OK, it wasn’t for running a marathon, just completing 6 sessions of chemo in under 4 months, but there were distinct similarities. The enthusiasm to Get This Done, along with a few moments of panic just before the start….”Oh shiiiiiit, can I? Should I? Am I really doing this?”. I could, I should and I did.
The first half (looking back, not in real time) was ok but keep in mind that looking back at events often gets rid of the shit bits and gets a bit rose-tinted if you got through it in one bit. Sessions 4 & 5 (miles 13-21 in my marathon speak) were hard. Come so far, so very far to go and that initial enthusiasm has worn off. It’s a bit of a no-man’s land. Grumpy seems to be my go-to emotion. No, I don’t want any more sodding sugary sweets, I want a bucket of red and a family size bag of crisps which are definitely not for sharing. Session 6 is mile 21-26, still grumpy but you know you’re going to finish. Crawling if needs be, but that finish line is yours. the .2 is getting hooked up for that last bag of clever chemicals to go in. When I got to the ward yesterday they were running 2 hours late! No chairs, and a queue. I pointed out a chair and the nurse said “Oh, but that’s one of the hard visitor chairs, all the treatment chairs are full. Do you really want to sit in that?”. “Hell, I’ll sit on your lap if it means we get this done faster, bring me the drugs”, at that point I’d have done laps of the hospital dragging my drip with me.
After weighing me the nurse seemed to think the hard chair was a better idea than her lap. Not daft those nurses.
I was maybe a bit bolshy but I’d already spent an hour arguing with Hotpoint that the new dishwasher they have failed to fix 4 times has clearly decided it doesn’t want to be a dishwasher, and could they just replace the fucking thing. I promise I kept the sweary words in my head, but I think they heard them anyway. “Model no.?”…REALLY? It’s not flagging up under ‘shit machine that belongs to the fat and bald emotional lady’? New machine is on the way, I hope it wants to wash dishes. Teenage boys are willing enough to help, <snort, I can’t back that up>, but when you’re trying to avoid infections and bugs more than usual I’m just not that confident in their attention to detail. And…we have a sodding dishwasher for that very reason. Breathe Fi, breathe. It’s sorted now. Sparkle can return to my wine glass.
The delay in chemo meant school run was a close thing, Pat was tracking me the wonderful stalking app on our phones. That’s not scary, we’re so middle aged it’s a life-saver. We know which one of us is most likely to make it to school on time, or who is nearest a shop when there’s no wine left. Milk, when there’s no milk left. Or poppadoms. I made it to school, dashed home so the dogs could pee outside and not on the wetroom floor. It’s only one of them that does that to be fair, the other two glare at her in disgust, they have control. Merry spent a horrible first 5 years stuck in a puppy farm barn, I’m happy to excuse her accidents, she had a very late start to house training, and cuddles, and love, and every other thing a dog deserves. I detest puppy farms. No puddles though, well done Merry.
We then had to dash to the radiology appt. The essential machines aren’t in every hospital. My possessed sat nav kept circling the general area but refused to be pinned down on which way to finally go. Fuck it…late again. Flip flops are the most ridiculous footwear to try and run in. Slap slap slap along echoey corridors. The security camera footage better not end up on YouTube. The radio stuff is really easy, so fast. I know there might be side effects, but I’ll worry about those if they happen, no point borrowing trouble before it comes. Just a base line this time, to pinpoint and tattoo the point they aim at. Tiny blue tattooed dots, like Phoebe’s Earth tattoo in friends. I’ve named mine Pat, PJ & Conal, I like to give things names.
Straight out of that appt and a sprint back home to get PJ to rowing. Made it, just. He got to try short oars, his disability means he rows with his trunk and arms, his legs don’t straighten or have much strength. This did mean that he struggled to clear his knees with regular oars as his legs don’t straighten enough..hang on, they might be called blades, I’m not 100% sure on that. Anyway, short oars mean he doesn’t have that problem. He wants his own short oars/blades. They’re not cheap so I said he can have one for his birthday and one for his Christmas, apparently I’m not funny. I just hope rowing kit is kept in the boat house. With 3 sports wheelchairs, one day chair, the basket ball hoop, the gym equipment, we’re out of space. Any more ‘kit’ and we’ll be getting rid of the sofas and watching tv from wheelchairs and weight benches. A para version of The Simpsons.
Cogs doesn’t start rowing until the holidays, he just wanted a Subway. I was happy to go along with that. His legs work so I won’t have to worry about para kit, just his love of stinky Subway sandwiches, they really do smell rank.
It feels so good to have completed another part of treatment, and that normal life is coming to the fore again. The journey isn’t over yet, but we’re keeping going. Just like everyone cheering at a marathon tells you to do, and from mile 13-21 I’m just thinking “what the fuck do you think I’m doing”. Grumpy cow.
Maybe one day I will run a sub-4 marathon. If I can do this, maybe I’m tougher than I thought.