My sodding breathlessness which, after improving a little bit, seems to have stalled at bloody awful (unless I sit still)
The arsey nurse at the Christie who wasn't happy about spending 5 nanoseconds to flush my port
The jaw-droppingly racist taxi driver who took us from the Christie to Manchester Eye hospital earlier this week
My long-term git of a chemist who excelled herself this week by thinking that being hospitalised and having stage IV cancer is no excuse for me not collecting my prescription on time
A big bowl of thick steaming custard which is, of course, the food of the gods, to:
The generous lady at the Maggie's Centre who shared her very posh chocolate biscuits with us, which restored our faith in human nature after the arsey nurse incident (see above)
The helpful doctor's receptionist who painlessly sorted out changing chemist for me, so I never ever have to deal with gitface again
Feeling well enough to get out last week, in the wheelchair of course, to Attingham Park where there were signs of spring
And my own, admittedly slightly smaller, snowdrop display at Discombobulated Towers
Nelly, one of my cats from days of old, who specialised in being grumpy
Today I saw the ophthalmologist, or as I like to call him (for reasons of my inability to pronounce any word with more than two syllables) the eye doctor. This was after alarm bells were set ringing a few weeks ago when an optician spotted that my pupils didn't match. Anyway I'm glad to say that the doctor could find nothing sinister and that, coupled with the good results from the recent MRI, means that I can draw a line under that particular experience. The doctor was lovely but ... Look, I keep toying with the idea of saying nothing that isn't true, kind and helpful (or whatever the saying is) but if I did that I'd never open my mouth. So out with it. The doctor was lovely but, bearing in mind he spends a good part of the day getting very close to his patients' faces, I think a good gargle with Listerine wouldn't go amiss. Luckily my eyes were already watering due to the drops they used as part of the examination so I don't think he guessed that the fumes were close to making me pass out.
Talking of passing out, some old pals from down south visited over the weekend which was lovely. We went out on Saturday night and although I didn't mix the grape and the grain, I still drank an awful lot of grain. The highlights of the evening were
Laughing uproariously when my friend fell down a flight of steps while other people ran to help (she was fine)
Getting out the felt pens and drawing, yes again, on said friends face when she fell asleep (including one very rude drawing).
I've had worse hangovers but it was enough to be going on with. And now my final moan. Because I've been coughing a lot I had a chest x-ray over a week ago. I still haven't had the results, and yes I have chased. I've got to ring the hospital again on Friday. This will be two weeks to get x-ray results. I'm used to waiting an age for CT scan results but x-rays? It would've been quicker to just open my mouth extra wide and get someone to do a sketch. I'm having a CT scan in just over a week anyway so the x-ray is beginning to seem a bit pointless.
I'm not optimistic about what's going on with my lungs at the mo which is a complete bugger for all the obvious reasons plus it's been so lovely being on a non-chemo treatment. The thought of returning to the chemo unit and all it's subsequent delights does not fill me with glee. Still, all will be revealed after the scan - so going by the time it takes them to report on a x-ray that'll probably be around Christmas. Happy new year.
January. Cor. It went on a bit, didn't it? I started and ended the month with the lurgy. Not a serious lurgy, just the common or garden lurgy that everyone gets but even so. What with that and the usual chemo stuff it seems like I spent most of January feeling moderately crap. This is, of course, light weight crap compared to what lots of other people are going through but I'm not going to let something like that stop me from whinging.
And the weather. The sodding, sodding weather. Grey, miserable, windy, rainy. Precious few of those sunny, chilly, crisp days that make winter bearable, even enjoyable. In fact I think we've only had one frost this winter. Which is probably why bugs, of all varieties, abound. I'm full of germs, the garden is full of slugs and the cat is full of fleas. Here he is, like me, feeling sulky.
I had my latest CT results toward the end of January. Dear God I was scared. I'm always frightened going for results but this was worse than usual. I suppose it's because I know I'm running out of treatments. There are a couple of chemos left for me to try but once all possibilities are exhausted there is nothing left but palliative care. Of course, I knew this all along since day one of being diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer, but as the time comes nearer it all gets scarier and scarier. My pal Kath has put it a million times better than I ever could. Read what she has to say here.
Anyway, this time I was lucky. The CT showed stable disease. Also, more good news, the medical bods are pretty sure that the stabbing pains I get in my chest and side are nerve related (from the surgery). However, as I have now had 54 cycles of chemo the time has come, according to my onc, to give the chemo a rest and try a hormonal treatment, exemestane. While I will be delighted to have a break from chemo, cannulas and all the associated palaver, I am a bit concerned about stopping a treatment that seems to be working. I've checked this with the onc but she's definite that I need a rest and I assume she knows her onions. I'll have another scan in three months time to see how things are going.
