It creeps closer. I am counting the days. In the night I dream I am alone in a dinghy, which suddenly propels itself away from the shore over shallow water full of rocks and dangerous obstacles. I feel totally helpless. I am unable to steer it, and can only move slightly here and there to stop the boat puncturing. I relate the dream to Chris. We can both see that it is a metaphor for my impending treatment.
This evening Chris and I watch the DVD on the Chemo tablets. It doesn’t have the excitement of Star Trek and the only dynamic bit is when the presenter rises from the garden chair and walks past a water fountain. If it is supposed to help me feel calm and serene it is a let down. It is more reminiscent of a mind-numbingly dull late night Open University lecture from the 80s.
My bag is packed in readiness. Tomorrow is the big day. I’ve to be there at 10.30. It is out of my hands now.
The driver organised by the local Cancer Trust comes to the house a little early. When we arrive at the Chemo suite at 10.20am it looks more like a beauty parlour than a hospital! I half expect to see a nail bar in the corner. The tasteful colour scheme is a vivid combination of green yellow and purple. Artistically designed glass mobiles are suspended from the ceiling.
The nurse comes round with the pre-med, which is a mix of paracetamol steroid and anti sickness drug. The canula goes in easily following the application of a warming pad. For the first two hours I receive an infusion of the trial anti body. They take observations every 15 minutes initially. I am not worried about this drug, as I know the side effects shouldn’t kick in too dramatically.
Not until late afternoon do they give me the dreaded Oxaliplatin. My arm aches a little for an hour and a half, but in the last thirty minutes it feels as though acid is being fed into my vein. My arm is excruciatingly painful. My nerves are now hypersensitive to cold and I can’t touch even the zip on my trousers without this uncomfortable tingling sensation, like an electric shock.
They finally release me at 5.30. At home I have to rethink the simplest everyday activities like going to the fridge or turning on a tap. Putting on a glove first helps, but I feel like an alien creature.
I remember once opening the fridge door and having a terrible shock. In the door rack I saw six dark green hairy eggs and immediately thought we’d been invaded by creatures from outer space. It was simply that my first husband Paul, had thought the egg rack a great place to store kiwi fruit. Sometimes my imagination goes to overdrive.
Some of the side effects of the treatment are brutally evident to me now, but at least I have conquered my fear. I know what it is I am facing.
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