Having enough of it

This is so massively frustrating.

Today I went in for my blood and consultation, and AGAIN I threw up. Obviously the problem rests in my head, I’ve psyched myself out.

It was the young blond consultant who met me today, I think she’s not from England based on her accent (not that it’s relevant). Anyhow, Zsolt brought up the question of my 12th treatment despite my stepping on his foot, which is a universal signal for ‘stop talking’, and it was her opinion that I receive my full treatment schedule and not miss the last one.

FRACKING FUCKING Fuck. What contrasting information. I then informed her of my plans to go home for a month over Christmas, the flight leaving on the 14th of December. She conceded that some people do stop early for different reasons, but they recommend 12 courses of the chemotherapy. However, she’ll talk to the head consultant and see what he says.

Here is what I say: it’s too freaking late. I want to go home – I want to go home – I want to go home. Don’t bother telling me I can’t.

I will, therefore I can.

I don’t want to be angry with anyone, but feel so fucking angry inside. My emotions are a yo-yo, and when they go crazy . . . and frankly, it’s my fault that they’ve become volitle . . . well, what answers are there? Drugs, more drugs, and missing Christmas? Agh!

Honeslty, I’m angry with myself.

This is something to work on. Screaming, punching, writing, NOT vomiting. I’m working on it and don’t need any more pressure. I don’t want to give anyone an excuse to worry more.

Whew! Time to go punch something.

Footsteps in the sand

It’s 8.45 am and I’ve been lying here in bed as Zsolt prepares his breakfast, thinking about how fortunate we’ve been.

We met randomly while travelling. Two different countries, two different languages – yet here we are today, married. Circumstance suited us, and we made the most of it.

We needed to compromise. Where to live and how to survive? As with any big problem, we turned to the internet for answers. Zsolt sent out a few emails and met his supervisor, with tuition and scholarship to boot.

We got cancer, followed by a summer of mastectomy, recovery, and chemotherapy, all away from home and family.  But Zsolt is writing his thesis (no ten hour days at the office) he is here with me and helping. I work at the library, a job that has been so flexible and supportive. Honestly, I couldn’t ask for a better situation in which to have had cancer, since – apparently – that was what I had to have.

God – however you want to define God – works in incredible ways. It’s like that poem, Footsteps in the sandSomeone, something, somehow is carrying us; it’s wonderful to remember.

What is brave, anyhow?

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.