So 2 is over and done with. A good day actually...was in and out of the West Wing in a few hours.
I didn't see House yesterday...she was off somewhere, perhaps a conference or ill or at a funeral.
I am glad she wasn't, because I got to meet Dr A. He is the most wonderful, warm, smiling oncologist you could ever hope to meet. Dr A is from Iraq. I know a few Iraqis, as well as a bunch of Jordanians and a huge load of Palestinians, both in Israel and Jordan. My given name is actually Arabic, so it always makes them smile.
Anyway, Chemical Ali (as he is hereby known and don't worry, I know he would like that nickname as he is technically trying to kill part of me with chemicals), came into the room (all 5'5 of him) and the first thing he did, after smiling and shaking my hand, was this:
"I like the look. You look like Demi Moore from GI Jane. You look beautiful' (or was it 'wonderful'?).
Anyway, I spent a good 20 minutes with Chemical Ali and I had a ball. I was able to ask him the two questions I wanted to ask:
'I felt like someone kicked me in the tit straight after chemo last time. Colin was moaning' I said.
'That's good, GI Jane. That means the chemo is in there and doing its job' replied Chemical Ali.
'Also' I said, 'when do I get to see if Colin is diminishing to a shadow of his former self?'
'Arr yes, let me give you an ultrasound form, we will take a look before Round 3 and after round 5' and he dutifully filled in the relevent forms to organise ultasound.
He not only told me my bloods were good, but also gave me a blood form so I could start a little collection going. This is a big deal, so far I haven't been overly impressed with the hospital's policy on including the patient in their management routine, which I am used to with my other disease.
My neutros have dropped. To a third of what they were pre-1, but they were prefectly good for a chemo patient. All my other bloods fell into normal perameters for a normal, healthy person. This is good too. I understand a little about blood work for systemic treatments and I am happy with my results thus far...and makes me see the importance of rest and good diet in the last week post-nadir to try and spark neutrophil-creation though...no more 'staying up all night with Drummond' methinks...
Anyway, we spoke about a few cancer/chemo associated things and he stopped and asked me if I had a medical backgound. I am not a doctor, but I have worked professionally and voluntarily with another set of diseases...including a lot of lectures to consultants/pharma/nurses. This has filled my passport with stamps over the last 8 or so years. A professional expert patient, I am.
He asked me, once all this cancer shit is over, whether I would be prepared to speak at conferences and the like...nothing different to what I have done before, just about cancer shit. Of course I would, if I am up to it. We all like to make a difference, however small our contribution.
I have already discussed writing a patient leaflet specifically for the West Wing on patient perspectives and experiences with the head oncology nurse...and House was being approached. Chemical Ali thinks this is a great idea and brought it up with me...
If you remember, I said there was absolutely no introduction to the whole 'having chemo' rigmorale. No look-see at the West Wing, no indication of what happens, how long it takes, what to expect or even, believe it or not, where the West Wing actually is. Do you eat before chemo? Can you bring a friend? What should you wear? Does it hurt?
Of course, we are all individuals and each chemo treatment is unique to both the cancer and the patient, but from a patient perpective, the questions we would like answers to, generally, are the same...some people want to know everything, others nothing. But having this information to hand, if you wish to know, should be available. Hopefully, it'll get sorted. The RB certainly know and want to improve this part of their service, so good for them.
Hey, I got a 'green bag'. This is given to you by the oncologist and contains your notes. I noticed other chemo people had them last time and I did not. I want a green bag too! So yesterday, Chemical Ali handed me mine...
'Can I personalise it?' I said
'Oh yes' said Chemical Ali, 'make it look like yours, GI Jane'.
I am a bona fide chemo patient now I have a green bag. Of course, I nipped into the toilets to read it...just to see what they said about me...nothing I didn't already know really, except my cancer cells are 'moderate to high grade', which is a bit crap. Then again, my cancer has metatastised as one lymph node is affected (which is good...you want as few as possible as this shows it hasn't travelled far and also, I won't need to have them all out at surgery time), so I would imagine they would be moderate to high grade cells. Lucky I caught Colin when I did...otherwise it might be a different story and I might have secondaries in my lungs/liver/bones.
I liked Chemical Ali. There's nowt wrong with House, except she is, ummm, House. Ali was a joy to meet and really made my day. I salute you, my own little Ali Kimyawi .
So, the Day after Yesterday, again, and I am fine. I have handfuls of pills to take. As I didn't suffer at all last time, they said I can half them this time...only the bloody pills make me feel awful for a bit...I sit here now, 8am after chemo and I feel 100%. I take those pills and I feel shaky and a bit sick...as if it the pills and not the chemo. So, weaning myself off them is the way to go...half today, less tomorrow and none on Saturday if I am fine. Then, the initial side effect time is over...and next week, the mouth ulcer et al should hit. Hurruh!
"Each patient ought to feel somewhat the better after the physician's visit, irrespective of the nature of the illness." - Warfield Theobald Longcope
Thursday 29 April 2010
Tuesday 27 April 2010
Round 2 of Fight Club
Tomorrow is Round 2 of Fight Club. I certainly look the part now...shaved head, Elvis sneer, frightening small children, old ladies and dogs...
...I nipped to see Dr Lucy for my 'pre-chemo' blood test this morning. This is because House wants to see what my little Neutrophils are up to. Has Domestos allowed them to come back in time for Round 2?
Last week, my bone marrow was unable to produce many white blood cells, thus the 'nadir'. But over the last 5 or so days, it should be up for anything and producing them there neutrophils again...my infection-fighting little friends.
The test I have to pass is the 'Absolute Neutrophil Count' (ANC - no, not the African National Congress). This, I believe, is an equation:
ANC= (%neutrophils + %bands) x White Blood Cell Count.
I feel like Professor Charlie Epps off 'Numbers'...a mathematical genius for just writing that. I even understand it.
Anyway, for normal people, the ANC should be about 1500 per mL of blood. Anything below 500 means House will say 'no chemotherapy for you today, my cancer-stricken patient'.
My ANC was a nice healthy 1600mL the day I had chemo round 1. I wonder what it is now...
Am I nervous about tomorrow? I am still thinking jumping on a plane and getting the fuck out of here as an option. But it's not as bad as last time...now, the pressure I feel, the anxiety I feel is more 'will it be like last time and will I not suffer' rather than 'what the hell is going to happen'.
So long, farewell, auf weidersehen, goodbye...
"If I could wake up in a different place, at a different time, could I wake up as a different person?" - Chuck Palahniuk - Fight Club
...I nipped to see Dr Lucy for my 'pre-chemo' blood test this morning. This is because House wants to see what my little Neutrophils are up to. Has Domestos allowed them to come back in time for Round 2?
Last week, my bone marrow was unable to produce many white blood cells, thus the 'nadir'. But over the last 5 or so days, it should be up for anything and producing them there neutrophils again...my infection-fighting little friends.
The test I have to pass is the 'Absolute Neutrophil Count' (ANC - no, not the African National Congress). This, I believe, is an equation:
ANC= (%neutrophils + %bands) x White Blood Cell Count.
I feel like Professor Charlie Epps off 'Numbers'...a mathematical genius for just writing that. I even understand it.
Anyway, for normal people, the ANC should be about 1500 per mL of blood. Anything below 500 means House will say 'no chemotherapy for you today, my cancer-stricken patient'.
My ANC was a nice healthy 1600mL the day I had chemo round 1. I wonder what it is now...
Am I nervous about tomorrow? I am still thinking jumping on a plane and getting the fuck out of here as an option. But it's not as bad as last time...now, the pressure I feel, the anxiety I feel is more 'will it be like last time and will I not suffer' rather than 'what the hell is going to happen'.
So long, farewell, auf weidersehen, goodbye...
"If I could wake up in a different place, at a different time, could I wake up as a different person?" - Chuck Palahniuk - Fight Club
Sunday 25 April 2010
The Girl with the Shaved Head
Right. I decided that the only way to do this shaved head thing in public is to just do it.
Tescos superstore, Sunday morning, packed with shoppers.
Do it. Go in, no covering of the bald pate and be shaved and errr, proud. With very bright red lipstick and sunglasses. If you can do it there, you can do it anywhere.
So I did.
And do you know what I discovered? Being a woman with a shaved head is like driving a large 4X4 vehicle with the biggest fuck off bull bars on the front...everyone gets out of your way. No one fucks with you, they are too afraid you might hit them.
That's what I discovered. And now I revel in it. I mean, I can't actually do anything about having no hair, so I might as well enjoy the ride. I have perfected an Elvis snarl. I stand and walk tall. I dare anyone to say a word too me. I will scare small children. And old ladies. Oh, and dogs. And if they stare at me, I will stare right back.
Behind my sunglasses anyway...
Tescos superstore, Sunday morning, packed with shoppers.
Do it. Go in, no covering of the bald pate and be shaved and errr, proud. With very bright red lipstick and sunglasses. If you can do it there, you can do it anywhere.
So I did.
And do you know what I discovered? Being a woman with a shaved head is like driving a large 4X4 vehicle with the biggest fuck off bull bars on the front...everyone gets out of your way. No one fucks with you, they are too afraid you might hit them.
That's what I discovered. And now I revel in it. I mean, I can't actually do anything about having no hair, so I might as well enjoy the ride. I have perfected an Elvis snarl. I stand and walk tall. I dare anyone to say a word too me. I will scare small children. And old ladies. Oh, and dogs. And if they stare at me, I will stare right back.
Behind my sunglasses anyway...
Gone.
The deed has been done.
I always said, once I woke up and found hair on my pillow, I would shave it off.
Well, each day that has gone past since the beginning of the week the hair has loosened. The last few days, a few strands have come out if gently pulled and after each bath, a little more hair was left behind each time the water drained away.
This morning, there were a few strands on the pillow and after my bath, there were quite a few more left after the water drained away.
This morning, I pulled a tuft out. Not a few strands. Quite a lot more than a few. A small tuft.
If you remember I said I was going into town today. I met up with Drummond. He had a hangover and he needed a 'hair' of the dog at lunch time...I showed him a pulled-out tuft and he freaked a little. 'No need for Ollie the Hair', he said 'I have clippers at my house'.
I freaked at this point.
I know I have always said I'd do it when the time came, but the time has come and I can't say I was relishing the prospect.
So we went back to his house, went up to the roof garden and looked over to Hackney and Dalston to the east, Old Street to the South and the city Gherkin to the south west. The sun was shining, the Sex Pistols were on the Ipod and the clippers came out.
