The second one…
Since my last treatment, I decided to go into this one with a completely different approach. All those years of competitive swimming, rowing and pole dancing taught me some incredible strategies to perform when the stakes are high.
I went in on the attack, but not the “all or nothing” type that my nervous system is so familiar with. It’s more of a ‘holding sand in your hand’ type energy. Where you know you have the situation under control, and any scrambles you make to catch any falling sand result in loosing the whole thing.
As I approach the entrance, I can feel my pace start to quicken, my eyes sting and water… but I let it be. I don’t try to catch it, to make it wrong, to make it mean anything about being “lesser”. It’s just my body letting me know I am about to do something challenging. Thanks body, I’m here for it and I have it from here.
In this way, I can confidently hold the rest of myself together and stay in the part of me that chooses how I want this to go.
My life is now organised into 17 blocks of 3 week cycles. Week one is treatment week where I allow myself to prepare and recover from treatment. Sleep, Fast, Hydrate. The following week is where I can get shit done and then another week to enjoy the momentum. Around it goes again. And again. And again.
However, one of my precious “get shit done” weeks was taken up by covid this round. Bloody covid. It’s the gift that keeps on giving.
As I walk through the door to my treatment, a childhood of living in an unregulated nervous system gifts me the ability to tell me something's not quite right…and 5 years of weekly therapy lets me discern that it’s not coming from me. I try to figure out what's going on by scanning the room but then I’m like “Meh, I’ll just ask”.
Experience tells me that if you ask a group of people, that you are not a part of, if they are ok or if there is something wrong, they will generally give you the exact opposite answer of what you can feel in the room.
“Good morning, how are we all doing this morning?”
They mirror back my smile and reply “Fine thanks”.
I don’t know where to go from here. There are 6 of them and 1 of me so I drop any further probing. That was not the response I was looking for, albeit the socially appropriate one. So, I walk through to what is now “my chair” and wait to see if the tenseness I can feel in the room will reveal itself.
Literally 10 seconds later, the nurse tells me the “Big Bosses” are here to conduct the revalidation of the center. If you are a teacher, it’s basically like when ERO comes. To add to that stress for them, the actual chemo mixes that they mix up on the day have somehow gone missing from when they got in the taxi at 7.45am. Definitely should have arrived by 9am as it’s only a 20 minute drive.
Bingo. That is why everyone is on edge.
If you read my last blog, you’ll know that trying to get the line in to administer the Pembrolizumab was a bit of a shit show. So, the day before I had a Port-a-cath inserted over at the hospital. A port-a-cath is basically a nurse's BFF. It sits just under the skin on your chest and links directly into your bloodstream, so no mucking around with peripheral veins is needed.
Unfortunately, Jack was unable to come with me to get it inserted as he looked after the kids. Portacath administration requires a mini surgery done under local anesthetic. Again, the nurses were incredibly kind, but took them 3 goes to get a line in. “I see why you are getting the port-a-cath” the nurse tells me.
The irony.
“Would you like some sedation?” she asks, “Ummmm…” I pretend like this hasn’t been consuming my thoughts all morning.
Sedation means I can’t drive home. I already organised for my friend Laura to pick me up, but what if she can’t anymore? And plus, I don’t really want to leave Jack’s car in the carpark overnight. It’s just inconvenient all round if I don’t drive myself because then someone has to pick up Jack’s car in the morning. Jack has already taken time off work to look after the kids and I don’t want him to take anymore because we really need that income to survive. What if he has taken too much time off to look after me already and the kids already? God, what if all this is just putting way too much pressure on everyone else? How can I wrangle this without needing any support whatsoever? I could definitely bus…but are there even buses? When do they come? How sore will it be? Maybe I could walk…. And down down down my thoughts spiral…seemingly too fast for me to catch them.
A tear escapes out of the corner of my eye.
