Chemo 23.5 An episode



Keawyeds said:
With your consent, I'd like to use that as my signature. I think we could all do with that advice more often - myself included!
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Feel free. f***ing rain

King Kareoke said:
All the best @foggy. Any time for a cuppa let me know (i know it is difficult). However your posts make me laugh, sad and feel bloody lucky at the same time. Quite an inspiration. Keep up the fight
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Will do my good man
 
Best wishes to you @foggy.
Keep fighting all the way.
Your positivity and an indefatigable spirit, will help to get you through the tough times.
Stay strong mate. You can beat this thing.
 
Keep posting Foggy
You’ve got a lot of friends on here
It’s got to be f***ing tough for you at times
Keep ya chin up marra
;)
 
foggy said:
I had extra chemo at the end of the normal three days. A private nurse came round to administer. I got a free toiletry bag and a hot and cold pack. Well worth it then. This is third line treatment which may help control my tumour. It’s not available on the NHS as they tend to pay for cure stuff not last longer stuff. It got taken off the list in 2010 by NICE. The year the coalition came in to government in no coincidence whatsoever.

The nausea. I hate the nausea the most. I thought I had it controlled after the last chemo but no.

It lasted until Saturday night when my very good friend who drops everything at a moment’s notice came round and made a cup of tea. That cup of tea was the most refreshing I can remember and marked the end of the nausea.

My daughter also turned 20. I woke up. Cried. Then got up and got on. Saw her. Gave her a big hug and a card. I love that bairn. Unconditionally.

Sunday was eat day. Sunday afternoon was diarrhoea afternoon. I have pills to move things and pills to stop them. I eventually had to take the latter.

Monday. Weak. Up and out with the dog. Fantastic. Shopping. Put a fillet steak in the trolley. Cooked it. Quite rare of course. It’s a fillet.

1pm-6pm. Worst pain since the bowel rupture itself. 5 vomiting sessions. I won’t lie I was screaming in pain. The last vomits having to dig deep to get it out. My innards are bad enough without this violence going on.

One session went in the sink. Our lass cleaned the dried on chewed steak vomit later. Bless her.

Then it was time for 999. 3 paramedics, one qualified, one being mentored, one newly joined. They got the morphine in. I love morphine. Then a ride to Dryburn. On the way I got to know them. Had a recommendation for a lodge in south west Scotland. Pet friendly.

I was fast tracked past the new GP surgery that is the A&E waiting room and given room B. An X-ray showed nothing. I thought it was time for a colostomy and part of me welcomes that. Everything I eat is a challenge.

I am now a vegetarian who doesn’t travel. A conscripted eco warrior.

The doctor said my problem could be pseudo something or other. Dr Google later said if so there was a likely 100 percent mortality rate if my bowel carries on like this.

I know I have necrosis of the lining. The tumour is a bunch of cells gone mad after all.

It’s a shame really as I have none of the traditional spread that is normally the killer. To the lymphs, the liver, the lungs and whatnot.

My eventual diarrhoea was nuclear. Like a high pressure jet wash. But I wasn’t blocked. Great news. Then home around 2 am with profuse apologies for being a bother.

It is now Wednesday and I am feeling human. The pooch is farmed off. Again.

I read a lot now I’m pretty much housebound. I read everything on here. Mostly the politics I have to admit.

I’m not offering up any opinions. I’ve never seen anyone say that’s a good point sir/madam, I’ve changed my view.

Anyway. I read stuff. I know the difference between Britain, the UK and the British Isles. I read about our history and our problems. I watched an Irish documentary on the bombing of Mountbatten the other day. It was one of the first bits of news I remember as a child. The bit that sticks in my mind is the Irish boat boy. Hired at 15 from Enniskillen I think. His father was given false hope but the surviving boy was a grandchild of Dickie. But no, he soon saw his son in a fishing boat. Dead. His head “in a bucket of mackerel”

The same day the IRA used their new technology of remote detonators to murder a lot of paras. Then learning from previous routines waited for the big wigs, medics and more soldiers to arrive and set another bomb off. The detail of the carnage was horrific. The only bits of the driver left was his pelvis welded to the seat.

I worked in an area where I have seen the worst of human beings. In detail. I wrote up many a Home Office Summary Of The Case for the parole board reviewing life sentence prisoners. The police were good at sending in the most gruesome photographs of the victims.

Yet despite all the devastation we can visit on each other I still tend see the good in everything. When I am about to say goodbye to everything, everything seems that bit rosier.

The care I received was again first class. I live in a country where if I am in agony, a bunch of strangers turn up following a phone call, take the pain away, do loads of tests, a doctor explains things and then I am offered a cup of tea at the end of it. I really did have that offer but I was fixed by then and wanted to go home.

I’m not sure what I’m trying to say.

Maybe just cheer up. Stop moaning.

Unless it’s about the weather.
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Top bloke.

Keep fighting bud.
 
Good luck Foggy, as much as I dread your updates I still so love reading them. It's just the way you write so hope you take it as a compliment.

Hope you smash it xx
 
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