I did whinge a little. But only because Drummond was being a completely unempathetic bastard. 'Come on for fuck's sake, just do it'. No time for debating the finer points of the importance of both hair and the loss of it; no time for a philospohical discussion on the loss of self and no time for procrastination.
He took the clippers and just shaved the middle section of the hair out.
On his own head.
Nutter. Fucking nutter.
'Now you have to do it, because look what I have done'.
Fuck head. Complete fuck head.
Well, what can you say or do to that?
He took those clippers and he shaved my head. He seemed to think it was a #3. I have no experience of shaving heads. It could have been a #3, it could have been a #1. I have no idea. A nice cabbie later told me, on the way to the station homewards, 'that's a #1 you got there love...I should know, look at mine'. And behold, the cabbie had hair as shaved, shorn and short as my own. Nice one, Drummond.
I then shaved his hair off.
Shave-mates. Bald twins.
And so we sat on his roof garden, watching aeroplanes and helicopters above, listening to the odd police car siren in Hoxton and Hackney and sang along to Anarchy in the UK. All the time running our hands over our shaved heads.
I sent out a mass text to all those I know and love: "The head is shaved. And that is all I have to say on the matter".
Of course, people texted back 'What does it look like?".
"I don't know" I texted, "I haven't looked in a mirror".
'Oh' said one friend when I told her Drummond, the fuckhead, had shaved his too 'it's just like Samantha and Smith in Sex and the City".
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l-UCQJiZNpg
Obviously, I have looked at it now. I have a shaved head. I look like Demi Moore in 'GI Jane'; Natalie Portman in 'V for Vendetta' and Britney Spears in real life...
...Drummond doesn't look like any of these women (although he does look a little like Smith). But he is sure as shit as mad as Britney was when she shaved her head. Fucking nutter.
And that is all I have to say on the matter.
"The big advantage of being bald is you can style your hair with a damp cloth..." Anonymous
I always said, once I woke up and found hair on my pillow, I would shave it off.
Well, each day that has gone past since the beginning of the week the hair has loosened. The last few days, a few strands have come out if gently pulled and after each bath, a little more hair was left behind each time the water drained away.
This morning, there were a few strands on the pillow and after my bath, there were quite a few more left after the water drained away.
This morning, I pulled a tuft out. Not a few strands. Quite a lot more than a few. A small tuft.
If you remember I said I was going into town today. I met up with Drummond. He had a hangover and he needed a 'hair' of the dog at lunch time...I showed him a pulled-out tuft and he freaked a little. 'No need for Ollie the Hair', he said 'I have clippers at my house'.
I freaked at this point.
I know I have always said I'd do it when the time came, but the time has come and I can't say I was relishing the prospect.
So we went back to his house, went up to the roof garden and looked over to Hackney and Dalston to the east, Old Street to the South and the city Gherkin to the south west. The sun was shining, the Sex Pistols were on the Ipod and the clippers came out.
I did whinge a little. But only because Drummond was being a completely unempathetic bastard. 'Come on for fuck's sake, just do it'. No time for debating the finer points of the importance of both hair and the loss of it; no time for a philospohical discussion on the loss of self and no time for procrastination.
He took the clippers and just shaved the middle section of the hair out.
On his own head.
Nutter. Fucking nutter.
'Now you have to do it, because look what I have done'.
Fuck head. Complete fuck head.
Well, what can you say or do to that?
He took those clippers and he shaved my head. He seemed to think it was a #3. I have no experience of shaving heads. It could have been a #3, it could have been a #1. I have no idea. A nice cabbie later told me, on the way to the station homewards, 'that's a #1 you got there love...I should know, look at mine'. And behold, the cabbie had hair as shaved, shorn and short as my own. Nice one, Drummond.
I then shaved his hair off.
Shave-mates. Bald twins.
And so we sat on his roof garden, watching aeroplanes and helicopters above, listening to the odd police car siren in Hoxton and Hackney and sang along to Anarchy in the UK. All the time running our hands over our shaved heads.
I sent out a mass text to all those I know and love: "The head is shaved. And that is all I have to say on the matter".
Of course, people texted back 'What does it look like?".
"I don't know" I texted, "I haven't looked in a mirror".
'Oh' said one friend when I told her Drummond, the fuckhead, had shaved his too 'it's just like Samantha and Smith in Sex and the City".
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l-UCQJiZNpg
Obviously, I have looked at it now. I have a shaved head. I look like Demi Moore in 'GI Jane'; Natalie Portman in 'V for Vendetta' and Britney Spears in real life...
...Drummond doesn't look like any of these women (although he does look a little like Smith). But he is sure as shit as mad as Britney was when she shaved her head. Fucking nutter.
And that is all I have to say on the matter.
"The big advantage of being bald is you can style your hair with a damp cloth..." Anonymous
Thursday 22 April 2010
Going, going...
Hey, I don't need to worry about bikini waxing anymore, because now my short and curlies are beginning to fall out.
Today, afraid of what would happen if I actually washed my hair, I patted it down with water.
And my hand was covered in hair. Thought it best not to put any wax on, seeing as that stuff is like glue and hair might come out in large clumps rather than single strands as I rubbed it in.
...is this what you men go through, once you reach a certain age and your father was a baldy? Poor you, men. I will never, ever joke about male pattern baldness again. It's amazing how cancer can make you a more empathetic person, even with the strangest of things that you never imagined you would think about in any great depth.
I am going to go into London on Saturday. Forgive me for being a wuss, but I think it might take me a little time to get used to having no hair at all and I think I ought to do what I have to do in town before the hair falls out...because I am not sure how long it will take me to get used to having no hair and I might not get into town for a very long time.
Thus, I am going to hit the bright lights of Liberty and Harvey Nicks with (almost) a full head of (very short) hair. My head scarf collection is going well, but I feel the need for a Pucci and rural Berkshire does not go as far as Pucci. Plus, Drummond said he might drag his rockstar ass into town with me and it is always good to have a fashionista art director on hand for these things.
I am trying to be chipper here. Does it show? I am not scared of it all going...I have had just over a month to get used to the idea plus the short hair cut has helped this...but it is hard. It is hard to imagine having no hair at all, when hair has been a defining characteristic in 'me'...from when I was a fledgling goth (Siouxie Sioux) to my post-goth grown up long tresses (more Cheryl Cole). My hair as been a defining thing for who I am and what I project ('don't fuck with me' to 'fuck me'). I am grateful that chemotherapy doesn't affect your feet...at least my show collection is still valid.
OK, deep breath. I am going to ring Ollie the Hair tomorrow and see if he can shave my head next week. This really is depressing. It's all very well talking about it and being chipper, but this is going to be a very difficult thing...ho hum. I will not cry. There are far worse things happening in the world right now me stressing about a shaved head or even me having cancer. This is my mantra today: 'it's not so bad, girl'.
"Bald is the new black!" Gail Porter
Today, afraid of what would happen if I actually washed my hair, I patted it down with water.
And my hand was covered in hair. Thought it best not to put any wax on, seeing as that stuff is like glue and hair might come out in large clumps rather than single strands as I rubbed it in.
...is this what you men go through, once you reach a certain age and your father was a baldy? Poor you, men. I will never, ever joke about male pattern baldness again. It's amazing how cancer can make you a more empathetic person, even with the strangest of things that you never imagined you would think about in any great depth.
I am going to go into London on Saturday. Forgive me for being a wuss, but I think it might take me a little time to get used to having no hair at all and I think I ought to do what I have to do in town before the hair falls out...because I am not sure how long it will take me to get used to having no hair and I might not get into town for a very long time.
Thus, I am going to hit the bright lights of Liberty and Harvey Nicks with (almost) a full head of (very short) hair. My head scarf collection is going well, but I feel the need for a Pucci and rural Berkshire does not go as far as Pucci. Plus, Drummond said he might drag his rockstar ass into town with me and it is always good to have a fashionista art director on hand for these things.
I am trying to be chipper here. Does it show? I am not scared of it all going...I have had just over a month to get used to the idea plus the short hair cut has helped this...but it is hard. It is hard to imagine having no hair at all, when hair has been a defining characteristic in 'me'...from when I was a fledgling goth (Siouxie Sioux) to my post-goth grown up long tresses (more Cheryl Cole). My hair as been a defining thing for who I am and what I project ('don't fuck with me' to 'fuck me'). I am grateful that chemotherapy doesn't affect your feet...at least my show collection is still valid.
OK, deep breath. I am going to ring Ollie the Hair tomorrow and see if he can shave my head next week. This really is depressing. It's all very well talking about it and being chipper, but this is going to be a very difficult thing...ho hum. I will not cry. There are far worse things happening in the world right now me stressing about a shaved head or even me having cancer. This is my mantra today: 'it's not so bad, girl'.
"Bald is the new black!" Gail Porter
Wednesday 21 April 2010
And so it definately begins...
Yes. My careful hairspotting exercise is beginning to show results.
The hair on my head is definately coming out.
Just had a bath and ran some water through my hair (this very short hair business; it is much more work than having long hair! You have to wet it every day because it sticks up wildly! My long hair was much better behaved!).
When I pulled the plug out, I noticed a lot of half inch hairs floating on the top of the water.
Now, the bath is empty and my little hairs are liberally stuck to the bath (that'll teach me to use sticky Cowshed Bath Oil).
I knew this was going to happen, and I knew it would begin this week. I wonder how quickly it starts to go once it has started? I suppose there is no real way of knowing...each individual is unique in their response to chemotherapy. I mean, look at me. You wouldn't know I have had chemotherapy...not a mouth ulcer or iota of fatigue has been suffered thus far.
Last night, an Ex-Boyfriend rang to check up on me. He was an 18-monther and broke up last summer...except we have known each other for 25 years and continue to be friends...25 years trumps 18 months of actually sleeping together in my book and I am still very fond of him.
He said he is losing his hair fast...on the back of head rather from the front. Poor bloke, he always had the most gorgeous black mop.
I pointed out that next time we meet, he will have more hair on his head than me and look at it this way; it could be worse, you could be losing it from the front of your head so you are greeted by hairloss every morning in the mirror and you could have cancer.
He laughed, because he knows that is true (both the front-of-the-head-baldness and the cancer bit).
It's a great way of putting my friends' everyday gripes into perspective: "Yes, it is awful that your grass needs mowing every weekend now the spring has arrived and you have to drag your sorry ass to the garden shed every Sunday and plug the mower in and spend 30 minutes of your precious football-viewing time lawmowing but you know what? It could be worse! You could have cancer!".
I can now add baldness to my cancer comment.
Dgwankingfucksticks. My hair is beginning to fall out.
"A hair on the head is worth two on the brush (or in the bath)" - Don Herald (with my bit added in).
