the C word part 2

So this post is well overdue.

I foolishly thought I would be able to write every day, or every other day at least, whilst going through this shitstorm.  Turns out chemo is actually pretty brutal - I spent 10 days after my first session in bed, zoned out, still, silent, trying to meditate myself away from the pain.  Writing was the very last thing on my mind, as was showering, eating, moving, drinking, speaking.  When you see cancer patients looking like hell, it's not because of the cancer.  It's the chemo.  Chemotherapy is poisonous.  We are being poisoned in order to save our lives.

The pain.

I'm no stranger to it, but it really did test the limits of my sanity.  Pain makes your days last forever, so it feels a lifetime ago since my first chemo.  The thought of going through at least 5 more recovery periods like the one I've just came through makes me feel physically ill and terrified.

The most distressing pain came from the V drug in the ABVD chemo regimen - "Vinblastine".  It can cause toxicity of the cranial nerve, which runs down the side of the face, causing severe jaw pain.  Imagine having your teeth pulled out one by one, but really quickly, and repeat constantly for 3 DAYS STRAIGHT.  Sharp, electric.  I don't think I got a wink of sleep in 72 hours.  My jaw felt so fragile, like it was made from glass.  I didn't dare open my mouth too much as it felt as though my jaw could shatter into a thousand pieces if I moved it too much.

Teamed with the sore mouth from the infamous A - "Adriamycin" aka Doxorubicin aka THE RED DEVIL I began to realise why people refuse chemotherapy, why people want to give up.  The whole of the inside of my mouth felt like it had been burnt with acid, I barely managed a cup of water on the worst day.  Lidocaine infused mouthwash became my best friend, and the 15 minutes of relief every 3 hours felt like Christmas morning.  I just feel lucky, that these side effects, plus the inescapable fatigue, were my worst ones.  I can't even imagine having to deal with nausea and vomiting on top of this.

So, you could say I am dreading tomorrow and what the next recovery period will bring.  Still I thank myself lucky, I might have cancer, a fairly rare cancer in fact, but it is one of the most highly curable (>90% cure rate when caught at an early "favourable" stage - which I have, stage 2A), even at stage 4B which is the final stage of the disease, when the cancer has spread throughout the body and into the bone marrow.  Because the disease has been caught early, and the fact I have no masses of "bulky" tumours, my outlook is very good indeed.  One chemo down, the half-dozen tumours I could feel in my neck have shrunk by more than half, and I can only feel 3 now.  After tomorrow, I'll have 4 treatments left.  I'm trying to be hopeful I won't need any more than that, but if I need more so be it.  A few months of feeling like dogshit is worth it, if it means it will safe my life.

That old saying is true - "there's always somebody worse off than you".  Given the circumstances, I feel very lucky indeed.  I refuse to let cancer be a death sentence, I refuse to let it take my spirit, I refuse to let it break me.

I have fought for years, physically, and mentally to get to the place I'm at today.  But most importantly, despite everything, I love my life.  I love my fiancé, so much.  He changed my life for the better and restored my faith in the goodness of people.  I love my parents.  I love my sister.  I love my auntie.  I love my friends.  I love my pets.  I love my home.  I love walking on the beach.  I love the sound of birds singing in the morning, and I love beautiful sunsets.  I love the smell of the garden after the rain, I love the smell of hot pavement on summer days.  I love the colours of the trees in Autumn.  I love Halloween, I love Christmas (and pigs in blankets).  I love good coffee and getting lost in a book.  I love my life.

the C word part 1

Cancer is awful.

Cancer is shit, really fucking shit.

Cancer is a motherfucking bastard cuntface from hell.  Not that I'm bitter or anything. 

No, really I'm not bitter.   The three weeks since my diagnosis have been an "emotional rollercoaster" (I can hear the eyerolling from here) and yes, that's the obvious choice of words to use, however cliché it sounds, but it's the only way I can describe it.  

Well, I mean I can describe it better.  Imagine a Mrs Trunchbull-type character strapping you in to the world's scariest ride by the ankles and wrists, rendered completely vulnerable and immobile.  Scream all you want, you're not getting off.  She safety pins your eyes open so you can't possibly close them.  She presses a button and you whizz off at lightening speed, hurtling through darkness, up, down, up, down, drop, darkness again, a tiny glimpse of light every so often provides fleeting relief, a big drop, an even bigger drop.

Suddenly you stop before the ride takes you through different rooms, one-by-one, playing out scenes from your life on a projector.  That part isn't actually scary at all, it's beautiful and makes you realise how wonderful life can be, how temporary everything is.  Emotion, youth, life.  You're crying but it's tears of happiness, of gratitude.  How lucky am I to have been born to experience this world. 

The film is grainy a lot of the time but some for a moment here and there, footage is crystal clear.  Only it was twenty years ago.  The every day things that at the time seemed mundane, little boring normal rituals, so run-of-the-mill that how is it possible that these times, these basic unexceptional hours lived and breathed in this very body you are now poisoning in order to save, could over the years become solid gold nuggets, memories than you can recall like your favourite book on a dusty shelf.

I'm going to stop writing now because I'm emotional and tired. Part 2 tomorrow x