You’re my life now. Part seven

 It’s been a few weeks since my last blog. Since then I’ve spent a fortnight at home and come back in to the hospital for a third round of chemo. This is a precursor to a stem cell transplant planned for mid March.

My mood has been different each time. I was so ill the first time I came in that I thought I was just going to check out. I was grateful for every day when I didn’t feel totally washed out and I somehow found the means to see every day as a positive step away from the disease that had overcome me. When I left hospital the first time I was two and a half stone lighter and had the face of a wizened old man but two weeks at home in the care of my family transformed me and my second trench of treatment was accompanied by an annoyingly chirrupy demeanour which saw me sail through a relatively unpleasant but not life threatening experience.

This time is different. I’m not going to be here for so long and the pattern of treatment is slightly different.  I have a double dose of chemo every other day. I don’t seem to suffer on chemo days but I do experience extreme nausea in between. Anti sickness tablets prevent me vomiting but not retching like a velociraptor with a fur ball. My last double dose is tomorrow and then maybe three or four days to recover and home giving me a month to prepare for the five week intensive battering of a bone marrow transplant.

I’m fitter than I was before, I’m used to the treatment and I’m going home soon but I cannot maintain the same level of positivity as previously. I’m occasionally morose and irritable. I’m more conscious of what I’m missing than I was before. My daughter has given birth to a third child and I’m not able to be part of it. I wasn’t not even a fan of babies really but I suppose these things are more important to me now. I particularly miss taking my grandchildren to the park or for a treat in a cafe. I know they don’t quite understand why I’m not around so I hope by the summer I’m well enough to start rebuilding those relationships.

I can’t say I’m not worried about the bone marrow transfer. The procedure is not without its risks and despite being presented with an excellent match and the assurance that physically I’m in the best possible place to take this on I think the fact that it may be the final hurdle is daunting. I maybe facing an open goal  but the fear of blasting the ball into row Z is ever present. Remission with a low chance of early relapse is the prize and its within my reach but the tension is weighing on me and I’m  struggling a little.

Hospital food, particularly when I’m nauseous, does not help. It’s not terrible; it’s just not very nourishing. A couple of days ago I ordered cottage pie and what I got was thin lasagne with the top pasta layer removed and two lumps of mash plopped on top. In between the chemo days I can’t even bear the smell of food. Strangely cola is the only thing that arrests the nausea; I don’t know how. Sweet and salty snacks don’t provoke a gagging response although I also don’t  know why this would be the case.

One of the staff here, who I cannot identify, engaged me in conversation about how the world was changing and I was quickly dragged down a rabbit hole by a conspiracy theorist who regretted not being able to use the N word any more. It’s a bit worrying that he felt able to confide in me; I’m concerned that I might be giving off old bigot vibes although I was only bemoaning the loss of Barry Cryer. 

Did anyone see Giles Brandreth on the One Show a couple of weeks ago. He was invited to share his memories of Barry and then declared that he actually died on his grandson’s birthday. He then turned to the camera and wished the grandson a happy birthday. It was pure Partridge and I had to rewind it and play it again just to see the hosts’ faces contort in embarrassment.

I’m wittering now because nothing spectacular or insightful has happened as this process has embedded itself within my normal life. I can smell the cooked meals in the corridor and I can feel a sickening yawn emerge in my throat. I’ll probably just have a banana. The hospital has run out of fresh fruit (it goes off quicker these days; I’ll let you guess why) so Alex has had to bring me some in along with snickers bars and some other treats. I’ll try and find something more interesting to say for my next blog but in reality I will be happy if the next few weeks are a complete non event.