The hair on my head is definately coming out.
Just had a bath and ran some water through my hair (this very short hair business; it is much more work than having long hair! You have to wet it every day because it sticks up wildly! My long hair was much better behaved!).
When I pulled the plug out, I noticed a lot of half inch hairs floating on the top of the water.
Now, the bath is empty and my little hairs are liberally stuck to the bath (that'll teach me to use sticky Cowshed Bath Oil).
I knew this was going to happen, and I knew it would begin this week. I wonder how quickly it starts to go once it has started? I suppose there is no real way of knowing...each individual is unique in their response to chemotherapy. I mean, look at me. You wouldn't know I have had chemotherapy...not a mouth ulcer or iota of fatigue has been suffered thus far.
Last night, an Ex-Boyfriend rang to check up on me. He was an 18-monther and broke up last summer...except we have known each other for 25 years and continue to be friends...25 years trumps 18 months of actually sleeping together in my book and I am still very fond of him.
He said he is losing his hair fast...on the back of head rather from the front. Poor bloke, he always had the most gorgeous black mop.
I pointed out that next time we meet, he will have more hair on his head than me and look at it this way; it could be worse, you could be losing it from the front of your head so you are greeted by hairloss every morning in the mirror and you could have cancer.
He laughed, because he knows that is true (both the front-of-the-head-baldness and the cancer bit).
It's a great way of putting my friends' everyday gripes into perspective: "Yes, it is awful that your grass needs mowing every weekend now the spring has arrived and you have to drag your sorry ass to the garden shed every Sunday and plug the mower in and spend 30 minutes of your precious football-viewing time lawmowing but you know what? It could be worse! You could have cancer!".
I can now add baldness to my cancer comment.
Dgwankingfucksticks. My hair is beginning to fall out.
"A hair on the head is worth two on the brush (or in the bath)" - Don Herald (with my bit added in).
Monday 19 April 2010
So it begins...
I think my hair is beginning to come out.
Hmmm, not the hair on my head. My eyebrows. Although I imagine the hair on my head will start to loosen soon too.
Monday is eyebrow-tidy day. I am quite lucky, as my brows are pretty easy to keep tidy but I do take the odd straggler out...as you do (I imagine the average bloke has no idea what I am talking about at this point...particularly if we take Noel Gallagher as the average bloke).
Anyway, I normally have to give the odd straggler a mighty tug. Not today. Today the odd straggler just fell out as soon as I touched it with the Tweezermans...I know this sounds ridiculous, but I know my eyebrows. My eyebrows need a tug normally...
If only I didn't know about the impending complete deletion of my hair...I would almost like the ease of my eyebrow tidying today. Only took a minute, seeing as the odd stragglers just fell out.
Not sure whether to laugh or cry.
I have been told that the hair begins to fall out in the 3rd week of the 1st cycle. That begins Wednesday this week...Chemo Cycle 2 is next Wednesday.
It sucks. It really sucks.
And what sucks the most is this: so far the only side effect of having cancer and chemotherapy is my fucking hair loss...first with the cut and now the falling out.
Oh I know I shouldn't grumble. It could all be so much worse. I feel shallow and even a little selfish...so many people in my position are suffering terrible side effects and here I am, not suffering anything more than hairloss. And at this point, eyebrow loss. I feel guilty about being so shallow and selfish.
I suppose I am at least dealing with it. Nursey said many women are so busy dealing with the trauma of having cancer, they don't deal with the hair loss issue and it is a mighty big shock to them when it starts to come out. Nursey said it is one of the first things to cause depression in cancer sufferers who receive chemo.
So, I might be shallow and selfish, but at least I am dealing with it, even if it is in a shallow and selfish way. And I keep finding myself tugging at my hair! Just to see if it is loosening!
I better put Ollie the Hair on speed dial for that #1....
DogwankingfucksticksIdon'twanttolooklikeKojack.
Quote of the Day: "It is foolish to tear one's hair in grief, as though sorrow would be made less with baldness" - Marcus T. Cicero
Hmmm, not the hair on my head. My eyebrows. Although I imagine the hair on my head will start to loosen soon too.
Monday is eyebrow-tidy day. I am quite lucky, as my brows are pretty easy to keep tidy but I do take the odd straggler out...as you do (I imagine the average bloke has no idea what I am talking about at this point...particularly if we take Noel Gallagher as the average bloke).
Anyway, I normally have to give the odd straggler a mighty tug. Not today. Today the odd straggler just fell out as soon as I touched it with the Tweezermans...I know this sounds ridiculous, but I know my eyebrows. My eyebrows need a tug normally...
If only I didn't know about the impending complete deletion of my hair...I would almost like the ease of my eyebrow tidying today. Only took a minute, seeing as the odd stragglers just fell out.
Not sure whether to laugh or cry.
I have been told that the hair begins to fall out in the 3rd week of the 1st cycle. That begins Wednesday this week...Chemo Cycle 2 is next Wednesday.
It sucks. It really sucks.
And what sucks the most is this: so far the only side effect of having cancer and chemotherapy is my fucking hair loss...first with the cut and now the falling out.
Oh I know I shouldn't grumble. It could all be so much worse. I feel shallow and even a little selfish...so many people in my position are suffering terrible side effects and here I am, not suffering anything more than hairloss. And at this point, eyebrow loss. I feel guilty about being so shallow and selfish.
I suppose I am at least dealing with it. Nursey said many women are so busy dealing with the trauma of having cancer, they don't deal with the hair loss issue and it is a mighty big shock to them when it starts to come out. Nursey said it is one of the first things to cause depression in cancer sufferers who receive chemo.
So, I might be shallow and selfish, but at least I am dealing with it, even if it is in a shallow and selfish way. And I keep finding myself tugging at my hair! Just to see if it is loosening!
I better put Ollie the Hair on speed dial for that #1....
DogwankingfucksticksIdon'twanttolooklikeKojack.
Quote of the Day: "It is foolish to tear one's hair in grief, as though sorrow would be made less with baldness" - Marcus T. Cicero
Sunday 18 April 2010
Happy Days
Apologies for not checking in for a few days. Fear not, I am still breathing.
I decided, if you remember, to live life again last week. Enough of waiting. Enough of holding my breath and waiting for side effects to happen.
Life goes on; life can be lived.
Thus, I have spent the last few days going out, seeing friends and living life.
First off Drummond and BRMC. Fun, fun, fun. I am so glad I decided to drag my sorry ass into town and play. Band were great, company was greater and a merry time was had by all.
I am not sure if House and Nurseys would be impressed with me not going to sleep at all on Thursday night, getting the 6.15am out of Paddington and going straight to work for 14 hours, but that is what I did. And I felt absolutely fine, happily going to bed at midnight on Friday and sleeping for a glorious 8 hours...
...and I didn't partake in one alcoholic beverage or anything stronger for the whole evening. A model chemotherapy patient (apart from the not-going-to-bed-for 2 days straight).
Yesterday was racing at Newbury. Best Friend, god-daughter and Boss' daughter and I dressed up and hit the paddocks. Glorious weather, half decent racing and the Queen put in an appearance to boot. Nice yellow hat, your Majesty.
I had a cheeky little Pimms and lemonade. Well, it felt like summer had arrived and that is my summer drink of choice. I am sure I didn't do my system any harm...I am aware my liver and kidneys have taken rather a punishing amount of cytotoxic chemicals the last few weeks and I truly don't want to give them any reason to scream at me...but it was a lemonade-infused weak one.
My betting system let me down badly for the first few races. I have never professed to being a good decent napster. However, both Best Friend and I won 2 races using said system (nice name/pretty colours)...both horses being outsiders, beating hot favourites...and duly won enough to cover all costs for the day plus a slap up burger, chips and milkshakes at a local American diner on the way home. The children enjoyed that bit more than seeing the Queen-in-yellow-hat. Truth be told, so did I.
Highpoint of the day: my Best Friend admitting to a childish schoolgirl crush on Frankie Dettori. Embarrassing at the best of times.
Lowpoint of the day: Best Friend shouting 'hello' at Frankie Dettori as he walked to the paddock as if she was a childish schoolgirl with a crush. She went very red, and it wasn't just because she had caught the sun....
Happy days.
I am, apparently, midway through my 'nadir'. This is the phase within the chemo cycle where my bone marrow has stopped producing those white blood cells and I am at my most vulnerable to picking up an infection and not being able to fight it off. I decided an afternoon in the sunshine, open air and having a smiley good time was probably a whole lot more healthy than sitting at home on my own and brooding that chemo has stopped me living.
One positive point regarding Colin; remember I said I felt as if someone had kicked me in the tit last week? I mentioned this to a Nursey who rang to check up on me on Friday. She said that that is postentially good news. She said it indicates that the chemo drugs may well be working their special chemo magic on Colin...thus he is grumbling. I take that as a positive sign as she certainly did...moreoever, she is delighted that I have not suffered any side effects from my first chemo cycle. It is, she said, a wonderful indication that you have a strong constitution and can go on to the remaining cycles with confidence that you won't suffer too badly.
I hope she is right. I still expect to suffer and anything less is a bonus. So far, that hedging-of-bets has paid off bigtime.
I decided, if you remember, to live life again last week. Enough of waiting. Enough of holding my breath and waiting for side effects to happen.
Life goes on; life can be lived.
Thus, I have spent the last few days going out, seeing friends and living life.
First off Drummond and BRMC. Fun, fun, fun. I am so glad I decided to drag my sorry ass into town and play. Band were great, company was greater and a merry time was had by all.
I am not sure if House and Nurseys would be impressed with me not going to sleep at all on Thursday night, getting the 6.15am out of Paddington and going straight to work for 14 hours, but that is what I did. And I felt absolutely fine, happily going to bed at midnight on Friday and sleeping for a glorious 8 hours...
...and I didn't partake in one alcoholic beverage or anything stronger for the whole evening. A model chemotherapy patient (apart from the not-going-to-bed-for 2 days straight).
Yesterday was racing at Newbury. Best Friend, god-daughter and Boss' daughter and I dressed up and hit the paddocks. Glorious weather, half decent racing and the Queen put in an appearance to boot. Nice yellow hat, your Majesty.
I had a cheeky little Pimms and lemonade. Well, it felt like summer had arrived and that is my summer drink of choice. I am sure I didn't do my system any harm...I am aware my liver and kidneys have taken rather a punishing amount of cytotoxic chemicals the last few weeks and I truly don't want to give them any reason to scream at me...but it was a lemonade-infused weak one.
