Tag Archives: chemotherapy

Paclitaxel

Posted in Bumpboobs, Chemotherapy, Treatment by

Yesterday was a whole bag of drama.

It started around 10.00 with a call from the hospital. Apparently my blood wasn’t great, bordering on unacceptable. Would I please come in for 1.00pm and have my blood retested?

Those three hours between call and test were filled with my eating meat, taking protein powder, freaking out, calling my mom, freaking out, and writing a post. It was frustrating; like what happened? Had someone from the hospital read my last blog and decided: oh yeah, we’ll see if you go home for Christmas!

No, of course not. After all, it was my blood that had low counts. Actually, it’s still my blood that has low counts.

After giving the blood, Zsolt I retired to the hospital coffee shop to await the results.

Here is an aside: These people know my name! Walking into reception, the nurse says: ‘just go on back, Catherine’ before I even get to the counter. Walking into Costa coffee, the woman who’s in charge of the chemotherapy pharmacy smiles at me as she waits for her drink, and comes over to have a chat. ‘How are you doing, Catherine?’ She even helped carry my orange slices to the table.

What the heck? It was nice, but eerie. Chemotherapy is one place I don’t want to belong. But, that being said, it’s nice when people know your name. Too bad I couldn’t remember theirs!

And about the orange slices: they’re a great distraction. As I walk down the hospital halls, with their melange of chemical and stale air smells, I bite into an orange slice and focus on the taste, texture, smell etc. It really helps with my vomiting. Okay, yes – I admit it – I still vomited yesterday, but at least I could walk down the hallway without getting sick. That is an improvement, believe me.

Another aside: I’ve painted my nails navy blue. Apart from the chipping, they look somewhat cool.

Fast forward 40 minutes and we are back at C3, chemo ward. The nurse checks my results . . . ‘they’re going ahead with it this time, but you still may miss a week.’

Bittersweet news: no immediate postponement, but the possible threat of a missed week in the future. Ah!

Here is the positive side: I have one week, as opposed to three hours, to bring up my blood. That means more red meat, more protein drinks, more vitamins, more this, more that. And better blood. Let’s hope for better blood, otherwise it’s possible you’ll witness another online meltdown (and I’m tired of that drama).

So – chemotherapy commenced. And, if you read this blog often enough, you may realize I’m writing about chemotherapy very shortly after treatment. Normally I’m way too sick for writing.

They hooked me up to the anti-sickness drugs (and I threw up) for a thirty minute drip. Then the nurse came round to hook me up to the paclitaxel (and I threw up again). She offered me a muscle relaxant to stop vomiting, but I said no thanks. And it’s good that I did, because this chemo drug does all the relaxing that’s required. Whew – it knocked me out. I couldn’t read or talk or anything. It made for an incredibly boring session. Two hours of sitting still.

However, I haven’t been nauseated since treatment, and – so far – haven’t felt like shit. Instead I came home and crashed into bed (about 6.30pm arrival) and slept, slept, slept, slept, slept.

Today I am awake, able to move around the apartment, able to eat and drink.

It’s like a freaking miracle.

Whatever that red chemotherapy drug was (AC) it was madness compared to paclitaxel. Madness, I tell you.

What is brave, anyhow?

Posted in Bumpboobs, Chemotherapy, Life, Treatment by

I like watching movies; people are allowed to be brave, and we can be brave with them. Last night – against Zsolt’s wishes – we watched the Fellowship of the Ring (Lord of the Rings book one, film one). He says it’s a film for teenagers, but he thinks that of everything fantasy/science fiction. There is no point arguing, though obviously I disagree and am correct in my opinion . . .

Anyhow: Bravery.


Frodo  didn’t want to carry the ring. He wished he’d never found it, never been chosen, never this, never that. Never.

I wish the same all the time. As each day passes and chemotherapy approaches I wish I didn’t have to go, didn’t need the injections, didn’t get so sick. Didn’t this, didn’t that. Didn’t.

