So here we go again, three weeks have flown by and my next round of chemotherapy is imminent. Number 4 of 6 woohoo, I’m halfway through! I have to say, I’m a bit apprehensive about it this time. Annoyingly I’m finding myself experiencing all sorts of unhelpful psychological association “symptoms” ahead of this next treatment. Just little things; the word, chemo; the smell of certain hand soap and washing up liquid; the sight of glitter on my nail polish – they all make me feel sick. Not just nauseated, but, terrifyingly, like I’m actually going to be sick! What is that about? And if this is how I’m feeling at the halfway point, what’s going to happen over the next three cycles? Are these little things going to get bigger in my mind? Will there be new “things” to deal with? I don’t really want to go there again.
I feel like I’m standing on the precipice of what I can only describe as being like a three-week rollercoaster ride. Lurching between heights of freedom and energy, before being plunged, overnight, into an abyss of near paralysis. Body and mind unable to cope with the smallest thing. Even TV is just too much effort to take in. Lying down, staring into space is quite enough. Nights are long and broken by the pain in my bones, while blissful bouts of deep sleep in the day provide welcome relief from the feeling of utter wretchedness. Ask me how I am and, at worst, I’ll cry; at best, I can force a weak smile with a comment about having had better days. I can barely be bothered with my phone, but if you ask me by text or WhatsApp, you’ll get the poo emoji.
In fact, the poo emoji could become the official symbol of my chemo journey. Largely because I spend so much of my time thinking about it (poo, not the emoji!). It turns out that chemotherapy unleashes a vicious assault on my digestive system. Constant nausea and altered taste are the guest stars of at least half of every three-week cycle. Avoiding the diarrhoea that dominated my first two cycles has become an obsession.
So unpleasant are these side effects that, at one particularly low point, I found myself concluding that avoiding all drugs, fluids and food was the best way forward. I would definitely feel better for it. Bizarre and alarming for the nurse (me) who constantly pushes her patients to stay well hydrated and gets an enormous sense of satisfaction from effectively managing their symptoms with drugs! Now, formerly the biggest advocate of medicinal management, I can think of nothing worse than taking drugs to stave or chase off side effects. Come this Thursday, I won’t want to drink anything either. Everything tastes disgusting and the thought of water’s the worst.
Then there are the injections. I have to give myself injections in my stomach for 7 days after every treatment. On the first round, I was really brave and just got on with it. Three cycles in and even opening the packet sends me light headed. By the time I’ve got the sheath off the needle, moved whatever I’m wearing out of the way, and am poised ready to prick, I’ve become so agitated, nauseated, and light headed, that I have to sit down. Even though I know it doesn’t really hurt, it’s taken me up to half an hour, before now, to dare to do to myself what my patients tell me I’m an expert at! Ironically, because I’m supposedly good at it, I won’t let anyone else do it! What am I going to be like this time?
I’m finding this journey bizarre. With its unexpected twists and turns, adjusting to being a patient, is not easy – especially on good days. On bad days I get it. But having to rest because my body is under invisible attack makes me feel like a lazy toad. I felt OK the other day and went out with my friend. She drove and we must’ve walked only half a mile in total – slowly. I ate a normal meal. The next day I was rewarded with the dreaded diarrhea – I’d overdone it! How?!! I was running 5K several times a week two months ago! Just a couple of days back, I couldn’t tell you why a train journey with my well-behaved and very capable kids, which wasn’t very stressful and we were sitting down the whole way, reduced me to tears by the time I got home.
It seems that everyone else around me gets it. They all agree that, even when I feel well, I shouldn’t be doing stuff because, “Your body’s got enough to cope with”. This is a typical conversation of late:
“No you stay sitting there, Helen”
(In my head) “It’s OK, I can help, there’s nothing wrong with me!”
But apparently there is. I have a life-threatening illness. It first dawned on me when I referred my son for support, the other week, to a charity that only accepts children with parents suffering a life-threatening illness. But I’m not feeling it. Am I in denial? Am I choosing to view it as treatable illness that would threaten my life, if I wasn’t being given the privilege of going through chemo? Am I being cushioned by my Heavenly Father? Is He, daily, driving out my fear with His perfect love? Is this peace I feel, good day or bad, to do with Him? Is it all of them? I don’t know. I know one thing though. A verse from the Bible popped into my head the other week that just seems to capture the blessings of this unfathomable journey:
Give and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use it will be measured to you. (Luke 6:38)
This is not me showing off! I love people and so I find it easy to love others. But, I have been massively, surprisingly and overwhelmingly, loved by those around me, near and far, on this journey! Those words, “pressed down, shaken together and overflowing” are how I feel about the love that has been extended to me, in all sorts of ways by so many people. I am truly humbled and genuinely don’t feel I deserve such an abundant outpouring. I’ve even been joking that it’s nice to know how people feel about you before you’re dead!
I guess love breeds love. If we can accept that we are loved, warts and all, it frees us up to love others, warts and all too. My experience is that God loves me like that. From what I can tell from this journey, His love for me has started something phenomenal. The love He first showed me, has gathered momentum. Now, when the (insert poo emoji here!) has hit the fan in my life, I find love pressed down, shaken together and overflowing, into my lap! Pretty good, hey? Maybe cancer and chemotherapy aren’t so (insert the poo emoji here!) after all!
