Cancer 166

I had a short spell of unhappiness yesterday. We have had the kids around for a week or so, eating the wrong foods, talking nonsense, inventing a politically incorrect game that I had better not describe as it involves taking it in turns to choose a country to conquer, with reasons – basically a form of recolonising the world. I really won’t say which countries we chose. It is all right for the others but I have to play these games sober nowadays.

Anyway, the last of them left yesterday. I had spent several days almost forgetting that I have cancer. I did have a bad day while they were around, just the usual post-chemo illness, but it was temporary, a few hours at the most.

After they left I realised that I had to flush my Hickman line. I do it every Thursday, and every day while we have had visitors I have been doing the usual tasks and bearing the usual pains, but yesterday brought back the realisation that I am gradually dying and that I am sick of doing these things. I really didn’t want it. I didn’t want the procedures, I didn’t want the treatment.

Nevertheless, I got out my bags of goodies, loaded the syringes and did what I had to do. It doesn’t help that the line still isn’t working properly. It works for putting materials (chemo, flush) in, but I can’t get anything out (blood). If it stays like this then the next time I need to get bloods someone will have to find a vein. As it took nine attempts across both arms last time I am not looking forward to it. They will need to put in a new line or I might jump off High Tor.

Except I won’t because I am not fit enough to walk to the top.