My betting system let me down badly for the first few races. I have never professed to being a good decent napster. However, both Best Friend and I won 2 races using said system (nice name/pretty colours)...both horses being outsiders, beating hot favourites...and duly won enough to cover all costs for the day plus a slap up burger, chips and milkshakes at a local American diner on the way home. The children enjoyed that bit more than seeing the Queen-in-yellow-hat. Truth be told, so did I.
Highpoint of the day: my Best Friend admitting to a childish schoolgirl crush on Frankie Dettori. Embarrassing at the best of times.
Lowpoint of the day: Best Friend shouting 'hello' at Frankie Dettori as he walked to the paddock as if she was a childish schoolgirl with a crush. She went very red, and it wasn't just because she had caught the sun....
Happy days.
I am, apparently, midway through my 'nadir'. This is the phase within the chemo cycle where my bone marrow has stopped producing those white blood cells and I am at my most vulnerable to picking up an infection and not being able to fight it off. I decided an afternoon in the sunshine, open air and having a smiley good time was probably a whole lot more healthy than sitting at home on my own and brooding that chemo has stopped me living.
One positive point regarding Colin; remember I said I felt as if someone had kicked me in the tit last week? I mentioned this to a Nursey who rang to check up on me on Friday. She said that that is postentially good news. She said it indicates that the chemo drugs may well be working their special chemo magic on Colin...thus he is grumbling. I take that as a positive sign as she certainly did...moreoever, she is delighted that I have not suffered any side effects from my first chemo cycle. It is, she said, a wonderful indication that you have a strong constitution and can go on to the remaining cycles with confidence that you won't suffer too badly.
I hope she is right. I still expect to suffer and anything less is a bonus. So far, that hedging-of-bets has paid off bigtime.
Wednesday 14 April 2010
Dried up old wrinkly...
Well no more flushes today.
I think that must have been the menopause then. All over in the day. Just like that. Goodbye normal fertility/hello being a dried-up old barren spinster (yes, I am feeling sorry for myself; so would you if you suddenly, over the course of day, became less 'female').
On a positive note I came to a realisation today. Time waits for no one and chemo shouldn't stop you from living your life.
It seems I am so busy waiting for side effects that I seem to have put my life on hold. I mean, I didn't organise anything last weekend because I thought I would have side effects from the chemo phase of the cycle. I hadn't organised anything for this weekend because...well, I thought I would be suffering the lack of white blood cells and feeling tired.
You get the picture.
You have probably noticed I was considering not going to the BRMC gig tomorrow night with Drummond because I thought I'd be poorly.
Well stuff it. I am not poorly. I feel perfectly normal. I am not tired or shaky or sick. I shall go to the gig tomorrow and I shall do something this weekend.
I can't put my life on hold for 6 months, can I? Well, I can...cancer does kind put a downer of things...but you know what I mean. If this chemo thing is going to get worse, and it probably will, I might as well do what I can when I can. So Black Rebel Motorcycle Club with Drummond it is.
At least I still have hair to take to the gig...
I think that must have been the menopause then. All over in the day. Just like that. Goodbye normal fertility/hello being a dried-up old barren spinster (yes, I am feeling sorry for myself; so would you if you suddenly, over the course of day, became less 'female').
On a positive note I came to a realisation today. Time waits for no one and chemo shouldn't stop you from living your life.
It seems I am so busy waiting for side effects that I seem to have put my life on hold. I mean, I didn't organise anything last weekend because I thought I would have side effects from the chemo phase of the cycle. I hadn't organised anything for this weekend because...well, I thought I would be suffering the lack of white blood cells and feeling tired.
You get the picture.
You have probably noticed I was considering not going to the BRMC gig tomorrow night with Drummond because I thought I'd be poorly.
Well stuff it. I am not poorly. I feel perfectly normal. I am not tired or shaky or sick. I shall go to the gig tomorrow and I shall do something this weekend.
I can't put my life on hold for 6 months, can I? Well, I can...cancer does kind put a downer of things...but you know what I mean. If this chemo thing is going to get worse, and it probably will, I might as well do what I can when I can. So Black Rebel Motorcycle Club with Drummond it is.
At least I still have hair to take to the gig...
Tuesday 13 April 2010
Car Crash
I forgot I was waiting for the menopause. That was missed off the list from yesterday.
Today I had the menopause. Well, I think I did. Was forgetting to add the menopause to the list from yesterday part of it, I wonder...?
The oncology Nursey Bernard said it would hit this week and 'just like that', my light of fertility would go out. Permanently.
Now, I freely admit to knowing nothing about the menopause. Why would I? It's not something a 40 year old woman has to think about...my mother died pre-menopause, so no experience there for me to draw upon. I note the Female pages of newspapers mention it once in a while. I once read about a woman who got caught shoplifting, and she blamed the menopause and got off...I think she was in her early 50s. That's about all I know about the menopause. It's like PMT, only with hot flushes and memory loss, right?
Right, according to Wiki, the menopause is the 'permanent cessation of ovarian function' and 'the end of the menstrual cycle' (the word menopause is from the Greek, meaning 'end of monthly cycles' apparently).
Most women experience something called 'perimenopause'. This is the time before the real thing....a time for the changes to ease their way into the female consciousness; to signal a new time; to prepare for the changes ahead.
Not me. I get thrown off a cliff. My menopause is like a car crash...60 mph straight into a brick wall.
This is what happened. I went red. People remarked on my redness. I glowed. Then my heart raced. It felt like being on speed. Red speed. I felt a few trickles of sweat too. But mainly, I just felt red and hot.
Then it was over.
Ummm, was that the menopause then? Was that my car crash? My being-thrown-off-a-cliff? Is there more? Nursey said it would be quick. She wasn't kidding.
I can't believe I had the menopause today. Dogwankingfucksticks. I have been denied a proper menopause.
Shouldn't there be some 'emotional side' to all of this? Shouldn't I cry, or get angry or 'hormonal' or something? I admit to having never suffered a period pain, swollen tit or mood swing in my life. Indeed, Ex-Boyfriend commented upon my 'balanced hormones' a few times. I just don't do 'female hormonal madness'. Never have and now, never will.
Now I think I know why my tits feel like they have been kicked! It wasn't Colin the last few days, it was my own version of the perimenopause! My body was getting ready for the change. You other non-chemically toxic women get a year or so, I get 24 hours. Great. Speed Menopause!
Too bloody late to get to the shops and shoplift now. I could have got myself a new handbag and just blamed the menopause. Bugger.
Just for you and Best Friend, Patsy and Edina from Absolutely Fabulous do the Menopause:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1A5nTUtJtIs
Today I had the menopause. Well, I think I did. Was forgetting to add the menopause to the list from yesterday part of it, I wonder...?
The oncology Nursey Bernard said it would hit this week and 'just like that', my light of fertility would go out. Permanently.
Now, I freely admit to knowing nothing about the menopause. Why would I? It's not something a 40 year old woman has to think about...my mother died pre-menopause, so no experience there for me to draw upon. I note the Female pages of newspapers mention it once in a while. I once read about a woman who got caught shoplifting, and she blamed the menopause and got off...I think she was in her early 50s. That's about all I know about the menopause. It's like PMT, only with hot flushes and memory loss, right?
Right, according to Wiki, the menopause is the 'permanent cessation of ovarian function' and 'the end of the menstrual cycle' (the word menopause is from the Greek, meaning 'end of monthly cycles' apparently).
Most women experience something called 'perimenopause'. This is the time before the real thing....a time for the changes to ease their way into the female consciousness; to signal a new time; to prepare for the changes ahead.
Not me. I get thrown off a cliff. My menopause is like a car crash...60 mph straight into a brick wall.
This is what happened. I went red. People remarked on my redness. I glowed. Then my heart raced. It felt like being on speed. Red speed. I felt a few trickles of sweat too. But mainly, I just felt red and hot.
Then it was over.
Ummm, was that the menopause then? Was that my car crash? My being-thrown-off-a-cliff? Is there more? Nursey said it would be quick. She wasn't kidding.
I can't believe I had the menopause today. Dogwankingfucksticks. I have been denied a proper menopause.
Shouldn't there be some 'emotional side' to all of this? Shouldn't I cry, or get angry or 'hormonal' or something? I admit to having never suffered a period pain, swollen tit or mood swing in my life. Indeed, Ex-Boyfriend commented upon my 'balanced hormones' a few times. I just don't do 'female hormonal madness'. Never have and now, never will.
Now I think I know why my tits feel like they have been kicked! It wasn't Colin the last few days, it was my own version of the perimenopause! My body was getting ready for the change. You other non-chemically toxic women get a year or so, I get 24 hours. Great. Speed Menopause!
Too bloody late to get to the shops and shoplift now. I could have got myself a new handbag and just blamed the menopause. Bugger.
Just for you and Best Friend, Patsy and Edina from Absolutely Fabulous do the Menopause:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1A5nTUtJtIs
Monday 12 April 2010
The Waiting Game
Life feels like a blank canvas this last few days. That is, I have no feelings or thoughts on anything.
I have no idea what that means, by the way. I just feel blank.
I actually had to ask myself today if I really had chemo 5 days ago, because I don't feel different, or odd or fried.
Shouldn't I feel different? Surely chemo makes you feel different?
The only thing I have felt, and don't look at me strangely here, is Colin. I have never felt him before. That 1.5cm lump of cancerous tumour normally sits there and does nothing. No pain, no itch, nothing. Lazy little git.
But a few times this last 24 hours, I have felt a tickly feeling in the Colin vicinity. Very, very odd. I cannot describe it other than to say it feels like liquid was rushing through it all and Colin wasn't massively happy about it. A few twinges.
I am not a particularly sensitive person. I know when I am in pain...I had natural homebirth of a 10lb baby, I know what pain is! But I am not that good at describing strange things. This was not pain. This was strange.
I hope fucking Colin hasn't got bigger.
So, here I am waiting. Waiting for mouth ulcers, waiting for an upset stomach, waiting for my bone marrow to go on strike and to feel exhausted.
Waiting, waiting, waiting.
Positive note: BRMC on Thursday; negative note: might be too poorly to go.
I have no idea what that means, by the way. I just feel blank.
I actually had to ask myself today if I really had chemo 5 days ago, because I don't feel different, or odd or fried.
Shouldn't I feel different? Surely chemo makes you feel different?
The only thing I have felt, and don't look at me strangely here, is Colin. I have never felt him before. That 1.5cm lump of cancerous tumour normally sits there and does nothing. No pain, no itch, nothing. Lazy little git.
But a few times this last 24 hours, I have felt a tickly feeling in the Colin vicinity. Very, very odd. I cannot describe it other than to say it feels like liquid was rushing through it all and Colin wasn't massively happy about it. A few twinges.
