Plodding on

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.

Sympathy please!

 

Not Cornwall.

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.

Here's one I did not make earlier ...

The plan today was for a trip into Wales. That got the kybosh due to the other half’s poorliness (he’s got the lurgy, hence yesterday’s attention seeking coughing fit at hospital). So instead we thought we’d stick closer to home and head off to Church Stretton and do a bit of walking round Carding Mill Valley. Well we got there. We parked. We walked for about 15 minutes then the other half turned a whiter shade of pale (my most hated song ever by the way) so we gave up and came home, but at least I took a photo (and got some fresh air).

And that’s about all there is to report on the ‘doing’ front. I’m afraid today has been a bit of a wobbly day for me (though not as wobbly as for my other half who is now, 5.15pm, tucked up in bed with a bottle of Night Nurse and the latest Wickes catalogue). I know I’m going to have ups and downs with this whole cancer malarkey – it’s just that I want someone to write me a note to excuse me from having to do the down bit (or indeed any of it).

Anyway thanks to those who helped out this morning when I was thrashing about in a pit of self-pity. I think the upshot is that sitting around in my dressing gown every day until the early afternoon just thinking, thinking, thinking is not doing me any favours. Not least because said dressing gown is held together by toothpaste stains, cat fur and assorted other dirt and may well kill me by giving me Ebola or something similar before anything else gets the chance. So thank your lucky stars that today’s photo is of a nice Shropshire hill rather than my revolting dressing gown – it was a close run thing.

Well, tomorrow is another day. Hopefully I’ll be a bit more up and at ‘em and even if I’m not I promise I’ll try to get that dressing gown in the washing machine. Or maybe ceremoniously burn it.