Cance 122

It hasn’t been a good day, either practically or psychologically. In practical terms, we were off to see the kids and only got as far as Birmingham before we had to turn back due to car trouble. My first new car. I thought they were supposed to be reliable. It seems overcomplicated to me. Perhaps I should go back to having a Morris Minor or an old Land Rover, vehicles that can be cared for with a lump hammer and an adjustable spanner, rather than these new-fangled electronic devices.

It upset me because I was looking forward to seeing the kids, and also because it was going to be our last break before I get my Hickman Line fitted, the line that if it works is likely to remain sticking out of my chest until the end of treatment, until the treatment no longer works and all I have left is deterioration and death. Don’t ask why this upset me, why it should matter that I have a last break without looking like a defective android. Still, it isn’t to be.

After a pointless 120 mile trip I started fretting about the Hickman line, whether it will work or go the way of the last three PICC lines. I then started fretting about whether I really want to go on with treatment. It is such a hassle. I have enjoyed the last few weeks without being pulled, prodded and poisoned. I have almost felt normal. I have not taken any voluntary drugs (eg for pain, diarrhoea, constipation, skin, gout), not even any antibiotics (that is rare); and I have more or less stopped applying the various creams to my arms, as they seem to have more or less recovered from the PICC infections. It has been great. The only problems have been the usual stoma and hernia problems.

Do I really want to go back to the never-ending regime of chemotherapy and its adjuncts?

Later this afternoon it became more real. I was woken by the phone ringing (I was up five hours last night because I couldn’t sleep). It was the hospital, setting the appointment for the fitting of the Hickman Line, Friday 31 May. The day before I will be providing blood for testing – and so it starts again.

Do I really want to bother. I am in one of those Orwellian situations where I can hold two views at the same time. I want the treatment because it is likely to give me more time before the inevitably snuffing of the light. I don’t want the treatment because I am sick of going to the hospital, being filled with poisons, being tired, being in pain, and being cheerful so everyone thinks I am all right (which I am a lot of the time – but am I just saying that?).

I have said that I want to achieve more, that I want to finish my novel (novels actually) and my book about Wingfield Manor. On the other hand I am finding it difficult to work, difficult to write. I did restart the novel yesterday but I have done nothing today. I sit and read or do online jigsaws. If my remaining life is going to be worth anything I wonder whether online jigsaws are enough, or whether I can get back to proper writing.

There, that feels better. Do as I say, not as I do, and writing about one’s woes is very useful. I feel better now than I did ten minutes ago! Perhaps the remaining part of the day will be better.