Are you ready to come through?
No not really I say with a dimpled grin
But I stand and put one foot in front of the other until we reach the corner I am to sit, well recline. Tears seep into the corner of my eyes when the nurse asks how I am feeling?
Scared. Scared of how I will feel when the drugs go in.
Mr H reminds me the drugs will stop any rogue cancer cells settling into my body so I shuffle my bum into the seat. I am ready.
I swallow five tiny white tablets, steroids and anti emetics to prevent me feeling sick. A heave tries to sneak out but I tuck it back in. Stupid, too early for that. Just fear.
They bring in the syringes lined up in a blue tray.
The PICC line put into my arm earlier in the week will last until August if we treat it like a fragile flower.
I chat to Mr H and the nurses as the red and white drugs slide painlessly into my vein. I feel an oddness which is hard to explain, my palms are sweaty, caused by anxiety I assume. After an hour and a half and we wander out clutching a sweet shop of pills and injections.
At home I sip soup while we laugh at Father Ted's antics. I laugh so much I have to make a quick dash to the loo. But in bed the nausea rolls and buckets and bacterial wipes are put into use!
I do a mindfulness body scan to settle and rest.
...Today my chemotherapy nausea is like a Jack in the box who refuses to be hidden. Not only does he keep popping up but he laughs at the anti sickness tablets. I call the oncologist centre and get some sound advice to obtain another prescription for a second drug. It takes three phone calls and a GP visit to me at home before a prescription for different tablets gets Jack back in his box.