Cancer 231

Here we are again. In a few hours I will have my bloods taken to determine whethere I can have my next cycle of chemotherapy – my 50th cycle. I never expected to get this far. Fifty cycles sounds a lot to me, and it does seem to have gone on forever. When I said I had terminal cancer I think we all expected me to be dead by now. I feel a bit of a fraud in still being alive, as though I didn’t tell the truth about my cancer!

It is getting more difficult though. I have had six (I think) rounds of the new treatment after the previous one failed, and it is much harsher than the last one. Previously I had one or two bad days each fortnight, now I have several. The Tuesday of initial treatment is bad, then I recover a bit, and then I go downhill over the weekend and feel like shit for two or three days. This week I have only been ‘fit’ from yesterday, Wednesday, and hopefully I will be ‘fit’ for the net few days. Until recently, I had my six days of freedom from treatment, but now I don’t. Now I recover for the Wednesday and have to give blood on Thursday and talk to the consultant on Friday, leaving Saturday-Monday ‘free’ before the next round.

How long can this go on? In effect I have a day before bloods, and three days over the weekend, four days out of fourteen where I can be semi-normal. The pressure is building. The bad days are bad. Only a few months ago I could tough out most of the bad days and be fairly normal. Now I end up going to bed and trying to sleep. Sleep? What normal person does that kind of thing?

People still tell me I look well. I don’t. If people are not blind or lying, then they fail to see beneath skin deep. I know they are being nice to me, I know they are telling me that I am cracking on with the fight. I know they mean well. But just inside my skin things are churning, and the pains increase – while I still hate taking pain killers (morphine) I worry less and take more. I do get a bit depressed, and I do get weepy at times (but then so did Churchill, so I am not worried about that).

Last year we were going away all the time. This year I am quite happy at home. We are talking of going to France in a month or two. Whether it will happen or not I don’t know. We are even going to parts of the UK less often. The last couple of trips have been marred by my illness. When we were self-catering I ended up in bed, ill. And as for hotels, I find it difficult keeping to their timetables regarding food, particularly over several days. That means we couldn’s spend time in French hotels as you have to eat at precisely 1230 and 1930 every day, not get a proper breakfast, eat too much cream, and not even have a kettle in the bedroom. Civilisation just passed the French by. Perhaps it was our fault. They have never recovered from Crecy, Poitiers and Agincourt (I won;t mention Castillon).

I know I talk about making a decision to stop treatment, and everyone agrees that decision is mine, but thanks folks, that almost makes it worse – deciding to give up ad die is my own responsibility. Part of me would prefer not to be responsible. Having said that, you can bugger off if you think you are going to tell me when to die. Even given the horribleness of ten days out of fourteen I can’t see myself giving up. The decision is too big. Fancy it? ‘I have just decided to die’. No, I don’t think so. It is most likely the failure of the drugs will determine my death. After all, I still have four days every fortnight.

I plan to continue to defraud you by living for a while yet.