Cancer 179

I am up in the middle of the night as usual. The pattern at the moment is to go to bed early, wake up around 1100 (yes, I now get up in the evening rather than the morning. It is rather odd), then go back to bed around 0500, getting up around 0700-0800. While in bed, I am asleep more than awake, so that is something. Part of my being up in the night at the moment is pain in my right shoulder/chest. I think it is muscular, but it makes it difficult to lie down. I am generally anti-painkillers, but I am taking my Tramadol, which eases it a little, particularly when taken in conjunction with paracetamol.

My other problem at the moment is my fingertips and fingernails. My fingertips are very sore, which makes things like typing somewhat painful. My fingernails are a total mess. Whenever I catch them, they break, they often bleed, and chunks fall off. They aren’t the best to look at either. The sensitivity of my fingertips and the uselessness of my fingernails means peeling an orange is difficult. I really struggle to unclip my watch. It is surprising how many normal activities rely on one’s fingertips, even turning the pages of a book. I have learned to use the sides of my fingers where I would normally use the tips.

Is this decline? This is the question I ask myself every time I have a problem, a new problem, or a problem that is or appears to be getting worse.

My treatment was cancelled this week, not because I have any problems (ha ha), but because the consultant thought it best not to risk the fitting of my portacath next week. The portacath is an internal line from under the skin on my chest, into my jugular vein, and down to my heart, basically the same path as my current Hickman Line, but with the advantage that, for the first time since June 2023, I will not have a plastic tube dangling out of my chest or my arm. The feeding end of the portacath is a small chamber that sits under the skin and is used for inputting chemo drugs and extracting blood. The advantage is that I can shower and go swimming, and not having a tube dangling from my body means I will be more comfortable. The disadvantage is that I cannot take my blood samples or clean the line. I will have to go to the hospital instead. At the moment, I go to the hospital once or twice every fortnight. I will be going in two or three times in the future, so it is not so bad.

Again on the positive side, I am getting into my new role as historian rather than psychologist. I do wish I could have had the chance to start this earlier and perhaps not have life-shortening cancer at the same time. My digging around re the history of Wingfield Manor is sending me off in all sorts of directions in relation to the people who lived there. I am currently – yes currently, in the middle of the night – reading a PhD thesis from 1974 which is the most detailed biography of Ralph Lord Cromwell. I am hoping to write an article about him, a fascinating figure who played a key role for two kings, got immensely rich, and about whom we know nothing psychologically, all we can do is imply what he might have been like from the records that exist. The problem is, records from the 15th Century don’t really talk about character and personality.

I should pause my reading as I have been commissioned to write an article about the siege of Leiden. Focus, focus.

All this activity is keeping my brain working to some extent. It is a shame about my body.