Funny you’d have thought I have experienced all emotions of a cancer diagnosis…but it appears to be a disease that just keeps giving in emotions.
I’ve been asked a couple of times today how I am…such a massive question that I often respond with..ahhh I’m doing alright…I’m still here.
There’s the odd person who I feel more able to be honest with but that’s when it hits me…as I speak of just what I’m going through.
Last week I ended up in hospital, so many colds around I’m bound to catch them but I’d underestimated how low my immunity was/is.
Maybe that’s when the realisation of being on palliative treatment hit me… it made me realise that actually it may not be the cancer that kills but something else from having a weakened immune system.
This time of year is generally hard, families coming together and seeing and feeling the love we all have for each other…it deeply hurts that one day their will be a massive void for all of us, not that I’ll feel it as I won’t be here but I’m feeling it RIGHT NOW in the here and now, everything is precious.
Today I’ve felt if not for a better word, really shit.
I’m Day 3 of cycle 3 which was delayed after last week, what this means now is I’ll be week 2 cycle 4 on Christmas Day….I’m going to prob feel yuk!
I’ve become quite anxious as this should be a manageable chemotherapy for long term use, don’t get me wrong it’s easier than ones in the past as I’m not throwing up but I get a very quick onset of a bad stomach.
My hands look like I’ve been in a bath for hours and are cracking on the skin, my nails and tips are painful yet numb in places with rings appearing in the nail so I know they will soon start to break.
My mouth is beginning to layer with a yuk taste putting me off all foods, and today I’m actually hurting, my lower back is so painful.
I currently laid in bed with a hot water bottle and dosed up and succumbed to a sleeping pill which isn’t working just yet!
It’s days like this I’m wondering if this is going to be possible…to live in a 3 week cycle of yuk for as long as this chemo works then the joys of harder stuff if it doesn’t.
Did I mention I can’t walk properly either as my feet are also beginning to turn red and sore.
It’s hard on a painful day to foresee the future of palliative chemotherapy, then I get a burst of Stanley’s smile or a gentle squeeze from Rob, a phone call from mum, a knock at the door from Matt and a little prep talk from dad and I remember that despite all the yuk, this is exactly what I’m doing it for and suddenly my weighing scales of chemotherapy tip heavily to my family and I keep going, keep smiling and keep saying ohh I’m doing alright!.
So today’s been painful and reflective.