I am not a particularly sensitive person. I know when I am in pain...I had natural homebirth of a 10lb baby, I know what pain is! But I am not that good at describing strange things. This was not pain. This was strange.
I hope fucking Colin hasn't got bigger.
So, here I am waiting. Waiting for mouth ulcers, waiting for an upset stomach, waiting for my bone marrow to go on strike and to feel exhausted.
Waiting, waiting, waiting.
Positive note: BRMC on Thursday; negative note: might be too poorly to go.
Saturday 10 April 2010
Rolling with the punches...
Day 3 of the chemo phase and I think the Domestos is out of my system now...it has swept though my blood stream, organs and bones and done its thang...namely, killing all fast growing and dividing cells. Unfortunately, for me, not just the Colins and Malcoms, but also those normal, non cancerous ones in my bone marrow, mouth, hair and gut.
Thus, next week is the week when Domestos' legacy and the 'lack of cell' side effects hit. My white blood cell count should drop significantly; my gut may react spectacularly; my mouth may get ulcerated; my hair will begin to thin...I am at a much higher risk of infection when I don't have all those little neutrophils et al in my blood stream to rush to a possible virus or bacteria and obliterate it/them like a 70s Space Invaders game. A common cold could kill me. Apparently.
Hurruh. Well, what else can I say? Worst case scenario woman is back...and anything better than pain and death is a bonus, right? The week after, I should begin to make my white blood cells again, if my bone marrow plays nicely, and I should feel a lot better. Just in time for Fight Club to start all over again and be hit with more Domestos...
...I imagine it gets exhausting, this constant 'cycle' of chemotherapy and the side effects. And, of course, you feel worse and worse as you go through each bit. That's why I am so grateful to come though this first part relatively unscathed; I can keep my chin up and have a little more energy than those poor buggers who suffer terrible with nausea and vomiting, constipation and the runs in the first stage.
...it feels like being in prison and marking off each bit of the sentence with a big cross. One down, seven to go kinda thing. Not sure if I need that immediate imagery, but I get it in my head. Kind of...I like numbers, I like to think 'this time yesterday/tomorrow' and stuff. I like to chart the passing of time in such a manner...I find it soothing.
But I am not a planner. Never have been and never will be. For someone who is a little bit of a control freak, you would imagine me to have the attitude of an army drill instructor. But I don't. If I have to make plans, they are well organised, but I have never felt the need to be that controlled. I am a 'chuck it in the suitcase the morning of my flight' woman. As long as I have a credit card and my passport, then I will be fine. I don't have a pension or a mortgage. I have never wanted anything to stop me moving on. I don't have lots of 'stuff'...if you can't get it all into the back of a Transit van in a few hours and be out of the country by the end of the day, you have too much stuff!
Strangely, this attitude seems to be helping me with all of this. Take it on the chin and roll with the punches as and when they come...and if the fucker misses, great!
Quote of the day: "I have developed a new philosophy; just dread one day at a time" Charlie Brown
Thus, next week is the week when Domestos' legacy and the 'lack of cell' side effects hit. My white blood cell count should drop significantly; my gut may react spectacularly; my mouth may get ulcerated; my hair will begin to thin...I am at a much higher risk of infection when I don't have all those little neutrophils et al in my blood stream to rush to a possible virus or bacteria and obliterate it/them like a 70s Space Invaders game. A common cold could kill me. Apparently.
Hurruh. Well, what else can I say? Worst case scenario woman is back...and anything better than pain and death is a bonus, right? The week after, I should begin to make my white blood cells again, if my bone marrow plays nicely, and I should feel a lot better. Just in time for Fight Club to start all over again and be hit with more Domestos...
...I imagine it gets exhausting, this constant 'cycle' of chemotherapy and the side effects. And, of course, you feel worse and worse as you go through each bit. That's why I am so grateful to come though this first part relatively unscathed; I can keep my chin up and have a little more energy than those poor buggers who suffer terrible with nausea and vomiting, constipation and the runs in the first stage.
...it feels like being in prison and marking off each bit of the sentence with a big cross. One down, seven to go kinda thing. Not sure if I need that immediate imagery, but I get it in my head. Kind of...I like numbers, I like to think 'this time yesterday/tomorrow' and stuff. I like to chart the passing of time in such a manner...I find it soothing.
But I am not a planner. Never have been and never will be. For someone who is a little bit of a control freak, you would imagine me to have the attitude of an army drill instructor. But I don't. If I have to make plans, they are well organised, but I have never felt the need to be that controlled. I am a 'chuck it in the suitcase the morning of my flight' woman. As long as I have a credit card and my passport, then I will be fine. I don't have a pension or a mortgage. I have never wanted anything to stop me moving on. I don't have lots of 'stuff'...if you can't get it all into the back of a Transit van in a few hours and be out of the country by the end of the day, you have too much stuff!
Strangely, this attitude seems to be helping me with all of this. Take it on the chin and roll with the punches as and when they come...and if the fucker misses, great!
Quote of the day: "I have developed a new philosophy; just dread one day at a time" Charlie Brown
Friday 9 April 2010
Pooooooooo!
Just a quickie. I am off to work.
I had a poo this morning. I wouldn't normally let people know such things about myself (pink pee is different, it is cool).
But constipation is a side effect I was told I may have straight after chemo and for the first few days after. This is the time period called the 'chemo phase' and it lasts for about 48 hours or so...the time the actual Domestos is in the system before my hardworking body chucks it out.
And I had a poo! Hurruh for poo! It's great. I am not constipated (I have never been constipated, so I am not entirely sure what happens, but I have seen that advert on telly...you know, the one with the four women who think they are in Sex and the City and 'pass it on').
Anyway, out of here for now. Be happy for me, one more side effect missed out for this chemo cycle.
I had a poo this morning. I wouldn't normally let people know such things about myself (pink pee is different, it is cool).
But constipation is a side effect I was told I may have straight after chemo and for the first few days after. This is the time period called the 'chemo phase' and it lasts for about 48 hours or so...the time the actual Domestos is in the system before my hardworking body chucks it out.
And I had a poo! Hurruh for poo! It's great. I am not constipated (I have never been constipated, so I am not entirely sure what happens, but I have seen that advert on telly...you know, the one with the four women who think they are in Sex and the City and 'pass it on').
Anyway, out of here for now. Be happy for me, one more side effect missed out for this chemo cycle.
Thursday 8 April 2010
Cancer, broken down tendons and triumph over adversity.
I won 500 quid this afternoon.
Let me explain...I know a teeny bit about racehorses and jump racing. I don't really know anything about flat racing, which is a bit weird, seeing as I work for people who breed and own flat racehorses. Luckily, for them, not knowing anything about flat horses doesn't impede my job.
Anyway, I seldom bet off-course, but I always chuck a few quid on Aintree and the National meet. My mother always did too. My betting strategy is really complex: I bet on 2 horses per race...always the grey and always one with a name I like. See, a really complicated betting system. Anyway, I tend to win more than I lose. Go figure.
This afternoon was the Foxhunters. That's the amateurs riding over the National fences. I put a tenner, via my internet account, on the grey. He came in at 50-1. The dosh will be going to Best Friend's mad leap for Macmillan Cancer later in the year...
The reason I am blogging about this does have something to do with cancer...just in case you think I am attempting to flesh out my bloggy character with real life.
I wanted to be a jockey when I was a kid. Far to tall and far too female. But I started riding out when I was 13 years old and I did race ride a few times. I would have loved to have done the Foxhunter. Not good enough, I am afraid and far too female. This was the 1980s...things were different then.
I lived in a place called Findon, in West Sussex. The big jump trainer there was Josh Gifford and his stable jockey was Bob Champion. Bob was diagnosed with testicular cancer when he was 31 and given a few months to live unless he underwent chemo. This was the late 70s; it wasn't as user-friendly then.
Bob did it. He survived and a few short months after getting fit again, he won the 1981 Grand National on a horse called Aldaniti, trained by Josh Gifford in Findon. It was all the more amazing because Aldaniti had broken down and broken his hock...his tendons gave out and he should have retired and certainly never raced again. Somehow, all those involved, people I knew like Snowy Davis and Peter Double, got that horse back from the brink in time for the Grand National.
This was a very big deal back then...a true story of overcoming adversity and triumphing in a most spectacular way. I was there when Bob and Aldaniti returned to Findon with the trophy. I have never forgotten that Sunday lunchtime, when everyone wore the blue and white of the Embiricos colours Bob wore and we cheered them all home.
A few years later, a film was made of the story starring John Hurt. They used the film score of that movie for the BBC coverage of the Grand National for many, many years afterwards and it always, always brings a tear to my eyes. I think this is partly because their story was so incredible and partly because I have a few regrets that I was never able to ride those fences in my teenage fantasy.
This afternoon I cheered my grey home with a tear in my eye. That was my race-that-I-never-rode-in (and never would have done anyway, but you know what I mean), and Aintree and those fences are all about Champion and Aldaniti to me...
...and overcoming cancer, even when the odds are against you.
Mind you, my betting system should mean the odds are gainst me. I won a few quid. Life isn't so bad...
Anyway, if you want a tip for the National don't ask me. I just do the greys and the one with the weird name. OK, take a look at a horse called The Package and King John's Castle. Don't say I didn't warn you, I am an awful tipper...
Quote of the evening: "Success is not measured by what you accomplish...but by the courage with which you have maintained the struggle against overwhelming odds" Orison Marden
And that is for Tricia, the woman I spoke to this morning on the radio with terminal breast cancer. Keep saddling up lady.
Let me explain...I know a teeny bit about racehorses and jump racing. I don't really know anything about flat racing, which is a bit weird, seeing as I work for people who breed and own flat racehorses. Luckily, for them, not knowing anything about flat horses doesn't impede my job.
Anyway, I seldom bet off-course, but I always chuck a few quid on Aintree and the National meet. My mother always did too. My betting strategy is really complex: I bet on 2 horses per race...always the grey and always one with a name I like. See, a really complicated betting system. Anyway, I tend to win more than I lose. Go figure.
This afternoon was the Foxhunters. That's the amateurs riding over the National fences. I put a tenner, via my internet account, on the grey. He came in at 50-1. The dosh will be going to Best Friend's mad leap for Macmillan Cancer later in the year...
The reason I am blogging about this does have something to do with cancer...just in case you think I am attempting to flesh out my bloggy character with real life.
I wanted to be a jockey when I was a kid. Far to tall and far too female. But I started riding out when I was 13 years old and I did race ride a few times. I would have loved to have done the Foxhunter. Not good enough, I am afraid and far too female. This was the 1980s...things were different then.
