Anti sickness my eyeball!

Dance in my pants anti-sickness (aka nettle knickers) was about as useful as a paper umbrella.

I woke from my snooze, disoriented but feeling ok. Tentatively, I did a mental inventory, everything seemed to be in working order, none of my organs had spontaneously melted away due to the chemo cocktail.

I even felt brave enough to have some tea and toast.

I was walking around as if a war mine was encased within me, prised and ready to go off at the slightest jolt. My stomach lurching at every step.

I have small snacks, like advised and drink water. These anti-sickness tablets are working. Ok, so I feel nausious but I'm not sick. My heart goes out to my brothers girlfriend, five months of this...constant morning sickness. Yet another level of new found respect for new mums.

As the evening light fades and the curtains are closed, I settle down on the couch for the night, thinking 'maybe this won't be too bad'.

An hour later, I cling to my old friend, the toilet bowl for dear life and hurl up food which I recognise from two days ago.

An hour after that and I'm still regurgitating until there is nothing left.

An hour after that, incomprehendibly, I continue to throw up, phantom puke as there is absolutely nothing left in my stomach.

When its all gone, I kneel back on my heels and feel better, no nausea, no sickness, nothing in my stomach, just empty.

I float off to sleep like a weak kitten, dreaming of monsters - cups of terrifying tea and plates of tretcherous toast.

The following morning I eyeball the packet of anti sickness tablets given to me and wonder.
However, like a good patient, I do as I'm told and knock back two of the things before rising from bed.

Three days of nausea follow, small meals when my stomach is settled, more nausea, intermittant puking and general feeling like warmed up refuse.

I have limited my diet, it seems. My internal diet regieme organiser has dictated that I will feel ill at the prospect of drinking tea, anything with sugar will make me quiver in my boots, if it comes in a tin - confine it to the bin, if it comes in a packet, wrapping, cardboard, any packaging at all actually....then it will make me feel nausious.

Spuds.  It turns out I love spuds, with a tiny bit of butter, mashed up with a pinch of salt! Peppermint tea is the only tea I can stomach. Fruit and veg are ok, as long as they are not really strong flavours (onions are an absolutle no no!) and wholemeal brown bread.

Oh, and peanut butter. And 'C'est ca!' That's it. The limit of my diet. But if that is what it takes to keep from feeling nausious, then that's fine by me.


Day four and I feel semi human.

Day five and I can't really manage to get out of bed. I lie there with my eyes open staring at the wall, willing some energy to spread into my limbs. When its time to use the loo, it takes every ounce of energy to get moving. I wonder if this is the low cell day. I crawl under my duvet and sleep. Man, it's hot. I check my temp, 37.9. Not 38 so I stop panicking and go back to sleep.

Day six and I've had an adventure. I've moved all the way from the bedroom to the sofa downstairs and managed to sit up and have a twenty minute conversation with my friend. My boyfriend comes over and we watch a film. Its hot. Hot. HOT! 39.1 degrees hot to be precise.
I take my temperature again. Then do it with another thermometer, just to be sure.

I have a little argument with myself, should I call the helpline (strict instruction.....if your temperature goes over 38 degrees you need to call us). Yes, yes, I argue with myself, but I've been wrapped up in a blanket, stealing my boyfriend's body heat, it's night time, they will be busy, I feel fine, apart from temperature. Round and round I go in my head, trying to argue the pros and cons out until my boyfriend places the phone in my hand and practically pushes the buttons for me.

Hello, I say brightly, trying to convey a mental picture of health and wellbeing, I have a bit of a temperature and was just checking in.

Forty minutes later and a referal from the chemo helpline, I'm ushered to Accident and Emergency. I'm sitting in front of a nurse cursing most foul under my breath as she pathetically tries to get blood from my stubborn veins. Two attempts later and she gives up, saying she is phoning someone from oncology.

I'm exhausted. I lay down on a bed/gurney thing in a theater space. They put me in here, away from the ruccus of Sunday night A and E patients. I am thankful. My boyfriend perches awkwardly on the most uncomfortable looking chair. If they had designed it in the shape of a spike it might have been easier to sit on. His long legs jut out from it at terribly awkward angles. I keep apologising. I'm so sorry for all this hassle, such a pain for you to have to be in A and E with me, so sorry. I think I pass out as next thing I know a hairy homeless man is standing over me about to rob me.

I sit bolt upright, a rush of blood to my head.

What is going on?

'Hi, I'm Doctor Hanley'.

huh?

He is about my age, has a massive head of floppy hair and a beard to match, a pair of cord pants and scruffy skater shoes. Mental, I chastise myself for judging a book by its cover. He is quiet and gentle and attentive and asks a million questions, most of which I answer no. Questions along the lines of ....'Have you ever....
had diabetes
a stroke
heart palpitation
alergies
mumbo jumbo
pink elephants in tu tus
a massive yellow bunny rabbit living in your cardigan sleeve....

no, no, no, no, no, no, yes (but only for a couple of weeks till he could find a new place to live!)


I felt like shouting at him, I'm perfectly healthy, Ive never been sick in my life, never been to A and E, never taken a sick leave from work, never even had the flu...I'm PERFECTLY HealthY.

Apart from the fact that I have cancer!

I answer his questions. He draws blood, successfully, first time. I resolutely decide - forget this sticking me with needles every five minutes and chasing after terrible veins, I'm getting a PICC line.

Chest xray, echo, bloods, urine, listened to heart, take my pulse : four hours later he gives me a cautionary warning, takes these antibiotics, the complete course and keep an eye on your temperature. You can go home (HOME....the magic word. I refrain from doing a high five and keep my face a mask of calm) but you have to be sensible. Any change or chest or stomach pain, you need to call us.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

I nod my head obediently. Anything you say.

I just want to go home.