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.

   

Green eyed monster

Yay, it's time for the Annual Shrewsbury Flower Show with it's usual brilliant display of kids' veggie art.  Here's just a few examples.  I've got heaps more of these to come but will save them for future posts, after all I don't want to spoil you.

There were other displays that made me green with jealousy

and hello to the lady in the pink coat

Not to mention the fluorescent loveliness of the park itself

Do not adjust your sets, the colours really are this bright

My sisters came away with plants galore, whereas I came home with, obviously, a two foot tall wooden bunny

Every home should have one

My jealousy of all things floral continued with a visit to some friends in nearby Staffordshire who live in a lovely old cottage.  To make matters worse they have the most gorgeous garden (these photos really don't do it justice) I was positively emerald with envy.

And now on to green eyed monsters of a different sort.  The other-half has been decorating (yes again) this time the bathroom and bedroom.  Cyril, the three legged monster cat, decided to help.  Here's some of his handiwork.

Freshly painted window sills, wooden floors and a delinquent cat definitely do not mix.

OK, on to the tedious medical update.  I had the first dose of my new chemo on Wednesday.  The following day I was back at hospital as my temperature went haywire.  It was much like the time a similar thing happened in Cornwall a few months ago.  Once again, thankfully, my white blood cell count was ok, so the temperature wasn't indicative of a rampant infection.  I had some IV antibiotics and some oral ones to take home just to be on the safe side but the doctors seemed to think it was the result of new chemo on top of old chemo and my body deciding it was all a bit too much to handle.  Anyway, I'm OK now.  We shall see what happens next week when I go back for a swamp juice top up.  Let's hope it doesn't result in this:

Although frankly that would be an improvement on this, a picture of me looking truly dreadful while recuperating, truly I have no pride when it comes to seeking sympathy.

Hello beautiful!

Itchy Xmas

A whinge to start off with, then I'll put my festive trousers on.

I'm two weeks into my new chemo combo (capecitabine and lapatinib).  I have been fortunate enough not to have had, as yet, any of the yuckier possible side effects (sickness, explosive visits to the loo etc) but I am pretty tired a lot of the time, am incredibly itchy all over and my nose and chin are covered in acne.  I am not impressed.  I've now got ointment, antibiotics and antihistamines so hopefully the skin rebellion will calm down soon.  Weirdly it's the acne that I hate most.  Thinking back, I hated going bald (on a previous chemo) and I hated losing a breast (the mastectomy) but I hate, hate, HATE having a face full of spots.  I suppose my attitude to a relatively minor side effect means I'm either completely barking or a deep and complex person.  Big prizes for the correct answer.

Miserable sods, like myself, who'd like more moaning can see my latest blog for an online breast cancer magazine by clicking here.  For happier souls let's move on to festive frolics.

Something very strange has happened at Discombobulated Towers.  Rather alarmingly the other-half seems to have turned into Kirstie Allsop.

First we had the homemade Christmas wreath

The other half looking uncharacteristically bashful

and here it is in pride of place

So far so good.  But then things started getting a bit bizarre.  He made me a Christmas card.  Aw, touching, I hear you cry.  Hold your horses!  First a little background ... A few weeks ago the other half and I were oohing and ahhing over a cute mouse who was helping itself to food from the bird table and then scurrying back to the safety of it's home (we guessed) under the garden shed.  He saw it a few times after that and commented on what a large, well fed mouse it appeared to be.  Gradually the realisation dawned that the cute little mouse was in fact a big, scary rat.  I say scary because even Cyril (the three-legged monster cat) ran away from it.  Anyway, the other morning I came down to find this Christmas card waiting for me

The other-half, age 49 and a half, had stayed up to two in the morning making this thing of wonder.  It says Happy Ratamas, is partially made out of an old sock and has an illuminated nose.  It also has a lovely stand (not shown) made out of the middle of loo roll.  Truly I am blessed.

I returned the favour and made him a card too.  However, I'm not showing mine because a) it's nowhere near as good as the other half's and b) it features a misplaced apostrophe (oh the shame!)

