Yesterday, was my last chemo appointment. As I said in my previous post, I had ambivalent feelings about it. What I didn't say, because I thought I was just being silly, was that I had a sort of feeling that it would all go wrong and that there would be a disaster. I had visions of being sent home because my bloods were too bad, or something else had gone pear-shaped. Well, nothing as dreadful as that occurred, but it certainly wasn't the plain sailing that all the others had been. In the past, I have turned up for my 0900, or 0930, appointment and always, within half an hour, have been shown to 'the chair' (not a good name, I think; they ought to call it something else!) and the whole thing has got going. Not, however, yesterday. Let me tell you about it:
08.40: My dear friend arrived to pick me up, and we arrived at the hospital in good time.
08.55: She dropped me at the door and went off to park.
09.00: As I walked through the entrance, the fire alarms started to go off. Not only were the lifts off, but we were not allowed to use the stairs. The lobby area got more and more crowded, and I started to get twitchy. How long would this go on? Three hunky firemen were a distraction but not, sadly, a sufficient one: I am clearly getting old.
09.20: It was all cleared up and we were released. Up to the day ward, where I was logged in, tagged and told to go and sit in the waiting room. As ever, almost as a reflex, I asked if my drugs had come up. Always, in the past, the answer has been a reassuring 'yes'. Not this time. They weren't there and nobody could tell how long they would be. Oh dear. We repaired to the waiting room. And waited. And waited.
10.30: I was distinctly concerned, since both my friend and I had meetings planned for the afternoon. 11.30: I was getting really unhappy.
11.35: They said the drugs were on their way and took me through to be attached to the drip. Huge sighs of relief: we should just make it. As we walked through, I foolishly said to Poppy (the wonderful nurse doing all this for me) that I had been retaining lots of fluid over the last three days - putting on in excess of a pound a day. Her face fell. She finished putting up the drip, then announced that she would have to ask the doctor about that one, since she had never come across it before. Oops.
11.45: The relevant Senior Registrar, it transpired, did not carry a bleep (not impressed - why wouldn't you carry a bleep?) and wasn't answering her mobile phone. The other one would not deal with the query because I was not his patient.
11:50: A compliant and wonderful registrar was found and came to look. We had an intelligent conversation, and he agreed that the treatment could continue. Ice cap on.
12.05: Drugs start going through. I pretend not to be totally twitchy. My friend talking about anything to keep me distracted. I silently thank God for her presence, keeping me sane.
12.10: Polly announces that my home drugs have not come up. Would I mind collecting them at Pharmacy? Of course not. We go through the prescription, to be sure everything is there. There are no bone-marrow stimulating (GSF) injections. Oops again. Polly asks if I always have them. I reply in the affirmative. She stifles something and goes off to find the doctor again. Suddenly I hear her shout: the elusive SR is on the ward. All is well.
12.15: Polly returns. Prescription for GSF is on a separate sheet. Would my friend take it to pharmacy. She goes off.
12.17: Polly is copying stuff and mutters 'GSF for seven days'. 'No, five days' I say. 'She's prescribed seven'. 'Well, I usually have five'. The reply is less stifled. Off she goes again.
12.35: Friend changes ice cap, pharmacy trip having been postponed. Oh, it's cold. I am NEVER doing that again. If I get a recurrence and have to have chemo again, I'm going to wear the wig!
12.45: Polly returns. It is all sorted out. Could the prescription be taken to pharmacy?
12.50: Friend returns. Prescription deposited, but there is an hour's wait in pharmacy. There is now no way she is going to make her 13.30 meeting. I try to persuade her to leave. I can take a taxi home. She refuses. Multiple phone calls later, she has rearranged her complete afternoon. There are no words to thank her.
13.05: Drip complete; only the flush to go.
13.20: Drip down; ice cap off.
13.22: Hand thank-you present to receptionist; rush to pharmacy.
13.30: Drugs handed to me. Unnecessary dexamethasone has also been prescribed by same SR. I persuade pharmacy to take it back, rather than it getting thrown away. I explain it would be pre my next dose and I'm not having a next dose. Resist temptation to do happy jig in pharmacy.
14.00: In car to drive home. Realise that I am late for my teleconference. Ring to explain. Told to ring ASAP - they will wait.
14.15: Get home. Decide they can wait five minutes while I change, go to the bathroom and get myself some water.
16.00: Teleconference finishes. I decide I have earned a ten-minute lie down.
An hour later I started to cook. It turned into a very good evening indeed!!
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