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