Chemo days come and go. Some are better than others. Today, I am feeling tired, but it didn't stop me taking my daughter on a quick hit and run of the charity shops.
There are seven charity shops along our local high street. I picked up a Robbie Williams CD. She picked up another dress - a black one again. It occours to me that she is going to have a wardrobe crisis when it comes to my funeral!
We travelled in my open top Volvo playing the Moulin Rouge CD at full belt. I always forget how therapeutic music and driving is. Tony keeps urging me to sell the car, and I know on a practical and financial level he is right. I haven't had the nerve to work out what this car is costing me in petrol. The only problem with selling it is that, with the price of fuel about to hit five pounds a gallon, I can't imagine who would be silly enough to buy it. Well, I can. A middle aged woman having a hissy fit about how she has never had the car of her dreams would. I did, after all.
Day 10 is the low point of my chemo cycle. After that, the neutrophils start to pick up and things begin to return to normal. But on this three weekly cycle that I'm on I never feel as though I have properly recovered before I get the next dose. And it is all cumulative, so the fatigue, the aching joints. the mouth ulcers and sore throat, the runny eyes and so on just keep getting a little worse every cycle. Oh, and did I mention the nails which are looking a strange shade of green under the nail polish and ache as if somebody has stomped on my hand? And the bright red face and peeling skin? And I forgot the nosebleeds, which are so embarrassing when they come on without warning and you suddenly realise you are dripping blood into the ice cream cabinet at Sainsburys. It's like death by a thousand cuts. None of the side effects are so serious that they pose immediate risk of death (well, the low neutrophils do, but apart from that...). Together they make life truly miserable.
Time spent doing chemo is dull. I simply don't have enough energy to do anything. So I look at the garden and imagine doing some work in it, and I glance into the children's rooms and briefly consider sorting them out before I am overcome by a wave of fatigue. I spend a lot of time sorting out paperwork but it seems to take me two weeks to do a task that would normally take half an hour. And it is so depressing. I wonder why filling time is so important to me, then realise how important it is to everybody. There is a sort of pscyhology to it, I think. We have to fill our time in order to justify our place in the world. If we don't fill the time, we don't deserve to have it in the first place. And what do people do to fill their time? They clean their houses; they shop for clothes; they decorate incessantly. It all seems pointless. I think I need to learn how NOT to fill time. How to just be, and how to enjoy the simply being while I still can. How to be still. To listen. To watch. To absorb.
My friend, Mrs T, wrote to me to tell me how cross she was that she went out and did all the errands and when she got home Mr T was still in the same spot. Perhaps we all need to take a lesson from Mr T? Perhaps he has it all worked out. Or maybe he was just watching Deal or No Deal (where, by the way, I have never seen anybody take the Banker's first offer even though it's often much better than what they end up with).
Oh no! I have spilled my secret. Instead of gardening and sorting out children's rooms I am watching rubbish daytime TV. Secret's out. Shame on me.
About Me
- Deirdre
- I am forty eight, I have three children, a husband and two dogs. I am a teacher, a mother, a wife, a daughter and a sister. I come from a huge family, I have lots of friends, but sometimes I am lonely. And sometimes sad, and sometimes frightened. But much of the time, despite having cancer and going through chemotherapy, I am happy. And at times I experience moments when I feel at total peace with the world. Like last night, when I got out of the car and the night sky, strewn with stars, caught my eye. Like when I am skiing and standing at the top of the mountain with the wind on my face. Or when I am by the sea, or being thrown around by the waves like a rag in a washing machine. I love it when a child tells me I am a good teacher. I love it when my children trust me enough to tell me their hopes and fears. But I love it most when my mother strokes my head and tells me that it is all going to be OK. You see, despite my forty eight years and grey hairs (when I am not bald), I am still a child at heart really.
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