Although this has been a bit of a mega-moan January hasn't been all doom and gloom. There's been the trip to see the other-half's nephew in panto (oh yes there has), my hair finally getting long enough to discard hats and scarves and, above all, sister no 2's latest foray into crochet. A Death Star. I kid you not.
Oh dear. I had hoped to go to Birmingham today to have a mooch around the shops before they get too relentlessly busy but instead I'm taking a leaf out of the cat's book and lounging around on the sofa doing a lot of this
I'm not sure if today's lethargy is chemo related or due to me having a flu jab yesterday. All I know is I'm not firing on all cylinders. In reality, compared to what some people suffer on chemo, I'm having a pretty easy time of it on Eribulin (so far). But it does make me tired and also sends my temperature a bit haywire at times. As a result I've had to bail out of a few recent social events, which makes me grumpy. I hate being an unreliable friend but when I'm tired and grumpy it's probably best for everyone if I go into hermit mode. The good news is that I've got a week off chemo at Christmas time (I wrote a begging email to my oncologist and laid it on with a trowel) so I'm hoping to be full of beans for the festivities, especially as a big family getaway is planned. All I can say is watch out Hampshire. You have been warned.
The other-half and I have risked divorce and done some cooking together in preparation. You wouldn't believe the blood, sweat and tears (and booze) that have gone into this cake.
We've yet to ice and decorate the cake - so the story continues
Anyway, unreliable as I am, constantly failing to turn up to planned shindigs, I
cannot compare with my paternal grandfather. Sis no 3 has been doing
lots of work on the family tree but until recently my grandad was a bit
of a mystery.
The last known picture of my grandad (picture from here)
He walked out on his wife and four children (including my dad) in the early 1920s and was never heard of again. I had tried to give him the benefit of the doubt over this behaviour (which caused a lot of hardship to his wife and kids) but my sister has finally managed to find out what happened and it's not particularly edifying. Apparently he ran off to Coventry, Coventry I ask you, (apologies to any Coventry bods reading this). Other highlights of his life include
Entering into a bigamous marriage and having another family
Somehow getting his name on a war memorial in Cardiff as having been killed in action in 1918
Claiming (and receiving) the old age pension two years earlier than he should have
Being convicted of bypassing the electricity meter in his house and thereby defrauding the electricity company
What a total ratbag. The other-half is dismayed at what sort of family he has married into.
To finish on a brighter note, the other-half's six year old godson was chatting to us the other day and informed us that he was going to be an indicator in the school play. Much confusion followed. Turns out he's playing the innkeeper.
Golly it's a cold, rainy day here in Shropshire. I am resisting the urge to turn the central heating on and am spending a lot of time with Cyril (the three legged monster cat) doing this:
Although I did venture out at 9am (9am!) for a heart test at the local hospital. This is a regular test I have to check that the chemo isn't wrecking my ticker. All part of the endless delight of living with cancer. Things still seem OK on that front, so a bit of relief there and I was smiling despite the pouring rain.
How unlike last Wednesday when, to celebrate the other-half's 50th birthday, we spent a total of three hours in the car. which hasn't got air-conditioning, with temperatures in the early 30s touching 36 degrees at some point (thats 98 degress in old money). Being a delicate English rose (pauses for scornful laughs) I don't think I've ever experienced that temperature before. I was wilting. Thankfully there were no traffic jams if they're had been I think I would have keeled over.
Anyway the drive was to Stoneywell, a National Trust arts and crafts style property in Leicestershire. It was beautiful and well worth the sauna-like trip
Not so beautiful was the new look the other-half had adopted to mark his entry into his 50s:
I had a bit of a creative splurge for the other-half's birthday and produced handmade bunting and a handmade card, both of which were too shoddy to be shown here. Even more shoddy was the birthday cake I made. The cake didn't rise particularly well but I soldiered on and iced it and put 50 on the top in stars. However the icing was quite runny and the 50 kept sliding off down the side of the cake. Sis no 3 pointed out that this was quite apt as, after the age of 50, life is all downhill anyway. I think it's fair to stay I won't be appearing in the Great British Bake Off anytime soon.
The other-half had lots of lovely presents but one, from his 5 year old godson, was a stroke of genius as those who know Nev will testify:
Apologies for the very poor photograph. I bought the other-half a half-decent camera for this birthday so I'm hoping that the quality of photos on this blog will improve dramatically in the near future (but don't hold your breath).
Talking of holding your breath something exciting but secret is going on. I hope to be able to reveal something I think is pretty fantastic in the next few weeks. So stand by. Ooh I'm such a tease!
