Crossroads. The deal was that I select three, they are ordered and if I don’t like any I don’t have them and we start again. This could run and run. The ones I chose (the non-Crossroads selection as I like to call it) should arrive at the hairdressers in seven to ten days. Seven to ten days! By that time I could be laid low due to chemo (although still no date for that) so it could be tricky. I’d better order some head scarves pronto. Anyway, the woman helping me was very nice having been through the whole yucky process herself umpteen years ago. By the way, did you know there is such a thing as wig shampoo? No, nor me, but now we are all a bit wiser.

While I was typing the above the other-half escaped to the barbers. He volunteered to have his hair clippings collected to start on his own version of a wig for me, also involving an old swimming cap and some chest hair (his not mine). Truly I am blessed.

This afternoon I went back to the GP. For drugs. By the time I write these blog posts (usually late afternoon/early evening) my mood has settled a bit, but I’m afraid that, due to anxiety, up until around 4pm I am a total, to use a medical expression, basket case. OK I may be overstating that a bit, but it’s fair to say that I am not the happiest of bunnies in the morning, as my poor put-upon other half would testify. While the GP came up with the goods – stronger prescriptions and instructions to mix them together and include alcohol if I like* (and no, the doc’s name is not Pete Docherty) his comments about how my anxiety was entirely justified given the seriousness of my situation did not exactly lessen my worry. Also he told me that the type of chemo I’m starting on is Big Serious Stuff and will probably make me feel truly grotty. I know I should appreciate his honesty (and I do, to a point) but sometimes I could do with more fluffiness and less reality. Almost every medical person I’ve seen since the start of this whole palaver has been to the Doc Martin school of reassurance.

Oh well, my first dark and stormy of the evening (dark rum and ginger beer for you lesser mortals not ‘in the know’ about Bermudian drinks – ta to Sister No 1 for introducing me) is going down a treat and my usual, happier evening-self is emerging, hurrah!

(* I should point that the doctor didn’t actually recommend mixing medication and boozing my socks off. He just said that the drugs wouldn’t interact with each other in a bad way and one or two alcoholic drinks wouldn’t be a problem.)