Monday 14th April – It’s chemo day again. Round 3, treatment 5 (I get two treatments per round, lucky me). They seem to roll round quickly whilst the days in-between drag painfully. Not sure how that happens. This week I’m in a new chemo suite. The new Royal Marsden Private Patient Medical Day Unit has just opened, it’s their first day. Very swanky. More like the reception of a ‘Mr & Mrs Smith’ hotel than hospital. I make myself a cappuccino. Nice. It’s in the same place I had chemo last time around but thankfully looks completely different with it’s recent make over. Not sure my trauma box could stay closed if it had any resemblance.
The chemo dread is real. It starts days ahead of treatment. On a constant cycle – treatment, side effects, dread, treatment, side effects, dread.
So on I go. I usually need to arrive about 9am for observations, blood tests and to see the Doctor. Today, as with every week, my blood pressure and heart rate are high. Chemo anxiety. I get told to relax – easier said than done! A few deep breaths and we try again. Thankfully they’ve come down enough to be acceptable. They’re checking to see I’m recovered enough from the last round to go again. So far, so good – only one round has had to be delayed due to an infection, but we’re back on track and getting through them. Each one a tick off the list. 11 to go once I’ve got today out of the way.
After the bloods and meeting with the Doctor, I wait for a couple of hours until the drugs arrive, having been signed off by Pharmacy and checked over by the Nurses. And then we get going. Allocated a chair, start getting hooked up. This week, it’s my long treatment, I’ll be in the chair for about 6 hours. Given a heady concoction of immunotherapy (Durvalumab), two chemotherapy drugs (Gemcitabine plus Cisplatin), a bone strengthening drug (Zoledronic Acid) and lots of fluids to try and limit damage to my kidneys. Each one given after the other and delivered through a port in my chest. It’s a small device, under my skin, with access to a large vein near my heart. It means they don’t have to cannulate me each time. Much easier, less painful.
And then there’s a chance to relax a little. All the build up and now we’re underway. The actual delivery of the treatment isn’t too bad, and I wonder why I’ve spent the last few days building it all up in my head. The Nurses are amazing. I’m starting to get to know them a little so they ask about Charlotte, what I’ve been up to. And then Mum arrives. One of the perks. She comes most weeks and we get an opportunity to sit for a few hours catching up and just chatting. Something we don’t really get to do normally when there’s a 4 year old maniac on the loose. In the new unit, she even gets a comfier chair. Result! It’s seems odd to think of it as a special time given the reason we’re here, but it really is. And she brings great snacks! Thank You Mum (and not just for the snacks!).
Naively, before I had cancer first time round, I thought there was cancer. And chemotherapy. That everyone had the same. I had no clue that every cancer was genetically different, that there were sub-types within each type of cancer, and that chemotherapy varied depending on what cancer you have and is targeted and prescribed differently for every individual. I guess I’d never given it any thought. Never needed to. It’s incredible really.
All that being said, the only way I can describe chemo is like being poisoned. I’ve never actually been poisoned (except by some ropey chicken from the Khao San Road back in 2003!) so I’m guessing a little, but I think it might feel like this. Pumped full of this toxic liquid that kills cancer cells. But in doing that, it also kills healthy cells. And it brings with it a whole plethora of side effects. So many that it’s confusing to know what is and isn’t related to chemo. Thankfully no hair loss for me this time round, but sickness, nausea, neuropathy, tinnitus, diarrhoea, constipation, mouth ulcers, bone aches. You name it, if you can think of it, it’s probably on the list somewhere and there’s a chance you’ll get it. It’s a nasty bugger really. But also one that I need and which my life is actually depending on.
So then it becomes a choice. To go and get poisoned each week, or don’t. But not doing it, well that isn’t really a choice, is it? So I keep going back. Despite hating it. Despite the side effects. Because if there’s any chance that it’s going to kill, reduce or stabilise those cancer cells from growing and multiplying, then I have to keep going. How can I say no to the treatment that’s going to give me the best chance of extending my life, of hanging out with my girl, of hugging my family, of laughing with my friends? So it’s not really a choice. Or it doesn’t feel like one. Or maybe just one that right now I’m not willing to make. Maybe some day it will be. Maybe at some point enough will be enough. But not right now.
The toll isn’t just on me. It’s on those around me too. Charlotte asked the other day ‘why doesn’t the medicine make Mummy better’? Still not sure how to answer that one. David, Mum, friends – they have to pick up the pieces around me when I can’t. Charlotte has to put up with a Mum who can’t be as present as she’d like, all in the hope that she gets to be present for longer. The ripple effects of cancer are huge and the guilt of that is something I’m trying to work through.
10 hours after arriving at hospital, I’m done. Exhausted, shattered. Mentally and physically. Nausea kicks in and I’m given some additional anti-sickness meds in the hope of helping me through the evening. They don’t work, or they don’t seem to, as I’m sick pretty much as soon as I walk in the door at home. Another missed bedtime, just a kiss when she’s sleeping. Cuddles in the morning, though. Something to look forward to.
But that’s another treatment done. One more step forward. And I do feel it’s working. I’m certain I’m in less pain, that some of my discomfort I had previously has reduced. We won’t know this for sure until I’m scanned in a few weeks, but it’s this feeling, this hope, that keeps me going back each time. So now we wait. Nervously, eagerly, for that scan. Hoping that it will be worth it and that the poison has poisoned.
