A Make-up Make-over

It is quite astonishing what you are offered when you have cancer. One of the things I was offered was sessions at 'Maggie's' (a national charity) which provides support to people with cancer. One of the things on offer was 'Look Good, Feel Good', where somebody shows you how to put on make-up to disguise the worst effects of the chemotherapy. I was sceptical, but eventually rang up to book. I had not anticipated that the wait would be so long. I had my session today.

The first problem was getting there: I went to work first. Major mistake. Inevitably, I got caught and left far later than I had intended. When I arrived at the hospital, I could not find a parking space. I finally arrived, panting, out of breath, and in pain from the muscle in my back, about twenty minutes late. They could not have been kinder. I was ushered in, given a cup of tea, told not to worry at all. I started to relax.

The session turned out to be fascinating. Make-up has never really been my thing, but watching the transformation of each of us there, I could only marvel. Suddenly, I had eyebrows that looked completely natural again. My colour looked better than it had for years. I looked younger. Yet even peering suspiciously into the mirror provided, I could not say that I looked 'made up'. I gazed around. The same was true for every woman there, even those who were clearly in the throes of chemotherapy. Each and every one of us had a healthier glow, eyes that looked more sparkly, faces that were less splodgy. And it cheered us all up. As we swapped experiences and laughed with grim humour, you could feel the mood lighten, the sense that we all felt we looked less awful. And they gave us a wonderful 'goody bag' of all the make-up we had been using, apparently donated by the companies. I shan't have to buy anything for years. Fantastic.

I left on a high. I arrived home, and Molly Cat was waiting for me in the hall, in her hammock - where she has remained. She played with me a bit; she deigned to be fed; but she has eschewed the identical hammock in the study (alright, different colour, but I doubt it is that) and stayed firmly in the hall. Huh! is all I can say. I append the evidence.

'Night all.

Today I finished Radiotherapy

Altogether a rather strange experience. I arrived, parked, walked in. I was very conscious it was my last time. I hoped certain people would be there - they were not. Ah well. I settled into the waiting room. There was a delay of about 45 minutes - very unusual. I hunkered down. Suddenly, they called my name. It would be quicker, they said, if they took me to a different room. I was surprised. The last time there had been a delay they had told me I could not go to a different room. I looked around for my known and trusted therapists: they weren't there. However, I had no reason to distrust these therapists. Obediently, I went to the different room, leaving the little gift I had brought with the therapists in my normal room.

I arrived at Room 4. It felt very different. Nevertheless, I trusted. I settled into a seat - for about 30 seconds. Nice radiotherapist I knew appeared and took me back to the original room. I admitted I had been surprised, since I had previously been told that no other room could treat me. "Quite" he said, quietly. So good to know that there are so many double checks. My trust increased.

Soon after I was called in, treated. Everybody was encouraging about the last treatment. I was given advice about the next few weeks (apparently I have to be careful, because the treatment keeps on working) and they checked that I had relevant appointments.

Suddenly, I was walking back to the car. I was done. Fried, basted, cooked. There was no more. Now, I just get on with my life. So be it. Molly and I have had a lovely evening, except that, sadly, she does not like champagne, so I could find no excuse to open it. She has shredded my hands, but we have had a good time.

We both send our love.

Confession: I don't want to finish radiotherapy

What an extraordinary title. Could it possibly be true? Well, yes and no. Of course I want to finish treatment. The daily grind of getting there and finding a parking space; the discomfort of the arm in the stirrup; the embarrassment of not being able to leap in a lithe fashion on to the table; the increasing skin irritation (which is not at all bad, so far), the constant use of E45. All of this means that I long to finish.

HOWEVER:

There is at least one positive element to all this: I am still being treated. Somebody is doing something to my cancer. Odd, really. I'm a doctor. I knew that this would come to an end. I understand that monitoring will not and should not happen on a weekly basis. I am more than impressed with the treatment I have received.

AND YET

I do like the fact that

• Somebody is keeping an eye on me (albeit, only on my skin, and nobody is examining me)
• We are throwing things at the stupid cancer
• I am not alone in this - there is a camaraderie in the radiotherapy waiting room
• I can banter with the therapists and use the blackest of black humour
• I am still legitimately 'ill' and so can work slightly shorter days

Suddenly, it feels as if I am going to be cast adrift. No more constant attention, no more reason for being tired. Just me, my still mucky hair, and waiting to see what happens. Bizarre, really. I did not expect to feel like this. It will, of course, be fine. But it is very strange, although apparently not at all unusual!

