Second chemo and its aftermath

Take your PICC

I had a 'PICC' line inserted last week.  It's a thin, flexible, tube that goes into a large vein above the bend of your elbow until the tip is in a large vein just above the heart*.  Sounds gross doesn't it, but the thought of getting it put in was worse than reality.  

Having a PICC means I can now get my chemo drugs injected and bloods taken through the line.  That's such a relief, as the vein I had the chemo put in last time was starting to hurt and harden and that was only after one treatment.  I didn't need to have a PICC but with limited choice of arms to use for needles, I wanted to go for the easiest and most sensible option.

I had some local anaesthetic in my arm and as the nurse threaded the tube into me, I said to her 'Is it supposed to hurt?'  She smiled and said, 'Hmmm, not really, but you're probably just a sensitive critter!' 

The chemo the next day went in much more quickly and easily than last time.  Phew.

Sleep or lack of

I found it so difficult to sleep the night I had the chemo.  I was tired but wasn't tired, if that makes sense.  As I lay in bed trying to drop off, I could feel my heart palpitating.  I was genuinely becoming more frightened by the minute and was worried that if I went to sleep I wouldn't wake up in the morning.  I kept trying to rationalise things by blaming the steroids.   Yes, it had to be the steroids, didn't it.  Didn't it?

I kept waking up in the night and my heart would be fluttering unevenly and I felt on the verge of panic.  I was tempted to get up and phone the helpline, but told myself that if I still felt like this the next day I would ring them.  I tossed and turned all night long. 

The next day I felt absolutely knackered but the palpitations had subsided a bit.  I refused to take a nap despite feeling so bone weary.  I was angry, ratty and irritated at every little thing that I felt, thought, saw, read and encountered.  Things seemed to be conspiring against me too: I dropped clean washing on the patio, I grated my thumb on my vulnerable arm on the cheese grater, I stomped angrily round the house looking for my glasses until I realised I was already wearing them.

I went to bed at 8.00pm that night and slept a bit better. 

Cancer is hateful

I've started to get a really uncomfortable sensation in my throat and upper chest too.  I can't even begin to adequately describe what it feels like.  It's like I've swallowed a bunch of gigantic fishbones that have lodged sideways in my throat and that my neck and collarbone have got a tight band wrapped around them.  It almost feels like I've got some sort of rheumatism in my upper chest and throat.  I've spoken to the helpline, described the symptoms and they've given me advice.  But it is incredibly uncomfortable and disconcerting.

See cancer?  It is shit.  It is a bastard.  It is evil.  I never knew there were so many implications from having cancer.  I hate what I look like.  I hate feeling crap.  I hate the fact it has happened to me.  I hate the thought of living in the shadow of this awful disease possibly returning some day. 

You don't ever think cancer is going to happen to you.  But it can.  And it does.  My advice to you is to do all you can - as far as possible - to prevent it.  Please don't put yourself through what I and numerous others (in worse situations than me) have to go through.

To finish on a lighter note, here's a picture of me with a stupid homemade chemo cap.  I was having a 'good' (in relative terms) day that day but I'm finding that my sense of humour is starting to dwindle.

PS

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*source: www.macmillan.org.uk

Tiredness, a double take and pre-chemo check

I've been feeling really tired of late and there have been times very recently when I've felt a little under the weather.  I find myself blinking rapidly to keep my eyes open when I'm talking to people.  

I want to go to sleep about 2pm but I'm trying to resist the temptation of a nap so that I can sleep better at night.  I should give in, but I know that an hour's nap (which is what's recommended) would simply not be enough.  I tend to be like a bear with a sore head if I'm forced to wake from a nap of under two hours.  Just ask my husband.

On the plus side, my mouth has healed up which is great news.  

Double take

I met a friend from work on Monday and we took ourselves out.  I had to use the loo at one point but I'd forgotten that I didn't have my chemo cap on and that I had very little hair.  

As I walked into the ladies loo, I must have given the two women chatting in there a real shock.  They genuinely did a double take.  I thought, feck, they must think I should have gone into the men's room. When I came out of the cubicle, I held my fuzzy-felt head high and gave them a friendly smile.  I got one back.

Pre-chemo assessment

I got my bloods and weight done at my pre-chemo assessment yesterday.  Unfortunately, the nurse struggled to find a vein in my left arm.  It took about six goes to find one that yielded any blood and afterwards, the crook of my arm was looking a little black and blue.  Next time, it won't be so difficult. 

Battle scars, plus my PICC line (more about that next time)

My weight


I was gutted to find out that my weight had gone up by two kilos in three weeks.  Oh dear.  I must admit that this last week has been challenging. Hardly a surprise considering I was celebrating my wedding anniversary with my husband and son and had a delicious three course meal.  I didn't have any booze either.  

After my bloods and weight were taken, I had a chat with the breast care nurse.  She gave me a bit of a friendly 'talking to' about my weight increase, in the nicest possible way: go for walks, avoid the Northern Irish way of having a piece of cake/a bun/a biscuit with a cup of tea etc, etc.  But I do!  And I don't!  Okay, so the last bit's not completely true.


The 'look'


I nervously asked the breast care nurse about whether I could get away from the same four walls of my house for a break.  It was at that moment I realised that cancer nurses have a look that they give you*.  The first look was 'don't-put-weight-on-but-I'm-being-nice-about-it' and the second when I asked about the holiday was 'you-can't-be-serious-right?'.  

The look in the nurse's eyes, the tilt of her head and the arch of her eyebrows made my heart sink.  I lost my nerve a bit and said, 'Well it would only be for a couple of days...and it would be on the same island...and I'm sure I'd be able to get to a nearby hospital if I needed to.' That last bit clinched it.  As long as in an emergency I could quickly get to a hospital in Northern Ireland that had an Accident and Emergency Department coupled with a cancer unit, then it would *probably* be OK.  

The thought of a very a short break away from the house provides a glimmer of light at the end of a long tunnel right now.  Only if I feel up to it of course...and I don't stuff my face.



*I think I should clarify. The nurses are absolutely lovely, they really are and I don't want you to get the wrong impression of them.  The look isn't a scary look - it's sympathetic yet nicely assertive, if you get my drift.

PS

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