I lived in a place called Findon, in West Sussex. The big jump trainer there was Josh Gifford and his stable jockey was Bob Champion. Bob was diagnosed with testicular cancer when he was 31 and given a few months to live unless he underwent chemo. This was the late 70s; it wasn't as user-friendly then.
Bob did it. He survived and a few short months after getting fit again, he won the 1981 Grand National on a horse called Aldaniti, trained by Josh Gifford in Findon. It was all the more amazing because Aldaniti had broken down and broken his hock...his tendons gave out and he should have retired and certainly never raced again. Somehow, all those involved, people I knew like Snowy Davis and Peter Double, got that horse back from the brink in time for the Grand National.
This was a very big deal back then...a true story of overcoming adversity and triumphing in a most spectacular way. I was there when Bob and Aldaniti returned to Findon with the trophy. I have never forgotten that Sunday lunchtime, when everyone wore the blue and white of the Embiricos colours Bob wore and we cheered them all home.
A few years later, a film was made of the story starring John Hurt. They used the film score of that movie for the BBC coverage of the Grand National for many, many years afterwards and it always, always brings a tear to my eyes. I think this is partly because their story was so incredible and partly because I have a few regrets that I was never able to ride those fences in my teenage fantasy.
This afternoon I cheered my grey home with a tear in my eye. That was my race-that-I-never-rode-in (and never would have done anyway, but you know what I mean), and Aintree and those fences are all about Champion and Aldaniti to me...
...and overcoming cancer, even when the odds are against you.
Mind you, my betting system should mean the odds are gainst me. I won a few quid. Life isn't so bad...
Anyway, if you want a tip for the National don't ask me. I just do the greys and the one with the weird name. OK, take a look at a horse called The Package and King John's Castle. Don't say I didn't warn you, I am an awful tipper...
Quote of the evening: "Success is not measured by what you accomplish...but by the courage with which you have maintained the struggle against overwhelming odds" Orison Marden
And that is for Tricia, the woman I spoke to this morning on the radio with terminal breast cancer. Keep saddling up lady.
The Day After Tomorrow...
I didn't blog yesterday. I had other things on my mind. I am sure you all understand.
OK, so what is chemotherapy like? I would love to sit here and say I suffered terribly. I would thoroughly enjoy telling you the tales of me vomiting, shaking, ripping my veins out, banging my head against the wall and running around the house hallucinating.
As it was, nothing much happened.
Nothing.
I had a bit of a headache last night (the front of my head felt cold but that is a side effect from the anti-nausea drug they inject with the chemo apprently), I could feel my veins bulging a little and I did an amazing pink frothy wee because one of the drugs is bright red and turns you wee pink. You know that feeling, when you're having a drink, when you wish you hadn't had another one? Sometimes I felt like that. One glass of wine too many. Nothing awful...
I slept and ate normally. I woke up this morning, at my normal time and I did an interview for the BBC about breast cancer. Shame on me, I didn't puke live on air...
You'll be pleased to know the West Wing of Domestos City is much nicer than the Cancer Suite. The nursey Bernards in there are lovely, informative and supportive (they enjoyed scoffing the chocolate biscuit cake, even though I warned them it was a zillion calories a slice and they would end up looking like a chemo patient on steroids if they consumed too much).
It is bright and airy, as it was an Edwardian children's ward back in the day, High ceilings and beautiful tiles on the walls of Victorian children playing with lambs, hoops and balls. It's lively and no one shuffled when they got up. The seats were nothing great though. I was hoping for a Friend's style Joey&Chandler chair but alas, I got one which would look right in an old people's home...perhaps I could divert some money from any future fundraising to buying Joey&Chandler chairs for the West Wing?
The people actually having the chemo looked less miserable than those in the Cancer Suite too. There were smiles and laughs, people on mobile phones and laptop computers. It seems to me, the real business of cancer chemotherapy is 'life goes on', regardless of the cytotoxic drugs being pushed into their bodies (note to self: take in laptop next time).
My tray of drugs was huge and it took about an hour for them to all go in via the catheter in my left hand...I think there were 8 massive containers of 3 different types of drugs, plus saline and anti-nausea steroids. Each one gets put in in order...and with each one Nursey delighted in saying:
'this one will give you constipation'; 'this one will make your wee pink'; 'this one can give you the runs' and, my favourite one 'you may feel like you have ants running around your anus in a minute'...
I didn't.
But I am not complaining about feeling cheated here (although I reckon some people pay good money to have that feeling of 'ants running around their anus'). I am bloody grateful to sail though the first 24 hours of my first chemotherapy because I know many people don't. I am not going to trivialise it. I have been lucky. Hey, I know it can only get worse from here on in! I expect it to be fucking awful, so if I escape a bit of I shall be thankful. Think worst case scenario and anything better than that is a bonus in my book. My attitude to this is the same as having cancer generally; I expect to die and if I don't, well that's a bonus, isn't it? I think...
Oh, did I mention that next week I have a date with the menopause? Yes, next week my fertility will go off. Like a light apparently. The chemo drugs switch off my ability to have children. I suppose if you are going to have an early menopause, having it during chemo is a blessing. Upsides to this: no more children, no more periods; no more contraceptives. Downsides: Can't think of any, because I don't want any more children anyway, thank you.
Best Friend has been a star, by the way. She came with me and stayed last night too (just in case I did end up puking and running around the house hallucinating). She was more a star because I made her sit through the Star Trek movie and she is not a Trekie, than she was at being a honourary Nursey Bernard, seeing as I didn't need any nursing.
I also made her watch my favourite bits of Jesus Christ Superstar. I don't care if Lloyd-Webber thinks it is one of his less 'mature' works. Stuff people in lycra leotards pretending to be cats or other people in lycra pretending to be trains (is that more 'mature' then, Lord Webber?). I love Superstar. It's groovy. Thus, I made Best Friend sit through my favourite bits, all because she had to be nice to me because I had had chemotherapy...
However, her revenge for sitting through Star Trek and Supertar was sweet. I said I was not sick. This is technically true, in regards to the chemo. But whilst we were munching on caramel Magnums I nearly choked to death because she made me laugh. No, really, it went down the wrong way and I was sick because I was coughing and wretching so much. We both thought this was rather amusing actually...once I could breathe again and had stopped the involuntary tears streaming down my face...I go through chemotherapy and survive; she nearly kills me with a Magnum ice cream.
Anyway, a nice light blog entry today. Apologies to those of you logging in to hear tales of vomit and pain...I am sure I can deliver those for you further down the road, if you don't mind waiting.
Quote of the Day: "My veins are filled with a Neapolitan carpet cleaner distilled from the Adriatic and I am as bald as an egg. However I still get around and am mean to cats" John Cheever
OK, so what is chemotherapy like? I would love to sit here and say I suffered terribly. I would thoroughly enjoy telling you the tales of me vomiting, shaking, ripping my veins out, banging my head against the wall and running around the house hallucinating.
As it was, nothing much happened.
Nothing.
I had a bit of a headache last night (the front of my head felt cold but that is a side effect from the anti-nausea drug they inject with the chemo apprently), I could feel my veins bulging a little and I did an amazing pink frothy wee because one of the drugs is bright red and turns you wee pink. You know that feeling, when you're having a drink, when you wish you hadn't had another one? Sometimes I felt like that. One glass of wine too many. Nothing awful...
I slept and ate normally. I woke up this morning, at my normal time and I did an interview for the BBC about breast cancer. Shame on me, I didn't puke live on air...
You'll be pleased to know the West Wing of Domestos City is much nicer than the Cancer Suite. The nursey Bernards in there are lovely, informative and supportive (they enjoyed scoffing the chocolate biscuit cake, even though I warned them it was a zillion calories a slice and they would end up looking like a chemo patient on steroids if they consumed too much).
It is bright and airy, as it was an Edwardian children's ward back in the day, High ceilings and beautiful tiles on the walls of Victorian children playing with lambs, hoops and balls. It's lively and no one shuffled when they got up. The seats were nothing great though. I was hoping for a Friend's style Joey&Chandler chair but alas, I got one which would look right in an old people's home...perhaps I could divert some money from any future fundraising to buying Joey&Chandler chairs for the West Wing?
The people actually having the chemo looked less miserable than those in the Cancer Suite too. There were smiles and laughs, people on mobile phones and laptop computers. It seems to me, the real business of cancer chemotherapy is 'life goes on', regardless of the cytotoxic drugs being pushed into their bodies (note to self: take in laptop next time).
My tray of drugs was huge and it took about an hour for them to all go in via the catheter in my left hand...I think there were 8 massive containers of 3 different types of drugs, plus saline and anti-nausea steroids. Each one gets put in in order...and with each one Nursey delighted in saying:
'this one will give you constipation'; 'this one will make your wee pink'; 'this one can give you the runs' and, my favourite one 'you may feel like you have ants running around your anus in a minute'...
I didn't.
But I am not complaining about feeling cheated here (although I reckon some people pay good money to have that feeling of 'ants running around their anus'). I am bloody grateful to sail though the first 24 hours of my first chemotherapy because I know many people don't. I am not going to trivialise it. I have been lucky. Hey, I know it can only get worse from here on in! I expect it to be fucking awful, so if I escape a bit of I shall be thankful. Think worst case scenario and anything better than that is a bonus in my book. My attitude to this is the same as having cancer generally; I expect to die and if I don't, well that's a bonus, isn't it? I think...
Oh, did I mention that next week I have a date with the menopause? Yes, next week my fertility will go off. Like a light apparently. The chemo drugs switch off my ability to have children. I suppose if you are going to have an early menopause, having it during chemo is a blessing. Upsides to this: no more children, no more periods; no more contraceptives. Downsides: Can't think of any, because I don't want any more children anyway, thank you.
Best Friend has been a star, by the way. She came with me and stayed last night too (just in case I did end up puking and running around the house hallucinating). She was more a star because I made her sit through the Star Trek movie and she is not a Trekie, than she was at being a honourary Nursey Bernard, seeing as I didn't need any nursing.
I also made her watch my favourite bits of Jesus Christ Superstar. I don't care if Lloyd-Webber thinks it is one of his less 'mature' works. Stuff people in lycra leotards pretending to be cats or other people in lycra pretending to be trains (is that more 'mature' then, Lord Webber?). I love Superstar. It's groovy. Thus, I made Best Friend sit through my favourite bits, all because she had to be nice to me because I had had chemotherapy...
