Clearly none of my friends have done battle with WordPress. I want voice recognition tech, so when I swear my instructions at the keyboard things happen like I want them to. I don’t want to watch a tutorial, the last tutorial I watched was some woman who managed to take 15 minutes to explain how to fold a fitted sheet. 15 minutes to fold a bloody sheet! I could have ordered a new one on Amazon and had it delivered faster. My husband is an IT person, he takes a dim view when I start banging the mouse on the desk. Not that I care, it just means I have to shout at him and the screen. It’s annoying.
Given the events of the last few months you’d think I’d have learned a bit of patience, or mindfulness (is that what we’re calling it now?). I haven’t.
In January, after a 3 week wait, my biopsy results showed I had breast cancer. Fuck. After quite a few cysts and other nameless anomalies you stop listening when the Dr says it’s nothing to worry about, you’re gathering your bag and coat and getting the hell out of there before they change their minds. This time I was the statistic. FUCK. No, really. FUCK! This is not in the plan, not that I have a plan, but if I did this definitely wasn’t in it. Again, FUCK.
“Yes, yes, mastectomy and chemo. Can we start now? it’s instant, right? Whoosh down to surgery and then plug me into the..the..the radioactive stuff. I get a hat and skinny and we’re done by..Easter? How long between sessions, can I have them all at once, I’m sure I can do that”. I was fairly sure that’s what was going to happen because breast cancer is so common and everyone and their brother is fundraising to wipe it out.
It turns out the process is somewhat slower. The surgery was pretty instant, but then you fall into a pattern of waiting 3 weeks between each step. Surgery to results. Results to healed enough to start with the big scary drugs. Each session of chemo is 3 weeks apart if you manage to stay healthy and infection free. 3 weeks. I’m developing a very irrational dislike of 3 weeks.
It’s not just the 3 weeks, the list is growing but it’s not the things I’d expected to hate. The chemo isn’t as awful as I’d feared. So far I’ve been lucky and coped reasonably well. A few shit days and then recovery. That’s do-able.
Being bald is ok once you get used to it. It’s actually an advantage in the morning. I’m last in the rota to get in the shower, after I’ve cattle-prodded the rest of them to achieve a level of cleanliness that’s acceptable. There were days where I never actually combed my hair, but it was always washed. There’s 5 minutes I’ve clawed back, ‘cos ALL the hair disappears. No shaving. We’re screwed once it starts to grow back. The schedule has gone, I’m not sure you can ever get that back. “I’m sorry the children are late again, but it’s sunny and I had to shave my armpits so I can wear a sleeveless top”.
The things I hate:
Steroids. I know they’re keeping me healthy but they don’t half make you eat. Through mouth ulcers and all. The food must go in, or the hanger will finish us all off. Who bloody knew that cancer treatment makes you fat (ter)? Gone are my dreams of getting into the size 10 jeans still stashed on the top of the wardrobe.
Headtilters. it takes every ounce of self control I have not to poke your head back into an upright position.
Wheat bags. It’s taken me weeks to work out what makes my stomach turn on the chemo ward. I knew it was a smell, I just didn’t know what the smell was. I am very sorry to the tiny, very old, little lady who I was blaming. There goes my karma again. It’s the microwaved wheat bags they use to raise your veins. I’m taking my own hot water bottle and Penhaligon’s Luna next time.
That this hurts and worries my family, especially my children. The only time I’ve got angry about it is when they got upset. How fucking dare it upset my children.