A weak Week

This has not been a good week. Now I know that it has all been a bit of an emotional train crash: the diagnosis, the waiting, the endless tests and hospital visits and nasty treatments and grim side effects; but what I wasn’t expecting was feeling how I am feeling at this point. The aftermath. 

So what now? What has the “after” got in store for me? For a start I had to self-inject myself with Filgrastim for 3 days. What in the world is that! I hear you cry… let me explain.

I had already promised to write about chemo in more detail, but I will divulge this piece of information in advance (lucky you!). Chemotherapy has a bad habit of attacking pretty much everything inside, including the tumor, which is rather tricky and can sometimes kill most of the white cells in your body. Sadly these little white chaps are essential and mine were at the 1.15 mark, when the lowest recommended count hovers around 4.45. Oh dear…no crowded places or public transport for me then. However! Science to the rescue! Just three little injections can get the white cells back on fighting form! Easy right?

Ummm… now, I don’t know if you are all aware of this (but I jolly well hope you all are): white blood cells are made in the bone marrow (all blood cells and platelets are really), primarily in the flat bones such as the skull, sternum and pelvis. Imagine, if you will, what it feels like to have these bones chemically stimulated to produce shed loads of cells, sharpish. No idea? The last time I thought of the word “bone cruncher” was when I read the BFG by Roald Dahl as a child. That word rang true. It was three days of pure pain and to top it off the sternum was stimulated so much that it caused my poor heart to flutter madly like a deranged humming bird and I was whizzed off to hospital again for a heart electro gram thingy... and that was just unpleasant. Being attached to a machine by suckers which are held on by green goo (think Slimer, weird green ghost...) in a cold room, naked, didn’t do much to brighten my spirits. To make it worse, as I wiped off the snotty goo from under my boobs, the nurse told me I would have to repeat the exam that afternoon as my heart was still jumpy. GREAT. 

Whilst all this was going on, my husband had decided that enough was enough and we had to get the builders in to smash out and replace windows and repaint four rooms in our house.

My house only has four rooms. 

The good news: the injections worked and my immune system got the kick up the ass it needed.

The bad news: my cells came back and I got a cold, oh the irony!

I do joke, but getting back to the point of “what now?”  To be honest, I have no idea. I was elated and over the moon when the doctors said that they are pretty sure the treatments have worked. I skipped out of the hospital, hugged all the nurses, hugged everyone, and bought flowers… saw bluebirds. It was a real zipadeedoodah moment. Everything was bright, everything was ok. 

It didn’t last. Maybe it’s because I was in so much pain with the injections, or that I had a cold, or that my house was a disaster site full of builders (ugly ones) or that my husband was away, or that it was raining…but whilst sitting alone at home this week I have had a deep, creeping feeling of terror.  Doubt.  I doubt my doctors. There has been no room for rational thought, I doubt them because, let’s face it, three doctors looking up your girly bits is NOT a scan.  It’s NOT a definite. It’s NOT a clear.

I am still waiting and this is the hard bit. Until I get my scan results I cannot rest on my laurels, I cannot chill out, I cannot be complacent. 

Not a day goes by without thinking about it, and I hope these thoughts get a little lighter or just a little less scary; but I realized that I will always have cancer. Cancer will always be with me, even when I am alone. I will always have cancer on my mind. That is certain.