When BBC news reports a famous designer has died from breast cancer, I wish I’d never gotten it. Never started growing, never reached my lymph nodes, never this and never that.  Because I’ll never be 100% sure it’s not still inside. Reoccurrence scares the shit out of me.

So how am I meant to be brave? Why can’t it be like the films, where there is a moment of heightened music, tears in the eyes . . .  and then a short nod, steps forward. Challenged mounted. Why can’t I be brave without also being chicken-shit scared?

Last week I went to the hospital for a picc line flush and zolodex shot. It overwhelmed me; I threw up in the corridor, in the chemo chair, after my shot. The smell of the ward nauseated me, the sight of the patients made me cry, the click of the chemo drip made me gag. Bravery? No, I’ve tied a leash round my neck and dragged myself in. That’s not brave, that’s compulsory.

And I know, I really know, “it’s not just the body, Catherine”. It’s the mind. It’s the reaction, the conditioning. This is my work in progress. Throwing up is a release of anxiety, but there must be better ways. Well, I’m trying to scream. Who knows what the neighbours think, I scream each day and imagine all the fear and the nausea shooting out with the sound.

Will it work? I don’t know – we’ll see next Thursday when my blood is tested. I’ll scream in the middle of the ward, thus triggering mass panic amongst the patients and probably get committed. Or asked to leave the country.

No, I won’t really scream. Of course not.

Today is Monday.  In four more days I’ll be back in that green easy chair with a drip hooked up. This time it’ll be a different course of chemotherapy. They say it’s easier, “a little easier.” And since it’ll be every week, it sure as heck better be easier.

I can’t take much more of this bullshit self-induced sickness. Even if it is resetting my immune system and clearing out those nasty fucking cancer cells that may/may not be in my body. Rude unwelcomed FUCKERS.

Bright side: well I’m glad to talk about being scared.  That helps. We’ve changed the sheets (finally) to my pink rose on blue pattern. I haven’t thrown up in three days. The students are back at the university. And . . . Zsolt is washing the dishes!

Thank goodness for small miracles.

Support from NHS

Posted in Bumpboobs, Chemotherapy, Treatment by

How is your experience with the NHS? That’s a question people often ask me.


Mostly it’s good – they acted quickly, were very supportive, and while things felt in crisis they were a reliable crutch. And mostly it’s still good. But this past week has been rather frustrating. I had wanted a picc line put in before my next chemo and tried calling to and arrange an appointment with a doctor. Maybe one week was too short notice and couldn’t be done – I don’t know. How could I know? I only spoke with an answering machine. And it wasn’t very chatty.

Tomorrow I go in for my blood, and will finally speak with a doctor. I realize it’s a very busy unit – but this week I felt hit-my-head-against-the-wall unsupported. It’s too bad they don’t have  a ‘chemo nurse’ like the breast care nurses. The breast care nurses are a touchstone for women (and men) who are trying to cope with the trauma of breast cancer. Losing a breast, realizing your life is at risk – it’s difficult to manage sometimes. But so is chemotherapy. It would be nice to have contacts who aren’t receptionists, aren’t giving treatment, aren’t juggling so many obligations that you feel bad for interrupting. It would be nice to have that support.

It’s been a head-shaking week. I’ve felt somewhat cog-like . . . fit into my slot; if I try to jump out of place the entire system breaks down. Did you know that England only has 12 chemotherapy facilities? Twelve for all the people who may get cancer. I wonder how many Canada has?

There are a lotta people (the waiting rooms are stuffed full of patients and their significant others) and a lot of demand. But I still want my picc line. Friday is coming – my veins will have to suffer the ache of another round of AC treatment. It could be worse. I do realize it could always be worse. And I’m happy in knowing that eventually it will be better.

Another round. This past week has been a bittersweet vacation, with its ups and downs, much like all the other weeks this summer has offered.

Next up – blood test and consultation. Here we go again.