Chemo number 26. The art of ploughing on

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foggy said:
My chemo works on a week on week off shift pattern. On week on week I see the oncologist on a Monday, talk about the last treatment and what’s coming up and bloods taken. Tuesday is chemo proper. I bashed my chest port off the car door while trying to get out of a tight parking spot the other day and judging by the pain when I was connected up just there now I seem to have bruised the surroundings. A bite of the stiff upper lip and a, not quite true, it’s ok to the nurse.

A flush, a few anti sicks then the green bag delivers its poison before a burst of another sort, then a pressured bottle attached until disconnect on a Thursday. Followed by chronic fatigue for 3 days where even sitting still is not enough to feel any better and fending off nausea. Then in a moment my cells will fill up with energy again. Well not exactly fill up but I have an awareness I can get up and do things. And be interested in stuff.

The oncologist said ‘it does get harder’ so that’s that then. She also said if I didn’t respond to the chemo then there would be no point continuing. To hear that was a kick in the bollocks. Yes this is shit but it’s my ‘magic potion’ as the chemo nurse calls it. Without it I will rot away for want of a better expression. It’s been 2 years and 4 months since I went from being in the rat race, worrying about jobs and mortgages and thinking like most I would live forever, to having my world turned upside down and fighting the good fight against bits of me going wrong. In a fatal way.

I am well past the 12 month life expectancy of a stage four Bowel cancer sufferer. I live with pain. In my dreams I don’t have that pain so when I wake up I have probably less than a second until my first thought of every day is. Oh I have cancer. And then it’s a battle for the rest of it. We are all on death row. It’s just I can hear the keys jangling and footsteps up and down the corridor. I’m glad I’ve survived so long. I will die having fought a long battle against and not from a short illness. Meanwhile the trick is to make the most of things while I’m here. So I need to ignore those keys and footsteps.

In my latest week off l managed this mostly. First off was a trip to Bristol to pick up the bairn. The 20 year old bairn. I used to live driving up and down motorways. Now it was all a bit odd. There’s been some dooey ups of roads and services but it’s still much the same.

Except I’m not heading to a prison to talk HQ stuff to staff who mostly don’t want to hear it. Instead I arrive in Bristol and we head out for pizza. Gluten free in my case. I’ve found if I manage my diet like I have IBS then I don’t need the amount of painkillers I lived on for over a year. And subsequently I can go for a shit unaided by packets and packets of Laxido. The trip to A&E with a blockage was my last try of steak.

Then on Friday a trip up to the Lakes. Unusually for me the south Lakes. I’ve been going over there since I was around six years old. The bairn was conceived up there funnily enough. Just after Brooklyn Beckham. We didn’t call her Plumbland though.

So three nights in an old cottage with no internet or even a phone signal. Just me the bairn and the dog. Magic. The National Trust spot at the south of Windermere between Newby Bridge and Bowness was deserted on Sunday evening. There was a tennis and a cricket match on in London. We saw the cricket due to two bars of 4G on my phone and the All4 app. At ten in the morning when I bobbed the little telly on in the cottage the bairn knew nothing about cricket. Not even what an over was. A few hours later sat beside the lake, between doggy swimming lessons we sat gripped by what unfolded down at Lords. The lone fisherman looked up when we yayed and fistpumped.

Then a crushing low on the way home. The despair from being a happy relaxed person on holiday to one about to be sat in a chemo ward hoping the potion was still magic. Plus being with the bairn brings it home how shit this whole thing is. I am very lucky to have the relationship I have. She described it as ‘chilled’. I don’t bang on with a million questions. I don’t tell her what she ‘needs to do’. Her mother has that market cornered. While being a good mother I should add. She is priority number one to her and I never needed a Batman suit on a rooftop. We don’t have to talk. I can see and feel she is happy in life. University is going well. The Air Force thing she is on is going extremely well. She is happy. Except when it comes to me. And this f***ing terminal illness. It pains me that I cause those closest to me hurt. It makes me cry truth be told. Yes there is other family and our lass of course. That pains me too but they are peers and elders so it’s not on the same same scale. I am the bairn’s safety net. I want to make her life as happy as possible or the least shit and it feels like I’m making a big shit sandwich sometimes.

