Cancer 213

It seems my last post disturbed a few people. Tough – try having my disturbance levels! I always said the blogs would reflect my mood and how I feel. I do feel a little better than I did before. When I feel ill I am supposed to ring the Rapid Response LIne available to people with cancer. That way professional staff can determine if there is a problem and whether should I go to the hospital to get it sorted out. I am bad at phoning this line. Usually, if there is something wrong, I stick my head in the sand and hope it will go away, which it usually does. I get nagged, sorry, encouraged, to ring this line more often, but I don’t like phones.

Anyway, after this latest pallaver, I said I would go to the hospital and get checked out. I booked for a line flush at the CDU – the portacath has to be flushed every four weeks. I can’t do it because it involves jabbing a needle into the unit in my chest, and a) I can’t see where it has to go in, and b) I am not sure they would trust me with this needle. The flush was fine, but we had a conversation as I told them about my symptoms. They told me in no uncertain terms to go up the corridor and report these symptoms which, as I am frightened of the nurses, especially when there are several of them picking on me at once, I did.

This inevitably took many hours. You don’t need to know all the details except I did nearly finish my Nevil Shute book. If you haven’t read Neville Shute you really should. He is a great storyteller and really brings home the world from the 1930s to the 1950s. He was an engineer who worked on the R100 under Barnes Wallis and then became chief engineer. Later he worked on the Airspeed Oxford, a key training aircraft in WWII. After the war he turned to writing full time. His best known book is On the Beach, but read any of them.

Sorry, I got distracted. While in the unit a nurse fell out with me because I wouldn’t put a mask on – they thought I might have covid. I don’t wear masks, breathing is difficult enough for me without covering up my airways. I was tested for covid. The third time I have been tested. It is hell. Having those telegraph poles up my nose is quite unbearable. I want to cry like a baby. I would rather have any of the cancer-related interventions than a covid test (well, a major operation might not fall in that category). I don’t have covid. I never have had covid to my knowledge. I also had my bloods tested. All fine except some immune system markers were high – presumably I am fighting an infection. So perhaps I have an infection. Who knows? They looked at my latest CT scan and suggested vaguely there may be a little growth of tumours in my abdomen. According to my feelings of having a marble bag, I think little growth means big growth, but it is best not to worry about that until I get the results properly next week. As I have (probably) said before, a little knowledge makes no damn difference to the cancer.

There we are, no reason to change my habits regarding phoning the Rapid Response Line.

The doctor dealing with my case said he had been in the unit for 2-3 years and not known anyone who had more rounds of chemo than me (43 in case you have forgotten). Now, I know I am way off any real records but that was encouraging. Christ knows what I have cost the NHS so far.

Given that I can’t breathe, eat, and have marbles in my abdomen, I have managed to undertake a few tasks today. I went to the station to see people. I then came home, put up some external lights, chiselled a door so it would shut, and wound up the hose pipe. And I wrote 1000 words on my thesis. All in all a good day. I am getting sausage and Yorkshire pudding with onion gravy later (not toad in the hole as the toad is not in the hole but next to the mound. I hope I can eat a lot of it but I am not optimistic.

Finally, I have a new analogy regarding the fight between my body and cancer. In January 1879, the British Army fought two battles in two days. In the first, they were overwhelmed by the Zulus in the battle of Isandlwana. In the second, they defeated the Zulus at Rorke’s Drift. On both occasions, they were massively outnumbered. I am the British Army, and the cancer is the Zulus. While I am fully aware that I am fighting the battle of Isandlwana and will eventually lose it, I like to think (in my positive moments) that I am really fighting Rorke’s Drift and in the end, despite overwhelming odds, I will defeat the cancer.

Delusional I know, but it gives me a chance to watch both Zulu and Zulu Dawn again.