“Sometimes I cry when I get overwhelmed” is what I manage to answer. “Oh,” she replies “No, Dr ***** doesn’t like it when people cry, so we will give you some.”
Thank-god. I’m so done with that thought spiral.
The surgery goes really well and before I know it, I am in the air conditioned recovery room, ready to go home and parent my babies. Who, by the way, in no way shape or form can understand why they can’t snuggle into my chest like usual. “But I’ll eat all my dinner”, Emma says to me when I pull sharply away from her “huggle” when I get home.
This one interaction flashes me right back to sitting with my mum on her literal death bed. I remember smaller me wanting to snuggle into her, but even resting my head on her legs caused her to vomit and be in even more pain. She died 10 hours later. I remember thinking…”Why did the nurses let me sit with her in there if I was causing her so much pain? Did she die early because of that? They should have told me to get out! Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
This is how a child will attempt to gain control in an uncontrollable and extremely vulnerable situation. If it is my fault and my responsibility, I then have the power to change it.
In this way, Cancer calls me to heal in more ways than one. It gives me the opportunity to go back and remember, grieve and heal all that which I pushed down when I didn’t have the resources to do so as a child.
It's definitely not easy, but I know that it’s necessary for my life's path and for what is to come.
Anyway, we have gone down a rabbit hole, which is so familiar to my mind, but maybe a little confusing to you, dear reader. We are going back to the big blue chair and to the “Bingo” realisation. The drugs have finally arrived and it’s time for them to do their magic.
I glance over at the wall and the picture with the yellow mini. Cute. As the treatment starts trickling into my bloodstream, I hear one of the other patients refer to her chemo as “The Red Devil”, it makes me laugh. The distance between our chairs seems closer somehow and I realise that I am no longer the newbie. Hooray! Although, this newbie seems to be doing about 10 million times better than I did my first time.
My mind starts reeling over how the hell I am going to raise enough money to finance this whole ridiculous situation. I learn that everyone else's health insurance fully covers theirs or it was covered by the government. The ideas about what events to launch, who to ask and how to provide value to them are coming in thick and fast. I can’t hold onto any of them long enough to catch them by the tail and write them down. I try to read, but none of it seems to be going in.
So I close my book and just breathe. Vaguely wondering if I am still doing the right thing when…
No. fucking. way.
I actually throw my head back and laugh out loud. Tears seem to tidal wave out of my eyes. Everyone looks and I just say “Private Joke”.
In the background, Sarah McLachlans “Angel” is playing.
Let me tell you about the significance of this song. When I was 8, my dad committed sucide back in the day when mental health in men was an absolute tabboo subject, even more so than it is today. Without going into too much detail about that, as it is a whole book in itself, I was gifted an opportunity from my ballet teacher at the time to do my first wee solo on stage for him.
There was a white cross, and I wore a white floaty skirt. My mum always cried when I did this dance and I remember performing it at every event we went to. In those moments, coming off stage, seeing the tears rolling down my mums face, I had never felt so loved, important and seen.
So, after mum died, I didn’t have the same opportunity to create a dance for her. It wasn’t until I was about 25 that one presented itself. The very first “Pole Legends” danced on the Sky City stage was definitely the right platform. So I used this song and I danced my wee heart out. If you watch the video, you’ll see there were two crosses in the background, one for mum and one for dad.
Feeling my mum and dad with me, I relax back into the chair and start to nibble on my cheese toasty. The nurses tell me how well I did this time around. Again….cute. They were probably just as relieved as I was.
About halfway home, I start to get extremely tired and wonder if maybe I shouldn’t be driving home. But honestly, it’s about the same level as when Emma was a baby and wouldn't sleep for more than 45 mins in a row so, I’m good.
The days following are pretty similar to the last round, with the added addition of the port-a-cath site being sore and my neck seizing up. Thank-god for Kate, my chiro who puts me back in alignment any time I need it. Actual lifesaver.
As I slide into my “week of getting shit done”, I wonder what song will play next treatment…