Molly Draws Blood

What on earth am I going to do? Molly has always had a tendency to use teeth and claws, but I hoped to train her out of that. Huh! She has not proved to be amenable to such training. I think, although I cannot be sure, that she is even more prone to this since I have returned to work. Is that a reason for working from home? No, I thought not.

Today, I went off to a Training Day in Loughborough. Leave aside the nightmare journey there (an accident on the M1 and a burst water main on the A6 leaving me with few choices), and the fact that I therefore arrived five minutes late, despite having left early. Nevertheless, I arrived. People were kind, and did not comment on my appearance.

When I returned home, Molly seemed keen to play. I was so pleased. Truth: she did not want to play, she wanted to use my hand as a cross between a scratch post and a biting stick. Both my hands are covered in blood. Alright, I exaggerate, but only slightly. There are lots of puncture marks, and there IS blood. And now she is curled up, looking so innocent!

So, what do I do next? There is a limit to how much punishment my hands can take! Would be interested in your ideas. 

Half Way Through Radiotherapy

Today was session eight out of fifteen. I reckon that means I am slightly more than half way through (although my brain is so scrambled I could be wrong). As I swung myself off the 'bed' today, the radiographer said 'You make that look easier every time'. Huh! I wish I could believe that. The truth is, I have just learned where to pivot my considerable weight.

Yesterday did not go so smoothly. They had a problem with the computers. The whole system was down. By the time I got there, they were running about an hour late. I was lucky. One of the other rooms was able to take some of our patients. I was only half an hour late getting in.

The strangest thing about the radiotherapy is that I ache all over. I am not sure if this is actually down to the radiotherapy, or if it is due to the fact that I am going out and walking a lot more, or whether the fact that I seem incapable of losing weight has anything to do with it. Whatever the cause, my back and my legs ache, and even getting in and out of the car is an effort. Bizarre. I am also increasingly tired, although that could just be because I am overdoing things. Whatever the cause, I am suddenly feeling tired and rather low. Boo Hiss. I'm fine, really.

So, sorry folks. This is not a cheerful blog. I don't know why, but I can't seem to dredge up any humour. I'll try to do better tomorrow.

Molly is well and sends her love.

Today I went back to work properly

Today, for the first time since my surgery, I actually went IN to work: i.e. I got into my car, drove to the new premises at Ruddington, talked to people, caught up, and attended meetings. How do I feel about this?

Simple answer - I don't know. I have ambivalent feelings. Arriving was strange. I had never been to the new premises and realised that I did not know how to get into the staff car park. I had to phone in to find out. A surreal experience: 'Please Miss, how do I come to work?' When I got in to the building, they had to tell me the codes, where to go, where everybody sat. Even more strange. However, there was the major upside: people seemed so pleased to see me. No, that's churlish. People WERE so pleased to see me. It was lovely. I felt warm and wanted and needed.

I was amazed at how quickly I walked back into role. There were clearly things that needed doing. I was going to do them. I moved from person to person, gleaning information, ensuring I had a clear picture. I now have a list of things I am going to pursue. Remember the resolution that I wasn't going to work ridiculous hours? Hmmmmm!!!

Of course, the fact that I am still receiving radiotherapy meant that I had to leave at 16.30, which was possibly a good thing. Radiotherapy took longer than usual (for some reason, they had problems lining me up with the machine). I finally got home at almost 18.00. Molly had been alone for hours. I thought she would be cross. She isn't. She's clingy and cuddly and affectionate. I like her this way.

So, I'm back. It will take a while to get completely up to speed, but I can feel it happening. I enjoyed being out of the house, and going in to work, and being productive. I need to be careful that I don't fall back into bad habits. But as I type I have a rather silly smile on my face. This could be a good thing.

I CAN'T BELIEVE I DID THAT!!!!! Molly Wins Again

I have mentioned Molly Cat before. She is the love and the bane of my life. When she first came, she was clearly half starved and incredibly thin. She has filled out since she has been here, although she is by no means fat. At the beginning, she used to slide between the dishwasher and the plinth to get behind the skirting boards of the kitchen cupboards. She would then push out the skirting board at the opposite end to get out. She clearly enjoyed this, and we found the black clips that were supposed to hold the wood in place all over the flat. I was less amused. As she has filled out, she has used the space she created to gain access.