All of which brings us on to the piece de resistance.  Last Saturday saw the other-half's family Christmas party.  The brief was to wear something Christmassy, cue lots of festive jumpers etc.  The other-half decided to do something different.  He spent a whole afternoon constructing a hat made out of brussel sprouts, fairy lights and a light-up tree.  It involved a great deal of swearing, a lot of electrical tape and made the whole house reek of festering veg.  The completed article, as well as being something to behold, also weighed about two tons.  The other-half's neck is now two inches shorter.  Anyway without further to do, here it is, and a Happy Christmas to all!

Cold turkey for New Year

Picture from here

I can’t be trusted to get anything right.  Remember the cock-up I made ages ago with steroids?  Well I’ve messed up with two other prescription drugs since I last posted.  I feel I should get some sort of medicine mishap medal.

Firstly, way back when I was first diagnosed with secondary breast cancer I was prescribed citalopram, an anti-anxiety/anti-depressant drug.  Finding out, very unexpectedly, that I had terminal cancer was, to use a medical term, a complete bugger of a bloody, buggering bastard.  My anxiety levels went through the roof.  I couldn’t even stroke Cyril (the three-legged monster cat) because my palms were permanently sweaty with fear.  My feet were permanently sweaty too and more than one pair of slippers ended up sealed in a hazardous waste bag in the bin.

Anyway, citalopram, time and a treatment plan helped me return to something of an even keel (as much as my keel has ever been even) and, over the last few months, I’ve been feeling pretty chirpy and have managed to cut down on the amount of citalopram I take.  (If anyone reading this is in the unfortunate position of just having been diagnosed with secondary breast cancer I would say, take heart, there’s a very good chance that you will feel intermittently less devastated given time and, if need be, prescription drugs.) 

Now, cutting down on the citalopram with advice from my GP is one thing.  Having such a high time over Christmas that I forgot to take it at all for several days is another kettle of bananas altogether.  It wasn’t until shortly before New Year, when I was sat in a puddle of misery (that’s a metaphorical puddle in case you’re worried about my new-ish sofa), that I remembered the untaken tablets.  I’m back popping the pills now and feeling a lot better for it. 

Medication mistake number two.  I’ve been taking slow release morphine since last summer when I experienced horrible pain.  The horrible pain, I am very glad to report, has since been under control but I have continued with the morphine mainly because I’m a sacredly cat and didn’t want to run the risk of experiencing such pain ever again if I could possibly avoid it.  However, one of the side effects of morphine is that it, erm, gums you up somewhat.  Oh for goodness sake stop looking so puzzled, I’m talking constipation here, it’s no good trying to be delicate with you lot is it?  Over Christmas, probably due to over-indulgence in all things yummy, I was well and truly gummed up to the gills.  I decided, in my dimwitted way, to stop taking the morphine in the hope it would ease things.  Sure enough my insides became un-gummed and thankfully the horrible pain did not return.  So far so good.  But then I began to feel well and truly grotty.  The grottiness continued so I belatedly read the leaflet that came with the morphine.  It advised patients not to stop taking the drug without the advice of a doctor because of the risk of suffering withdrawal symptoms.  Oops.  So I went back on the morphine pronto and am now feeling much better for it.  I’ve seen my GP and have a plan for weaning myself off over the next few weeks, so stand by for future moaning.  I assume that the grottiness I experienced was about a million-trilloneth-zilloneth of what somebody going through real cold turkey feels like.  All I can say is hats off to anyone who undergoes the real McCoy.

So there you have it.  I’m only on two prescription drugs at the moment and I managed to mess up on both.  Thank goodness the swamp juice (chemo) is administered by nurses.  I dread to think what I’d do left to my own devices.

Despite the whingy tone of this post I had a good Christmas and New Year, although there was one very traumatic moment when the other-half unwrapped the CD shown below

Oh the horror

If any non-UK readers think that this is a CD of howls from the wild, then you are pretty much right.  Except this is songs sung at Wolverhamptom Wanderers Football Club rather than the cries of noble beasts.  Maybe I should double up on those anti-depressants after all.