Because of the delights of chemo side-effects my plans for a mega sewing day have been abandoned. If I tell you that it is 10 steps to my bathroom from my bed and that, in recent days, I've really needed it to be 8 steps I think you'll get my drift. Further lurid details available on request. Sis no 3 was going to come round and help me attack my dress-making project but that's a real no-go today. Sigh. I am hoping, at some stage, to get a bit further than this:
Thunderous Thursday
On Thursday I go to see my oncologist to get the results of my latest scans. I am not at all confident that the current chemo is working so I'm pretty apprehensive about it, especially as the scans included bone and brain this time. If chemo hadn't already destroyed my fingernails I'd be biting them to the quick. I've written about the delights of scanxiety a million times before but, of course, the process doesn't get any easier so I'm going to continue whinging about it. So there.
Cantankerous cats
Cyril, the three-legged monster cat is continuing his reign of terror in the neighbourhood. As well as regularly attacking all the local mogs he comes home with his fair share of scratches. I despair. Added to all this is the added horror that is Snooky. Snooky (a black and white cat with the added bonus of four legs) lives down the street. He was rehoused there by sis no 1 in her capacity as a volunteer at the local cat rescue centre. She has a lot to answer for as Snooky and Cyril have become arch enemies. Snooky is just as rufty-tufty as Cyril and neither of them are prepared to admit defeat. In fact we drove past Snooky the other day. I actually should say drove round, as he was sitting in the middle of the road refusing to budge an inch. That cat is a tough cookie. If the current state of affairs persists, I think Cyril may take a contract out on him.
Yeah, yeah OK it isn't all doom and gloom, on the plus side
Cantankerous cats go soft
Look what happened yesterday
The three-legged monster cat decided to get all smoochy and we had a major love-in. I was honoured (and sleepy).
Out and about
I'd be a big fat fibber if I said I felt grotty every day so I've been out and about a bit including a trip back to Wollerton Old Hall. Even though the gardens aren't at their best yet it's still lovely, look
And I leave you with a photo of the loveliest bloom in the garden
Ha, ha, ha. I am very funny.
PS. If you haven't had enough of me already my latest post for Vita (online breast cancer magazine) is available here
I started a new (to me) treatment last month (after the cancer in my lungs had started growing again and also spread into my liver). As with any medicine this chemo, capecitabine, and biological therapy, lapatinib, come with a huge list of possible side-effects.And it seems that I am working my sorry way through the whole sodding list.So far some of the highlights have been itchiness, acne, heartburn, queasiness, diarrhoea and fatigue.
Thankfully, for the most part, the side-effects have cropped up one or two at a time rather than all at once. For the past couple of weeks it's been the fatigue that's been the real downer. I've spent a lot of time lossicking about in bed or on the sofa and have missed out on some planned outings or had to come home early. So I'm feeling a bit hard done by and sulky. Fortunately I have a book backlog to get through so being (sort of) housebound has had some compensations. I have a scan next month so then I'll find out if the treatment is working or not. If it isn't working and I've been feeling grotty for nothing I will be unbearable, be warned!
Anyway all this sitting about at home being grumpy isn't interesting for anyone. Fortunately Cyril, the three-legged monster cat, is keeping me entertained. His recent exploits include spending hours who-knows-where and coming home covered in mud,
and when the weather prevents even this intrepid explorer from going outside finding puddles, he polishes his hunting skills. Here is he chasing elk.
He also fell asleep on a hapless and rather large spider. When he woke up he was walking around with the horrible (and very dead) eight-legged monstrosity squished on his face. Fatigue or no I found I was able to run away from him in quite a sprightly fashion. No pictures, I was too busy standing on a chair screaming, the most exercise I'd had in ages.
I've been to Cornwall for a few days. 'Cornwall?' I hear you cry, 'why, how lovely!' And yes, you are right, it was lovely. I stayed in beautiful Polperro and the weather was glorious. However, the visit started and ended on a low note.
Firstly I forgot my camera. I was in Big Trouble with the other half for that. As I have no photos I shall paint a picture with words. To fully appreciate the following poetic masterpiece you need to know that the Cornish town Fowey is pronounced 'Foy' (to rhyme with boy). Now without further ado
Ode to Cornwall Fowey is a joy and Polperro made me mellow. But Looe was poo, and St Austell? I'd rather be in Borstal.
Truly, my talents know no bounds.
After a lovely stay, just before I was about to come back to Shrewsbury, I fell over. I hurt my wrist. A lot. As I hit the ground I used the sort of language that would make a salty old Cornish seadog blush. And quite rightly too as it turns out. My wrist hurt more and more and looked stranger and stranger during the course of the five hour trip home.