Two days ago, the 'Man Who Does' was here. He does everything, from major jobs (repainting rooms, netting in half a balcony to keep Molly safe) to the most minor (changing the bulbs that I cannot reach even on the ladder). This time, he came in response to a piteous appeal for help from me. On New Year's Eve night I was rinsing out Molly's bowls in the sink when I noticed water gushing from the cupboard beneath. I hastily closed the taps and abandoned it, grateful that I had no scheduled visitors until after the 2nd. On the 1st, I texted him asking if he could fit me in on the 2nd. Bless him he said yes.

He duly arrived on Thursday morning. I felt rather bad, but he seemed happy. He fixed the sink (a rotten seal) and changed all the bulbs that had blown. Then I remembered the skirting board. I showed him the various black clips and he said he could do it immediately, which he did. Much contentment all round. Until Molly woke from her siesta.

I went in to the kitchen to feed her and noticed that she was prowling around the now closed access to behind the cupboards. She can no longer fit between the dishwasher and the plinth. She kept looking at me, but she has always kept away from there when I was around, so I didn't think much of it. Until about ten minutes later, when she started to howl.

It was terrible. She sounded as if she was being tortured. Her cries would have rent the hardest heart. I was in the study. I rushed to find her. She was pacing the kitchen, staring at me as if I had deprived her of all that was most precious in life. I checked her food, her water, herself. Nothing appeared wrong. I picked her up, gave her a cuddle, took her back to the study. As soon as I put her down, she bolted for the kitchen and the cacophony started again. My nerve lasted less than five minutes.

Picture the scene, dear reader: me, on my knees, trying to wrench the skirting board out so that I could allow Molly access again. Eventually, I succeeded. NO, it is NOT funny!!! I returned to the study. There was silence from the kitchen. Eventually Molly rejoined me. To say she looked smug would be an understatement.

I don't know what she hides under there. When my cleaner looked the following day all she found was one of the baubles from off the Christmas tree. There may be objects further in, where we cannot see. In any case, I am sure it is her special hiding place, which I am not supposed to know about. From now on, it stays open. I CANNOT BELIEVE I did that.

Today was the first dose of Radiotherapy

An interesting experience, and one I found more challenging than I had expected.

My appointment was for 15.30 and they suggested I arrived fifteen minutes early. Parking is never easy on that site, so I decided to leave home at 14.15. The first challenge was what to wear. It looked cold outside, and I clearly needed to be able to display my top half. Trousers and jumper seemed in order, but it has been so long since I have worn anything other than a Kaftan that even that felt strange. Molly was asked, but did not vouchsafe an opinion.

Eventually, dressed and accessorised, I left for the hospital. I was lucky. A parking space became available within about five minutes, and I was able to sit in the car listening to the radio and relaxing for half an hour. This was A GOOD THING. Nevertheless, as I picked my way through the puddles to the entrance I was aware that I was more tense than I had expected to be. 'Why?', I asked myself. After all, nothing terrible was going to happen. Answer came there none, and I really do not know why I was so tense, but I certainly was. I was glad that I had taken my beloved iPad and so could play Sudoku while I waited.

They had said I would be in and out in fifteen minutes. Hmmm! This might be true on subsequent occasions, but today it took almost exactly an hour. It was nobody's fault: it's the system. But I do wonder if we could not simplify the system? It goes like this:

1. Register and be shown to the waiting room. Sit and wait, with iPad, for about five minutes: very grateful that it happened so fast.
2. Collected by charming radiographer who first asked to confirm all my details (name, address, etc.) then explained in exhaustive detail what was to happen. She also told me that I would be asked to confirm my details again. I wondered why, although I did not ask. Is it likely that somebody would take my place in the intervening few minutes? She also gave me my complete schedule for the next three weeks.
3. Shown to a different waiting room. Resort to iPad again. Wait no more that ten minutes, then collected by a different charming radiographer. Shown to the 'Room'.
4. He re-checked all my details (why?) then explained everything to me again (why?). Remember, I had already been through all this at the planning meeting. 
5. I was helped on to the couch. It is not made for people like me. It is made for fit, lithe young things who are no bigger than a size 8. I struggled. They helped. Eventually, I was positioned. I felt like a lump of lard attached to a beached whale. Ah well - that's more or less how I look.
6. Laser beams come at you and machines move around you. It is most interesting. I forbore to ask too many questions, but it really was fascinating.
7. The actual thing takes about ten minutes and, provided you can lie flat on a narrow bed (which I can, once I'm on it!) there is no problem.
8. They help you up and usher you out, with smiles all round.

And that, really, is it. I go back tomorrow for the next dose. I have checked the appointments and need to change some, but they tell me that should be possible. They are friendly, professional and positive. So why was I so exhausted when I got back? Goodness knows, but I think it will be easier tomorrow.