As for interesting, newsy things
to tell you from the meantime, I’ve got very little. Chemo is – while hopefully
nearing its end – getting more punishing as it pushes on; the cumulative effect
of constant treatment since September last year finally taking its toll. That’s
a contributor, I’m sure, to my increasing ability to spend most of my time
asleep – though of course the old ‘black dog’ has more than its fair share to
answer for on that front. The antidepressants are, I think, doing their bit:
within a couple of weeks of taking them, I felt somehow more able to, y’know, deal – though it’s become clear to me
that there are things the pills can’t fix, such as the mounting number of panic
attacks I’ve been having – which lately have, rather charmingly, been resulting
in a sudden, projectile vomit (the last of which were at 7.45 this morning,
when my husband left for work, and then at 9.07, when I wrote this sentence).
Where those attacks are concerned,
we’re back to that old problem of me not feeling comfortable when left on my
own. I can’t begin to tell you how much this frustrates me, having always been
the kind of person who’s more than happy in their own company; and I don’t know
where along the line it became such a gigantic problem: when P had to go back
to work part-time, perhaps, or maybe when I realised that the end of chemo
isn’t going to magically mean a whole new freedom, given that The Bullshit has
rather put paid to me being able to get out and about on my own anyway?
That, of course, is even if this
next cycle of two chemos over the next two weeks will indeed be my last for a
while… As it did back in February, that all rather depends on the results of an
MRI and my latest bloods: if all goes to plan, I’ll have a treatment break
until such a time as the cancer comes back (which it will, whether in three
weeks or three months), and if all doesn’t go to plan… well, I guess we’ll see
about that.
If you think those four paragraphs
are the sum total of my worries, however, you’d be sorely mistaken; for
everything I’ve whinged about on here in the last few months – what’s going to
happen next?, how long have I got?, can I find a purpose in the meantime? – still
remains… all at the same time as normal life is continuing, time is moving on, seasons
are changing, children are being born, work is getting done, reality shows are multiplying,
and the younger residents of Coronation Street are becoming ever more orange.
Amidst all this, then – and
regardless of the answers to the questions above – I’ve still got to (because I
still haven’t) find a way to live. Today I’ve tried getting up early instead of
sleeping til whenever, adhering to the ‘write blog post, hang washing out, get
hair done’ to-do list I drew up in my mind last night. Yes, being on my own
means I’m pretty much confined to my flat (given that the bone disease means I
can’t walk too far, and the brain disease means I’m no longer allowed to drive)
but I’ve somehow got to find a way to make the days when there’s no option but to be on my own worthwhile. Otherwise, what’s the point in going through so bloody
much to stay alive?
If you’re still with me by this point,
you deserve a hefty pat on the back. See, I appreciate that you’ve been hearing
this same sentiment, one way or another, for months… and yet I’ve still not
cracked the fact of, quite simply, knowing how to live when you’re in a
situation such as this.
I’m trying though, whenever I can.
Please believe that I’m trying. I’ve booked a small European holiday with P and
my folks. I’m making plans to re-do the bathroom and sort out the kitchen
floor. I’ve started trying to do some work again – but only a small amount;
only what I can reasonably manage – and it’s felt good to be doing something
for a purpose. I spent last week in Derby getting a much-needed change of
scenery and spending lovely, quality time with the family I miss so much. And
over the Easter weekend P and I saw friends, went for dinner, hung out like a
normal couple – and loved it. And who knows? Maybe if all the right results end
up with me not having to go back for yet more chemo in three weeks’ time, life
will look a bit more like this, because I’ll be feeling well enough – hopefully
of both body and mind – to maintain it.
The time until that decision is
made, however, is going to be inevitably grim. And I think I am – we are – as prepared as we can be for it.
I’ve learned not to second-guess these kind of tests, and so instead I’m just
hoping – praying, even (and I’m not even sure who to) – for a decent outcome.
Because, by gawd, I’d like a break. I’d like people to worry about me less. I’d
like to worry about myself less. I’d like – if only just for the summer – to blog
about the nicer things I’ve been doing, and I’d like to spend less time
juggling – and fretting about, and being panicked into vomiting about – my
problems. And, given the circumstances, I don’t think that’s a lot to ask. I
just want to make my days good.