Once back in Shrewsbury I headed for the hospital where, after a fair amount of waiting about, I was told I had a broken wrist and was walloped in plaster. After a follow-up trip to the hospital today, I was given the dismal news that I need surgery and will be having a steel plate put in later this week. The 'silver lining' (of sorts) is that I will still be able to have chemo, as planned, next week. My cup runneth over.
So now, while you are all feeling sorry for me, I urge you to rush off to read my brand new blog post for Vita Oline, a breast cancer magazine. Click here to make an old lady slightly less grumpy.
Hello.Have you come here looking for some not particularly amusing tales of three-legged cats, errant sisters and dopey
other-halves?Well sod off, you’ve come
to the wrong place at the wrong time.I’ve got a right strop on.
If you’ve been
paying attention (and if not do try to
keep up) you’ll know that I’ve been complaining about breathlessness and a
cough.Last week, seeing as the idiots
health care professionals at the hospital didn’t seem too interested, I went to
my GP.It was there I discovered that the
CT scan I had had three weeks earlier, to check for blood clots, had shown that
the cancer in my lungs had grown.The GP
assumed that the hospital would have informed me about this.He assumed wrong.Since then my GP has been in touch with the
hospital and I managed (after much gnashing of teeth) to get an appointment
with the oncologist.The oncologist says
I have to have another CT scan and wait for results before he can decide what
action to take.That will take us to the
middle of May. If they went any slower they’d be going sodding backwards.
I am not
impressed.I’m not impressed with
waiting, with not being told that the cancer was growing, with struggling to
get appointments and when I do get appointments half my notes being missing.So I hope to be heading to London in the near future to see an
oncologist who knows his onions and who can move faster than an arthritic
snail.I will keep you posted.In the meantime here’s a soothing picture of Wollerton Old Hall which I visited on Sunday, and very nice it was too.
See that
picture?That’s the correspondence I’ve
had with the tax office over the last six weeks.It’s a long and dull story best summed up as they are doing my bloody head in!I am battling on and think I might be wearing
them down as the latest letter from the powers-that-be said, amongst other
things, that they were ‘sending me kind thoughts’.Sweet, but I’d prefer it if they just got my
tax right.
I’ve got a seroma
(collection of icky fluid at the operation site).Maybe don’t click on that link if you’re about to eat.Too late?Oops sorry.I had the fluid
drained on Friday by the surgeon but by Friday evening it was back.I thought I was tremendously brave putting up
with it all weekend and called the hospital on Monday morning expecting them to
rush me in to mop my brow and drain the gunk.They were unimpressed.I have to
wait until Wednesday to get it drained again.Meanwhile I’m walking around with what feels like a small water bed on
my chest.This in turn has put the kibosh on
my radiotherapy planning appointment (also scheduled for Wednesday).I spent all
day yesterday (apart from the two hours I spent composing my latest letter
to the tax office) trying to phone the radiotherapy department to reschedule my
appointment.The phone rang and rang and
rang and rang.No-one answered all day.
I’m still pathetically tired.I walked for 10 minutes
yesterday, had a major (and embarrassing) coughing fit in the post office then
walked 10 minutes home and had to have a lie down.
I’m persisting with
the grotty post-mastectomy exercises as instructed by the physiotherapist.They hurt and make me even grumpier.
Building work on the
kitchen starts on Monday.There is still
So Much To Do Before The Work Can Start.And Cyril (three-legged monster cat) is not helping much with the packing.
To cap it all I’ve
opened a new tub of margarine when we already had an unfinished tub in the
fridge.Argh.As John Shuttleworth says 'two margarines on the go, it's a nightmare scenario'. See below for his musical masterpiece:
Medical update
With all the
ranting I forgot to update you on my recent surgeon and oncologist
appointments.The surgeon is happy with
my progress (the seroma problem is common and nothing to worry about).Sufficiently clear margins were taken out
around the tumour so I don’t have to have more surgery.Themain tumouritself was a bit smaller than expected and the other cancer in
the breast found during biopsies a year ago was nowhere to be seen.The surgeon suspects it was zapped by the
chemo.The oncologist (the one that looks like Smokey Robinson, he’s my new favourite) decided I should have radiotherapy because,
although it will not help with secondary cancer, it can reduce the risk of a
recurrence of a new cancer in the same area as the first.So pretty good news all round.I really shouldn’t be so grumpy, but I am.
I started on a new anti-anxiety drug today which has made me feel truly dreadful (at least I assume that’s the cause).I’ve been in bed for most of the day, missing out on my appointment at The Haven at Hereford.
I got the date for my first lot of chemo – 15 March.That’s four weeks since I saw the oncologist (and was told my case was urgent and chemo would start within two weeks).I am pursuing this obviously but am now in limbo waiting to see if my pushing will speed things along.
If you want to know the meaning of grumpy come to my house.
