My first chemotherapy and getting Jack in the box

Dawn

Yes

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. 

Committed to Carrot Cake

Carrot cake is the centre of my universe. Like birthday cake it was an occasional treat but now…

It moved into the village last year, we were never officially introduced but it dominates my thoughts.

Its arrival coincided with an incident; for a second time the DVLA stole my driving licence and it took the theft to discover that the cake had arrived.  It lives by the chemist, I saw it on a pill trek and it was love at first bite.

I avoid it when I walk to the hairdressers and grocers but the detour to the chemist, post office and paper shop is so short it is rude not to make it.

It has become part of the village community; people flock to see it dressed in its snow capped beauty. If I could drive we would never have met, neither would I chat to wonderful villagers who like me seem drawn to its splendour. The exercise required to reach its home, the DaisyChain Deli, explains away the calories it leaves on my hips. This obsession is similar to my Dexamethasone days and like the Avocado is better than hospital food.

On a plate I contemplate the square, gently sliced, I share the walnut pieces equally. I bite slowly  into the moist cake, the sweet and savoury mixture explodes on my tongue. 

When I drove and worked I left the village before my day and universe began; now the village is part of my universe and I am proud of where I am.

Avocado for Tea

We are having avocado for tea tonight. Buying an avocado is an art; if my thumb dents the skin it has reached the age of ripeness; doesn't move at all - needs to ripen; sinks into the flesh -.  awarded it’s over ripe certificate.

I slice into the skin to reveal the dark brown stone housed in two tone flesh, saliva seeps from the corners of my mouth. I peel away the skin and like licking the spoon after childhood cake making, my reward is the remaining flesh scooped out and sucked from my green fingers.

The peeled avocado pear is like an unfilled boat, prawns are the ideal sailors, splashed with pink Marie Rose sea-spray; ready to sail on waves of lettuce.