King of the world

Me?  Blowing my own trumpet?  Never.

I have been doing battle with my ex-employer (the local council) and I have emerged victorious, yay me.  The ratbags* decided to make deductions from my notice-period salary as I was also receiving a state benefit (Employment Support Allowance).  I checked with the Benefits Bods and the Citizens Advice Bureau and both advised me that my employer was wrong, wrong, wrong.  There followed an exchange of emails between the ratbags and I, where I gamely bandied about phrases like ‘custom and practice’,‘unlawful deductions’ and ‘employment tribunal’.  After some initial resistance, a white flag has been waved and I will be getting a full refund.  Disco Del 1 – Ratbags 0.

(*I should point out that my ex-employer was only a ratbag about this one particular thing.  When it came to sick leave, sick pay and early retirement they were helpful, kind and cuddly.  So they’re not all bad.  Look at me being all magnanimous in victory.  I hope you’re wearing sunglasses as my halo must be dazzling.)

Anyway the refund will go towards the new kitchen.  If it ever happens.  We are still waiting for quotes from a couple of builders.  If they went any slower they’d be going backwards.  Makes you wonder how long it will take them to actually build if merely quoting takes this long.  The other-half is tearing his hair out.  I am rising above it.  Although it’d probably be more truthful to say that I haven’t got enough space in my addled brain to worry about builders and my forthcoming surgery.

My latest brain melt down has seen me lose a whole box of Tamoxifen on my way home from the chemist on Friday.  So I have been without medication all weekend.  I’ve phoned the doctor and groveled and hope to get a replacement prescription this afternoon.  I will guard it with my life.

In other tales of stupidity, all my previous talk of healthy living came to naught over the weekend, when I slid off the wagon.  A friend rather selfishly had a birthday (you know who you are!) so I had to drink champagne and red wine, it’s the law.  The next morning was not great.  I am back on the wagon again.

It’s still chilly here but on Saturday we put on a thousand layers and went for a stroll.  And look, the snowdrops are out!    

 

So maybe spring is just around the corner.  But just in case it isn’t and you’re in need of cheering up, here’s my latest YouTube find.  The best clip of a cat riding on a sheep’s back you’re ever likely to see.  Enjoy.

The day the earth stood still

Yep it's another chance to stick in a photo of the Shropshire countryside - hurrah!

Guess what I’ve done today.  Sweet Fanny Adams, naff all and diddly squat, that’s what. 

I’ve noticed that a couple of people in America and further afield read this blog (hello!) and I’m not at all sure that the phrase ‘sweet Fanny Adams’ is in use outside of the UK so I’ve included a link to its meaning.  Now I knew it meant ‘nothing’ but had no idea of the story of how it came to be used that way, and once I investigated had second thoughts about including it here – it’s horrible, sad and depressing.  Sorry.  Therefore I will be avoiding using the common (in both senses) English phrases Fucking Ada and Bloody Nora in this post just in case their back stories are equally unhappy (and also I’m obviously far too refined to use such terms).

Last night I upped my anti-anxiety medication to the recommended dose (IE I doubled it) and took a sleeping tablet.  I can’t say it made a massive improvement to my sleep but the lethargy the combination caused in the morning did mean that I couldn’t be bothered to get super-anxious until about 1pm (a good 5 hours later than usual).  On the downside I have also lacked the energy to do anything.  If I tell you I’m willingly sat in front of the telly watching Sharpe you’ll know how low I’ve sunk.  But the remote control is a good four feet away, so what’s a girl to do (even one with a pathological loathing of Sean Bean – yes, yes I know I’m in a minority on that one).

However, my utter idleness has allowed the other-half to commence Cyril Proof Fence building in between bringing me fish finger sandwiches, cups of tea and hot cross buns.  See, I'm always thinking of others.

Anyway, must go, I've started getting interested in this episode of Sharpe after all.  Bloody Nora, what's happening to me?