However, her revenge for sitting through Star Trek and Supertar was sweet. I said I was not sick. This is technically true, in regards to the chemo. But whilst we were munching on caramel Magnums I nearly choked to death because she made me laugh. No, really, it went down the wrong way and I was sick because I was coughing and wretching so much. We both thought this was rather amusing actually...once I could breathe again and had stopped the involuntary tears streaming down my face...I go through chemotherapy and survive; she nearly kills me with a Magnum ice cream.
Anyway, a nice light blog entry today. Apologies to those of you logging in to hear tales of vomit and pain...I am sure I can deliver those for you further down the road, if you don't mind waiting.
Quote of the Day: "My veins are filled with a Neapolitan carpet cleaner distilled from the Adriatic and I am as bald as an egg. However I still get around and am mean to cats" John Cheever
Tuesday 6 April 2010
The Day before Tomorrow
I have attempted to be normal today, doing normal things, going about my normal business.
It is, of course, Tuesday. It should be Monday but Bank Holidays always put me off my stroke...
So today is my last chance at being un-Domestos-ed, unsick, unshaky, unfucked up. I have done rather well, even managing to buy the ingredients and make some chocolate biscuit cake (you know, the one that you put in the fridge to set and is a zillion calories a piece). It is to take with me for the Nursey Bernards within the confines of the West Wing. I am hoping chocolate biscuit cake will make them nicer to me...make no mistake, I know chocolate and thoughtfulness goes a long way in the NHS.
Best friend is coming over later on to crash at mine. The logistics of getting to Domestos City and the West Wing are not simple...Best Friend is driving. She lives nearer the hospital than me...but if I drive to hers and then am very poorly, how do I get my car from hers to mine? Thus, she is crashing at mine. You see, this cancer treatment thing is complicated...
I have also sped-read a book I ordered called Chemotherapy: A Survivor's Guide. It is written by two cancer nurses from California. I have learnt more from that book in 20 minutes than anything I have had from anyone over here...it has settled me a little. I fully recommend it to anyone who is about to embark on the Fight Club circuit.
That's it really. I am not feeling particularly talkative, witty or sarcastic this evening. I feel I ought to write something, just in case you guys think I have kicked the bucket/stepped in front of a bus/bought that round-world-ticket and fucked off. I have been tempted. I still am.
As it is, I think I am going to raid the Nursey Bernard chocolate biscuit cake tin and curl up with Sky news channel and let them bore me with coverage of the upcoming General Election...
So long, farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, goodnight...
It is, of course, Tuesday. It should be Monday but Bank Holidays always put me off my stroke...
So today is my last chance at being un-Domestos-ed, unsick, unshaky, unfucked up. I have done rather well, even managing to buy the ingredients and make some chocolate biscuit cake (you know, the one that you put in the fridge to set and is a zillion calories a piece). It is to take with me for the Nursey Bernards within the confines of the West Wing. I am hoping chocolate biscuit cake will make them nicer to me...make no mistake, I know chocolate and thoughtfulness goes a long way in the NHS.
Best friend is coming over later on to crash at mine. The logistics of getting to Domestos City and the West Wing are not simple...Best Friend is driving. She lives nearer the hospital than me...but if I drive to hers and then am very poorly, how do I get my car from hers to mine? Thus, she is crashing at mine. You see, this cancer treatment thing is complicated...
I have also sped-read a book I ordered called Chemotherapy: A Survivor's Guide. It is written by two cancer nurses from California. I have learnt more from that book in 20 minutes than anything I have had from anyone over here...it has settled me a little. I fully recommend it to anyone who is about to embark on the Fight Club circuit.
That's it really. I am not feeling particularly talkative, witty or sarcastic this evening. I feel I ought to write something, just in case you guys think I have kicked the bucket/stepped in front of a bus/bought that round-world-ticket and fucked off. I have been tempted. I still am.
As it is, I think I am going to raid the Nursey Bernard chocolate biscuit cake tin and curl up with Sky news channel and let them bore me with coverage of the upcoming General Election...
So long, farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, goodnight...
Sunday 4 April 2010
This kind of war, you've gotta believe in what you're fighting for...
Well the Studio Line moulding putty made my hair stand on end.
Less Sid Vicious and more KD Lang apparently. Great, I have cancer and I look like a lesbian crooner to boot.
I am not feeling cool. I had a long conversation with Best Friend this evening regarding this cancer shit. I am not sure it all came out as I wanted it to and I may have a) confused her b) upset her or c) made her think I am suicidal. Perhaps all three?
Anyway, in the my somewhat fragmented view of the world right now I asked myself, and by dint Best Friend, 'why am I actually doing any of this treatment stuff?'.
Obviously, the simple answer to this was 'you die if you don't'. I get this. It is logical. It makes sense. Also, House, Scouse and Nursey Bernard have told me I am doing it. I have never been one to do things because I have been told to...
'But' I said 'what if I don't want to do it?'
Best Friend looked quizically at me. She also said I was being a 'drama queen'. That's fine, sometimes I am but actually, during all of this cancer shit stuff, I have not.
'Well' Best Friend said 'it can lengthen your life and lots of people beat cancer and go on for years and years'. She's right, many people do.
'But' I said 'what if I am not bothered about going on for years and years and, anyway, what kind of life is it after you have gone through all this cancer treatment shit, have a hole in your breast, get infections because you have no lymph glands, have to take drugs for 5 years to stop your ovaries working, suffer lymphodema and then just wait for it to come back?'.
And it made me think (I was thinking a lot as we were talking) is life that precious to me? Am I that bothered about going on for years and years like that? There is part of me that thinks my ticket has been punched/my time is up/I am not supposed to be around for years and years.
'Well' said Best Friend 'you wouldn't stand in front of a bus and let it hit you and say your time is up, would you?'.
'No, but that's not the same. I am not talking about ending my own life, I am talking about my life coming naturally to an end because nature has decreed it should'.
I think I understand why she didn't get it. It isn't entirely understandable. It may well be stress, fear and terror coming out. It may even be a touch of the drama queen too or, as Best Friend said, wanting to be 'different' from everyone else. Everyone else 'fights' cancer. They get off their horse and drink their milk. Me, I am thinking of buying a round-the-world ticket and getting the fuck out of here before the rollercoaster ride starts because I don't want to ride it thank you very much.
...I will, of course. I don't want to, but I will. Right now, if the delete button on my keyboard could end my life painlessly with no mess or fuss I would happily press it. As it is, it can't and I have to report to the West Wing on Wednesday prepared to get up on that horse and ride.
DogwankingfuckstickscancershitIhateyourmotherfuckingguts.
Quote of the Evening: 'Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway' John Wayne
Less Sid Vicious and more KD Lang apparently. Great, I have cancer and I look like a lesbian crooner to boot.
I am not feeling cool. I had a long conversation with Best Friend this evening regarding this cancer shit. I am not sure it all came out as I wanted it to and I may have a) confused her b) upset her or c) made her think I am suicidal. Perhaps all three?
Anyway, in the my somewhat fragmented view of the world right now I asked myself, and by dint Best Friend, 'why am I actually doing any of this treatment stuff?'.
Obviously, the simple answer to this was 'you die if you don't'. I get this. It is logical. It makes sense. Also, House, Scouse and Nursey Bernard have told me I am doing it. I have never been one to do things because I have been told to...
'But' I said 'what if I don't want to do it?'
Best Friend looked quizically at me. She also said I was being a 'drama queen'. That's fine, sometimes I am but actually, during all of this cancer shit stuff, I have not.
'Well' Best Friend said 'it can lengthen your life and lots of people beat cancer and go on for years and years'. She's right, many people do.
'But' I said 'what if I am not bothered about going on for years and years and, anyway, what kind of life is it after you have gone through all this cancer treatment shit, have a hole in your breast, get infections because you have no lymph glands, have to take drugs for 5 years to stop your ovaries working, suffer lymphodema and then just wait for it to come back?'.
And it made me think (I was thinking a lot as we were talking) is life that precious to me? Am I that bothered about going on for years and years like that? There is part of me that thinks my ticket has been punched/my time is up/I am not supposed to be around for years and years.
'Well' said Best Friend 'you wouldn't stand in front of a bus and let it hit you and say your time is up, would you?'.
'No, but that's not the same. I am not talking about ending my own life, I am talking about my life coming naturally to an end because nature has decreed it should'.
I think I understand why she didn't get it. It isn't entirely understandable. It may well be stress, fear and terror coming out. It may even be a touch of the drama queen too or, as Best Friend said, wanting to be 'different' from everyone else. Everyone else 'fights' cancer. They get off their horse and drink their milk. Me, I am thinking of buying a round-the-world ticket and getting the fuck out of here before the rollercoaster ride starts because I don't want to ride it thank you very much.
...I will, of course. I don't want to, but I will. Right now, if the delete button on my keyboard could end my life painlessly with no mess or fuss I would happily press it. As it is, it can't and I have to report to the West Wing on Wednesday prepared to get up on that horse and ride.
DogwankingfuckstickscancershitIhateyourmotherfuckingguts.
Quote of the Evening: 'Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway' John Wayne
Cancer Becomes Me
I spent the last few days a-packing in the friends, as I said I would. Some of these guys I haven't seen since the time-before-cancer.
Now I know I said I wouldn't mention the hair thing again, but I have to make an exception here because I still really hate it. I wish I had gone with my initial gut instinct and shaved it off. I don't want this funky short crop. It's too normal. I wish I had shaved it off and provoked a reaction different to the 'my, it really suits you' stuff.
No, it bloody doesn't. The me before cancer had long hair. I want that me, and not this me. Cancer has forced this on me. I didn't choose it and I don't want it.
I am in denial. More of this later.
Anyway, pretty much everyone has said 'I was steeling myself; I was ready to lie to you and say it was nice, but actually it really is nice'.
I think they lied and lying.
The other thing I have noticed the last few days is this; Cancer becomes me.
Everyone says I look so 'well'. Indeed, lots of people have said 'it's taken years off you'. There you go ladies, don't bother with expensive face creams and Botox injections, just go and get cancer and a funky and fabulous short crop. It'll take years off you (literally).
Bless them all. I obviously realise they are all being kind and trying to say things which will make me feel better. I know this, of course I do. And I truly don't make any sarcastic retorts to their kindnesses.
But fuck me, I so want to. It's not personal...it's not because I want to make them feel bad (which it obviously would, which is why I don't), but because I think I might be beginning to feel a certain injustice and brewing anger over all this. The hair being shorn is the catalyst and the ever-nearing date in the West Wing the simmering-to-boiling point continuance of it all.
Look, I still think this is just one of those shit things that happen to people. I remember saying cancer doesn't just happen to other people and Kylie Minogue. I know them the breaks. Really. And my sense of humour is still intact and ready to go...but a little self doubt has reared its head. A little fear and a feeling of unfairness...
