I thought I should give a short-ish update after last week's post about the disappearance of the bulk of my white blood cells.
Thankfully, the delayed treatment went ahead on Monday as planned and my chemo pump has drained and will be removed by the district nurse in the next hour or so. As my steroids finish tomorrow, today is probably the last day I'll have the mental or physical ability to type anything coherent before the weekend chemo slump comes and goes.
Talking of which, having an extra week off chemo left me forgeting what being under its influence is like, which was good and weird. A highlight was my first walk over Cannock Chase in ages with longstanding running pal Adrian last Thursday (pictured above). On Friday, I remarked to Lisa that I felt like I didn't have cancer for the first time in months. It was refreshing to have a normal appetite, no need for an afternoon nap, and to be able to go for a six-mile run on Saturday morning (my longest in weeks - pictured below) and then still feel alert enough to enjoy a impromptu walk around Chasewater with our close friends Paul and Esther that same afternoon. Mind you, I was knackered by 8pm, but still able to get up and go to church on Sunday morning for the first time this year, and then drive to Rugeley to watch Reuben's football team beat Brereton 4-1.
So, by Monday morning, despite a later 11am chemo start, it felt weird to be getting back into the treatment routine, knowing I'd not be feeling cancer-free by the end of the day. This was the case, Lisa remarking on my freshly yellow-tinged skin as I relaxed on the sofa. I felt a bit disorientated and unable to remember the names of people, or TV programmes, and my voice regained its familiar chemo croak. I've never been the most nimble-fingered, but I'm also more likely to drop or spill things when on chemo, and the nerve-end tingling when touching cold stuff meant I needed Lisa to open a food tub from the freezer as I defrosted Reuben's and my tea. Still, despite the steroids, I slept longer than normal on Monday evening, and again last night, and am feeling relatively fresh, if still a bit brain-scambled (please forgive any typos or incoherence in today's post!) today so far - getting the weekly Aldi click and collect order sorted before having a shower.
Because last week's blood samples got lost in transit, I had to supply yet more blood (my veins are taking a proper battering!) when I arrived for chemo. This confirmed my neutrophil levels had returned to 1.2 after their previous plunge to 0.4. As I waited for my chemo drugs to be sent up from the hospital's pharmacy downstairs, I got chatting to the patient in the comfy chair next to me who I hadn't met before, a 37-year-old nurse.
It was unusual to speak to someone much younger than me on the ward (who is also a fellow runner!). She told me that she had bowel cancer in 2020 and, following chemo and surgery, had appeared to be in the clear. But five months ago, a secondary tumour was found in her liver, which now means a fresh course of chemo before surgery to hopefully remove it.
As well as her very young age for our type of cancer, she explained how she is having treatment while on maternity leave after having a baby boy five months ago - and she also has a four-year-old daughter. Despite her supportive family, I can't comprehend how exhausting and mentally draining this must be. Suffering infections which have made chemo more complicated and drawn out, she remarked frankly a few times how "shit" cancer is. This isn't something you often hear on the ward where a pragmatic positivity tends to over-ride, but there was something deeply refreshing about someone sitting next to me naming how hard it can be. And the overwhelming feeling I was left with was one of admiration at her persistence and determination.
Talking of which, I quoted a few posts ago from the diaries of Etty Hillesum, a Jew from Amsterdam who was murdered by the Nazis in Auschwitz aged just 29, in 1943. I've since bought her diaries and am about 100 pages into them. Etty was another plucky young woman who wrestled with her emotions and mental struggles (not to mention a complicated love life) in her diaries but was prepared to somehow still look for the good in life as her Jewish acquaintancies, friends, family and eventually herself were led away one by one. Here are a couple of quotes from Etty to finish with:
"I opened the Bible at random, but it gave me no answers this morning. Just as well, because there were no questions, just enormous faith and gratitude that life should be so beautiful, and that makes this an historic moment, that and not the fact that S and I are on our way to the Gestapo [the Nazi secret police] this morning." (25 February,1942).
"So, everything is no longer pure chance, a bit of a game now and then, an exciting adventure. Instead, I have the feeling that I have a destiny, in which the events are strung significantly together.... It is now close on midnight and I am going to bed. It's been a good day. At the end of each day I feel the need to say: Life is very good after all." (12 March, 1942). (From An Interrupted Life: The Diaries And Letters of Etty Hillesum, 1941–1943, Persephone Books 2020).
And, finally, thanks for your numerous offers of help finding white blood cells since my last post - I may need some more in the future!
This is one of the posts that makes me miss living in my home town. The proximity of the Chase and Chasewater.....sigh. I know it's not far from Pelsall, but....life doesn't take me in that direction very often. I hope the chemoslump isn't brutal. Be good to you, my friend.