But I have to plough on. I am 50 a week today. I’m not sure what to think about that. Yeah it’s great. A birthday. A significant one. But it’s a bit young to be dealing with all this shit. Yet there are others. Much younger and dealing with worse. My small group of fellow stage 4 Bowelies has people with really young kids. In some cases mothers terrified of leaving their babies.

In my case I have had the fortune to see mine reach 20. I may see 21 and even a graduation. And for that I should feel lucky.

So it’s time to enjoy my off weeks and plough on through my on weeks.

After this I have two weeks without chemo. Even us raging sicknotes get time off. I’m away to York for a couple of nights of normalty with our lass. And before that following 144 hours of nausea and fatigue I am off for a night of spoiling in a posh hotel to celebrate being here for 50 earth revolutions of the sun. It’s not all bad really.


All the best.
Click to expand...

I read your posts and just get the sense that you’re really living life to the full. With this sword of Damocles dangling over you, even the simple things that you enjoy makes the existence of the rest of us seem mundane.

You’re an inspiration sir. Keep fighting for every last inch of life.
 
foggy said:
My chemo works on a week on week off shift pattern. On week on week I see the oncologist on a Monday, talk about the last treatment and what’s coming up and bloods taken. Tuesday is chemo proper. I bashed my chest port off the car door while trying to get out of a tight parking spot the other day and judging by the pain when I was connected up just there now I seem to have bruised the surroundings. A bite of the stiff upper lip and a, not quite true, it’s ok to the nurse.

A flush, a few anti sicks then the green bag delivers its poison before a burst of another sort, then a pressured bottle attached until disconnect on a Thursday. Followed by chronic fatigue for 3 days where even sitting still is not enough to feel any better and fending off nausea. Then in a moment my cells will fill up with energy again. Well not exactly fill up but I have an awareness I can get up and do things. And be interested in stuff.

The oncologist said ‘it does get harder’ so that’s that then. She also said if I didn’t respond to the chemo then there would be no point continuing. To hear that was a kick in the bollocks. Yes this is shit but it’s my ‘magic potion’ as the chemo nurse calls it. Without it I will rot away for want of a better expression. It’s been 2 years and 4 months since I went from being in the rat race, worrying about jobs and mortgages and thinking like most I would live forever, to having my world turned upside down and fighting the good fight against bits of me going wrong. In a fatal way.

I am well past the 12 month life expectancy of a stage four Bowel cancer sufferer. I live with pain. In my dreams I don’t have that pain so when I wake up I have probably less than a second until my first thought of every day is. Oh I have cancer. And then it’s a battle for the rest of it. We are all on death row. It’s just I can hear the keys jangling and footsteps up and down the corridor. I’m glad I’ve survived so long. I will die having fought a long battle against and not from a short illness. Meanwhile the trick is to make the most of things while I’m here. So I need to ignore those keys and footsteps.

In my latest week off l managed this mostly. First off was a trip to Bristol to pick up the bairn. The 20 year old bairn. I used to live driving up and down motorways. Now it was all a bit odd. There’s been some dooey ups of roads and services but it’s still much the same.

Except I’m not heading to a prison to talk HQ stuff to staff who mostly don’t want to hear it. Instead I arrive in Bristol and we head out for pizza. Gluten free in my case. I’ve found if I manage my diet like I have IBS then I don’t need the amount of painkillers I lived on for over a year. And subsequently I can go for a shit unaided by packets and packets of Laxido. The trip to A&E with a blockage was my last try of steak.

