Off to the hospital at 9am to have my bloods taken prior to chemo. Levels OK, so back home for a couple of hours whilst pharmacy get their act together and mix up the demon brew.
Start chemo at 1pm with premeds of Ondansetron (to combat the nausea and vomiting) and steroids (which will keep me awake all night). Then we get on to the ‘Elixir of Life’ with the first infusion of Irinotecan. This takes about 40 minutes to drip in, and I know after 15 minutes I’m going to become lightheaded and lose the ability to concentrate. No chance to read as the letters won’t stay still on the page, so I stare fixedly into middle-distance, where things seem a little calmer. Then the hot and cold sweats start, and I have to concentrate really hard if I want to answer anyone, as my speech becomes slurred if left to its own devices.
Asked by the nurse if I want a subcutaneous injection of atropine but I refuse as usual, figuring my body doesn’t need any more drugs pumping into it, and so I’ll just put up with the side-effects for the next hour. Paul sits holding my hand, and we both keep glancing at the clock to see how much longer it’s going to take before the flush through with saline can begin.
After an hour I feel well enough for Paul to leave, and the infusion of Folinic Acid starts. This takes 2.5 hours to drip in, so I pass the time by trying (and failing) to do the cryptic crossword, and by doing the Nintendo DS Brain Training game. Anything under a brain age of 90 whilst on chemo I accept as a minor miracle. Today it is 31, so not too bad.
By now, the queasiness has started to kick in, so I begin my mantra: Stay strong, Jane. This too will pass. Break the monotony by trundling with the IV stand down to the bathroom. There I catch sight of myself in the mirror. A wraith stares back, so I decide not to repeat that exercise again for at least 24 hours. Listen to a CD, working out that if each track is about 3 minutes long, then in 10 tracks time Paul will be back, when we can connect the portable chemo pump to the PICC line, and I get to go home.
Home to a bowl of soup – anything else feels like tackling an elephant, as I’m now acutely aware of the feeling of a lead weight in my stomach and a lump in my throat which means the Ondansetron is battling to stop me being sick. Drag myself to a chair, and sit in front of the TV to pass some time before going to bed. I now have the full-on ‘chemo look’ – deathly pale with only the black veins showing on the back of my hands. Paul comments that the vampires have had me, and it feels as though he’s not far wrong.
Although I’m exhausted I know I won’t sleep much due to the effects of the steroids. I have a couple of books to read – both very light on chemo night – and my radio to listen to if needed. After a chapter of a book I feel so nauseous that I abandon that, turn off the light and try to sleep.
Look at my clock a little while later, and am surprised to find it’s 1.21am. I’d heard Michael go to the bathroom a little earlier and wonder if he’s still there (two hours is not inconceivable, but not usually in the wee small hours). Relieved to find him no longer there, which must mean I nodded off at some point. I pick up the book again, but still too nauseous to care, so switch off the light.
Hear a car going past the end of the road, and wonder who on earth would want to be out at 2am. It briefly crosses my mind that it may be our Minister and his wife, as their daughter, Kerry, is expecting their first grandchild. Maybe Peter and Jane are starting the long trek south to Colchester to visit them. An uplifting thought for the early hours.
The silence is permanently broken just before 6am by a robin, hurling out his challenge to a sleepy world. He is joined a little later by a pair of blackbirds, who have a duel outside my window, and then by the collared doves and wood pigeons. I strain to hear the nuthatch and the greenfinch, but either they are too far away for me to hear them, or they are still tucked up asleep on a branch. It’s strange to think that what we perceive as melodious birdsong is really a battle ground in full swing: this is my patch, so stay away!
Decide to add my own call to that of the birds – Stay strong, Jane. This too will pass – and so with mantra and dawn chorus we enter Tuesday morning….
