Middle Aged Meanderings

Only two attempts needed to get a line in and the nurse from the Chemo Unit says “no”. In other words, no Herceptin for me, so after next week’s blood test and Chemo NO MORE NEEDLES.

I feel as if I’ve won the lottery.

So, the consultant was ill so the appointment was canceled at the last minute. I have no tattoos and no answer on the next stage of treatment.

Tomorrow, I will arrange for Mr Mort to create a diversion whilst I look through my file. Or I might just ask one of the nurses.

In other news, today I shaved my legs. Not having to do this has been one of the few upsides to chemo. Apparently, having my armpit blasted with radiation means I will never have to shave under that arm again. From now on, Mrs Mort will be gaily waving to friends using her right arm only.

Been quite some time hasn’t it?

There has been little happening in my corner of Castle Mort. There has been much chemo, many steroids, and pills to be taken at 1:30am prompt. On the other hand, I now have a headful of very grey hair, albeit only 1/2 inch long and I only have 2 more sessions of chemo to go. Then it’s whahey and into 3 weeks of radiotherapy – do you think I might turn into The Incredible Hulk?

On the 27th Jan I see my consultant who will mark me up with temporary tattoos ready for zapping my right bosom – I’m hoping for at least an anchor entwined with roses or a heart with “chocolate” emblazoned across it. He will also be letting me know whether I will be the lucky recipient of another 12 months herceptin transfusions on a 3 weekly basis.

This would be particularly bad news as the veins in my hands are now shot, and each trip involves sitting with both hands in a bowl of hot water (despite requests the nurses will not provide one for my feet as well). When it is considered that my veins are sufficiently dilated, the attempts at getting in the cannula begin. I will gloss over this for the weak hearted amongst you, but believe me it is not pleasant and rarely successful until the third attempt. You know you are in trouble when the nurse begins her warm-up run at the end of the corridor, hurtling towards you with the needle raised above her head and a blood curdling cry of “Geronimo” issuing from her lips. Afterwards at least one hand, and recently both, are left black from the severe bruising and before you ask, no, it can’t go into my bum! It has to be the arms to get it into the lymph nodes or just because it hurts more – it was one of those two, I can’t recall which.

To go through this for another year makes me feel so sick. Cross everything for me on Wednesday.

However, despite being too washed out to go to work, I have got a part time job. It’s currently an unpaid position, but I’m hoping it will lead to greater things. I have become an employee of the Maid in Shropshire sweatshop, hand-sewing for my darling daughter. Thus far, she has been an exemplary employer, and is pleased with my work. Tomorrow I start work on a new project and await feedback – how embarrassing would it be to be sacked from an unpaid job by your own ewe-lamb?

In other news, I am becoming incredibly clumsy. So far this week I have smashed two mugs, broken the shower fitting and fallen off the computer chair landing in a heap. If nothing else it amused Morty and the dog.

Finally: Sally Webster – suck it up. If you react like that to breast cancer, what will you do when something serious happens! I’m so disappointed the writers aren’t giving her fictional chemo for her fictional cancer. A missed opportunity to show that it is horrible, but not all the time, hair does grow back and anyway it’s only hair, and that going through it and living is so preferable to not having it and dying.

I know so many women who will not go for mammograms or cervical smears. Sticking your head that far down in the sand simply makes you a better target when Fate comes along to kick you up the backside.