Cancer 130

I felt worse than an England fan after 94 minutes of the recent game when I got up this morning. Depression and misery are everywhere in my head. I feel a bit better now, but not everything is resolved. After delays to treatment, I had my blood taken on Thursday as usual in preparation for treatment today. I then had a phone call on Friday to say the samples were corrupted so could I come in to the hospital to have more blood tests on Monday? Yes, of course. I arrive in the morning, and my blood is removed. I was told that I would be phoned around 1600 to see whether I was authorised for treatment. No one phoned. I phoned them and was told that no one had authorised treatment. Could I come in early this morning? Yes, of course. I arrive at 0800. Treatment has not been authorised, but within half an hour, it is. I have no idea what the scores were, but presumably, they looked reasonably normal, as usual.

Unfortunately, late authorisation meant that I would be treated late. I spent the next three hours in the so-called restaurant on the top floor, drinking tea, reading, and scribbling. I returned to the unit at 1100 to see a sign saying, ‘Two hours delay.’ Great. And my drugs haven’t arrived. Back to the restaurant for more tea. Arrive back a little after 1130. I am called into the bay shortly afterwards and told my drugs still haven’t arrived. I am put on a drip. I am still on a drip. My drugs still haven’t arrived. It is 1248. Given the length of time my drugs take to be administered, it is going to be a record late one tonight.

I am still having trouble with my Hickman line. Dressings won’t stay on for more than one day. The skin is red and uncomfortable. The pain is something between a bad itch and a stabbing pain. I can’t stop scratching it, though I try. In the end, the line will have to be removed because of the damage to my skin and probably infection. The nurses suggested I should have received a portacath, which is a central line that is embedded beneath the skin and doesn’t need to have a dressing. I am not clear why, given my history of infection, they didn’t insert a portacath in the first place. Presumably, it is the expense. It costs more than a Hickman line (my current bother) and is often used with younger people who have to consider their appearance – unlike me because I am too old to care. Oh, sorry, I have never cared about my appearance.

The other problem with the Hickman line, which is inserted into the chest, goes up under the skin to the jugular at the throat, inserted into the jugular, and fed down to the heart, is that there is a long line sticking out of my chest which gets in the way and is liable to be yanked out of position. I have already pulled one of the stitches out so it is a bit more dangly. It makes it difficult for me to be open-chested, showing my magnificent chest hair and my gold medallion on a chain, because this plastic pipe gets in the way.

The portacath is a better option because it is a small chamber sitting below the skin, attached to a line which goes through the vein to the heart. It is difficult to see unless you are extremely thin, so I won’t have a problem. There are fewer problems with infections because there is nothing on the surface of the skin. It may be expensive but I am worth it, aren’t I?

It is now 1302. That is how long it takes to write a blog and eat three ginger biscuits. No change here. Still waiting for the drugs.