...last night I sat and watched Ashes to Ashes. Alex kept bloody harping on about 'going back' (but this time its to the 1980s and not 2010...oh do make up your mind, Bowls).
I want to go back too. I want to go back to the 1980s and be a teenager again. I want to listen to the Cure and New Order, I want to wear my 80s clothes and have bloody hair again.
I want to go back and be me again, without all this cancer shit.
I think I realise, now, that it is all down hill from here. This is it. It's beginning and I am now about to join the rollercoaster-which-you-can't-get-off-of.
And I think I realise, now, that the whole humour thing has had a tinge of denial to it. Not a lot, just a little.
I know, I know...the Ex-Boyfriend told me this weeks ago 'Don't forget I know you' he said, 'this humour thing is your way of dealing with it'. And I knew he was right (but like I would give him the fucking satisfaction of telling him this down the phone...there is a reason he is my ex-boyfriend).
And it has been to a certain extent. But it has also been a way of softening the blow for those-I-love. Nothing diffuses fear like humour. Nothing decreases sadness like a guffaw. Nothing negates stress like a bloody good laugh.
So I am laughing at Gene Hunt's bloody good one-liners and attempting to whip this fucking stupid short crop, which Ollie the Hair attempted to 'soften' by making a few little curls, into a standing-on-the-top-of-my-head Sidney Vicious style with some Loreal Studio-Studio-Studio Line moulding putty...
...now that was a good advert from the 1980s!
Quote of the Day: "I think the next best thing to solving a problem is finding some humour in it" Frank A Clark
Now I know I said I wouldn't mention the hair thing again, but I have to make an exception here because I still really hate it. I wish I had gone with my initial gut instinct and shaved it off. I don't want this funky short crop. It's too normal. I wish I had shaved it off and provoked a reaction different to the 'my, it really suits you' stuff.
No, it bloody doesn't. The me before cancer had long hair. I want that me, and not this me. Cancer has forced this on me. I didn't choose it and I don't want it.
I am in denial. More of this later.
Anyway, pretty much everyone has said 'I was steeling myself; I was ready to lie to you and say it was nice, but actually it really is nice'.
I think they lied and lying.
The other thing I have noticed the last few days is this; Cancer becomes me.
Everyone says I look so 'well'. Indeed, lots of people have said 'it's taken years off you'. There you go ladies, don't bother with expensive face creams and Botox injections, just go and get cancer and a funky and fabulous short crop. It'll take years off you (literally).
Bless them all. I obviously realise they are all being kind and trying to say things which will make me feel better. I know this, of course I do. And I truly don't make any sarcastic retorts to their kindnesses.
But fuck me, I so want to. It's not personal...it's not because I want to make them feel bad (which it obviously would, which is why I don't), but because I think I might be beginning to feel a certain injustice and brewing anger over all this. The hair being shorn is the catalyst and the ever-nearing date in the West Wing the simmering-to-boiling point continuance of it all.
Look, I still think this is just one of those shit things that happen to people. I remember saying cancer doesn't just happen to other people and Kylie Minogue. I know them the breaks. Really. And my sense of humour is still intact and ready to go...but a little self doubt has reared its head. A little fear and a feeling of unfairness...
...last night I sat and watched Ashes to Ashes. Alex kept bloody harping on about 'going back' (but this time its to the 1980s and not 2010...oh do make up your mind, Bowls).
I want to go back too. I want to go back to the 1980s and be a teenager again. I want to listen to the Cure and New Order, I want to wear my 80s clothes and have bloody hair again.
I want to go back and be me again, without all this cancer shit.
I think I realise, now, that it is all down hill from here. This is it. It's beginning and I am now about to join the rollercoaster-which-you-can't-get-off-of.
And I think I realise, now, that the whole humour thing has had a tinge of denial to it. Not a lot, just a little.
I know, I know...the Ex-Boyfriend told me this weeks ago 'Don't forget I know you' he said, 'this humour thing is your way of dealing with it'. And I knew he was right (but like I would give him the fucking satisfaction of telling him this down the phone...there is a reason he is my ex-boyfriend).
And it has been to a certain extent. But it has also been a way of softening the blow for those-I-love. Nothing diffuses fear like humour. Nothing decreases sadness like a guffaw. Nothing negates stress like a bloody good laugh.
So I am laughing at Gene Hunt's bloody good one-liners and attempting to whip this fucking stupid short crop, which Ollie the Hair attempted to 'soften' by making a few little curls, into a standing-on-the-top-of-my-head Sidney Vicious style with some Loreal Studio-Studio-Studio Line moulding putty...
...now that was a good advert from the 1980s!
Quote of the Day: "I think the next best thing to solving a problem is finding some humour in it" Frank A Clark
Friday 2 April 2010
Oh oh oh Delilah...
Well it is done.
The tresses are gone.
I have short hair.
I am not going to be all brave and stoical about this. I don't care how many people tell me 'actually, you really suit a crop' or my particular favourite; 'trust me, not everyone can get away with it that short, but my, you really can!'.
Samson said 'Don't trust women, don't get your hair cut' and looked what happened to him!
I just don't like it. It feels wrong. I don't feel like me. All my strength is gone...
I have kept the foot long pony tail that got snipped off. Did you know the ancient Greeks offered hair to the Gods for deliverence and mariners would offer locks of their own hair for a safe voyage? Perhaps I ought to make a little shrine and place my ponytail on it in the hopes of a safe voyage-through-chemo...
I shan't mention my hair again (there isn't a lot of it left to mention). I will let you know when it begins to fall out (between chemo cycle 1 and 2 apparently) and I will re-visit Ollie the Hair and have a #1 all over...
This is my last weekend before chemo. I am filling it with nice things...seeing friends, getting drunk, seeing more friends, getting more drunk. I might eat some chocolate too at some point...I am not a big drinker and never really have been but I feel the need to have a few this weekend. Actually, I have felt like smoking cigarettes, snorting coke and injecting smack the last month. I mean, I have lived a pretty healthy life up to now...don't eat meat, only drink soya milk (and that is supposed to prevent breast cancer!!!) and have exercised every day.
Look where a healthy life has got me...
...last weekend I saw a friend of my boss. He is a heavy smoker, drinker and a diabetic. I think he has had the odd heart attack too along the road. He said 'look at me, they all thought I'd be dead by now and look at you. It's all wrong'. Yes, it's all wrong.
So I am off to drink, eat chocolate, score some smack* and generally be unhealthy this weekend...I have had my pre-chemo blood test so no one at the hospital will know!
*not really
Quote of the Day: "I don't consider myself bald, I'm just taller than my hair" Seneca
The tresses are gone.
I have short hair.
I am not going to be all brave and stoical about this. I don't care how many people tell me 'actually, you really suit a crop' or my particular favourite; 'trust me, not everyone can get away with it that short, but my, you really can!'.
Samson said 'Don't trust women, don't get your hair cut' and looked what happened to him!
I just don't like it. It feels wrong. I don't feel like me. All my strength is gone...
I have kept the foot long pony tail that got snipped off. Did you know the ancient Greeks offered hair to the Gods for deliverence and mariners would offer locks of their own hair for a safe voyage? Perhaps I ought to make a little shrine and place my ponytail on it in the hopes of a safe voyage-through-chemo...
I shan't mention my hair again (there isn't a lot of it left to mention). I will let you know when it begins to fall out (between chemo cycle 1 and 2 apparently) and I will re-visit Ollie the Hair and have a #1 all over...
This is my last weekend before chemo. I am filling it with nice things...seeing friends, getting drunk, seeing more friends, getting more drunk. I might eat some chocolate too at some point...I am not a big drinker and never really have been but I feel the need to have a few this weekend. Actually, I have felt like smoking cigarettes, snorting coke and injecting smack the last month. I mean, I have lived a pretty healthy life up to now...don't eat meat, only drink soya milk (and that is supposed to prevent breast cancer!!!) and have exercised every day.
Look where a healthy life has got me...
...last weekend I saw a friend of my boss. He is a heavy smoker, drinker and a diabetic. I think he has had the odd heart attack too along the road. He said 'look at me, they all thought I'd be dead by now and look at you. It's all wrong'. Yes, it's all wrong.
So I am off to drink, eat chocolate, score some smack* and generally be unhealthy this weekend...I have had my pre-chemo blood test so no one at the hospital will know!
*not really
Quote of the Day: "I don't consider myself bald, I'm just taller than my hair" Seneca
Thursday 1 April 2010
Some of the worst mistakes of my life have been haircuts...
So said the mighty Jim Morrison....when he was capable of talking due to the copious amounts of booze and drugs in his system for most of his later years.
I think booze and drugs might be the only way I am going to get through today...
My printer is hotly printing out pictures of very short crop photos I have downloaded off the net for Ollie the Hair. Thing is, the women with all of these 'chic' crops are all models or famous. And they are all quite exquisite and beautiful. Why can't I find pictures of short crops on fat, ugly birds like me???
And they have eyebrows...
Last night I had a ceremonial bath and washed my long hair for the very last time. Out came the ridiculously expensive Frederic Fekkai conditioner (at least I won't have to dole out $65 again for a while...). I even gave it a rinse in cold water to make it all shiny. Probably a waste of time...seeing as it will end up on the floor later today.
Talking of hair...or no hair...I received a letter yesterday. Note yesterday was the 31st March. The letter was dated 29th March. It was an appointment with the 'Hair Appliance' lady at the hospital. It stated I had an appointment for the 30th March.
I missed the appointment. But seeing as I didn't make said appointment and didn't know about it, I am not fretting too much. I obviously rang her to apologise for not turning up...
...'Hair Appliance'. I imagine that is a 'wig'. I don't want a wig. I certainly don't want an NHS wig. Perhaps I ought to put a search into Google for NHS Wigs and then, perhaps, I would find pictures of women like me with awful hair? Sorry, but I can only see Ethel from Eastenders and WillythePug when I think about wigs...
I am also off, in my busy last Thursday before chemo starts, to have my blood work done. I tried to get it done yesterday, but the little local hospital had a 2 hour wait. 2 hours. I don't mind waiting for Scouse to tell me I have breast cancer. Or House to tell me what brand of Domestos I am going to infuse. But not 2 hours for an FBC. Thus, I am off to Dr Lucy this morning to get her to take out a little of my remaining life force. I did tell her I would be seeing her again...
“Cut off thine hair, O Jerusalem, and cast it away, and take up a lamentation on high places; for the LORD hath rejected and forsaken the generation of his wrath.” Jeremiah 7:29
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