Then on Friday a trip up to the Lakes. Unusually for me the south Lakes. I’ve been going over there since I was around six years old. The bairn was conceived up there funnily enough. Just after Brooklyn Beckham. We didn’t call her Plumbland though.

So three nights in an old cottage with no internet or even a phone signal. Just me the bairn and the dog. Magic. The National Trust spot at the south of Windermere between Newby Bridge and Bowness was deserted on Sunday evening. There was a tennis and a cricket match on in London. We saw the cricket due to two bars of 4G on my phone and the All4 app. At ten in the morning when I bobbed the little telly on in the cottage the bairn knew nothing about cricket. Not even what an over was. A few hours later sat beside the lake, between doggy swimming lessons we sat gripped by what unfolded down at Lords. The lone fisherman looked up when we yayed and fistpumped.

Then a crushing low on the way home. The despair from being a happy relaxed person on holiday to one about to be sat in a chemo ward hoping the potion was still magic. Plus being with the bairn brings it home how shit this whole thing is. I am very lucky to have the relationship I have. She described it as ‘chilled’. I don’t bang on with a million questions. I don’t tell her what she ‘needs to do’. Her mother has that market cornered. While being a good mother I should add. She is priority number one to her and I never needed a Batman suit on a rooftop. We don’t have to talk. I can see and feel she is happy in life. University is going well. The Air Force thing she is on is going extremely well. She is happy. Except when it comes to me. And this f***ing terminal illness. It pains me that I cause those closest to me hurt. It makes me cry truth be told. Yes there is other family and our lass of course. That pains me too but they are peers and elders so it’s not on the same same scale. I am the bairn’s safety net. I want to make her life as happy as possible or the least shit and it feels like I’m making a big shit sandwich sometimes.

But I have to plough on. I am 50 a week today. I’m not sure what to think about that. Yeah it’s great. A birthday. A significant one. But it’s a bit young to be dealing with all this shit. Yet there are others. Much younger and dealing with worse. My small group of fellow stage 4 Bowelies has people with really young kids. In some cases mothers terrified of leaving their babies.

In my case I have had the fortune to see mine reach 20. I may see 21 and even a graduation. And for that I should feel lucky.

So it’s time to enjoy my off weeks and plough on through my on weeks.

After this I have two weeks without chemo. Even us raging sicknotes get time off. I’m away to York for a couple of nights of normalty with our lass. And before that following 144 hours of nausea and fatigue I am off for a night of spoiling in a posh hotel to celebrate being here for 50 earth revolutions of the sun. It’s not all bad really.


All the best.
Click to expand...

Keep going @foggy just keep going!
 
Keep fighting it mate, always enjoy reading your posts. Unfortunate circumstances like but always put things into perspective. Like a bi weekly reminder to turn my phone off and live life. Best of luck to you and your daughter.
 
Another cracking read.

Keep at it lad and fire away when you feel like it.

We are all here for you when you need us.
 
foggy said:
And here come the tears


Edit. And thank you for your kind words, support and optimism. It's the grandchild I will probably not see that is a particularly tough one. I'd like to think I'd be a good grandad.
Click to expand...

Ive a friend who has been battling MND for over 6 years now. I know he has made birthday cards and written lots of wise words for his only child who was only 4 when he was first diagnosed that she will open when he has gone. Perhaps you could do something similar for any future grandchild if you get some respite from Metal Micky but I'm still hoping there is a miracle waiting with the name Foggy stamped on it.

Anyway really hoping and praying you get to see the apple of your eye's 21st and then her graduation I'm sure she will make you the proudest Dad ever.

My best wishes again.
 
foggy said:
And here come the tears


Edit. And thank you for your kind words, support and optimism. It's the grandchild I will probably not see that is a particularly tough one. I'd like to think I'd be a good grandad.
Click to expand...
You are one hell of a good dad mate. Ah need to up my game with mine. Keep fighting. You are an inspirational man, Foggy. Forget your circumstances for one brief second, your ability with words is sublime mate. You have such talent.
 
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