Tag: anti-sickness medication

Breast cancer lesson number 71: You may be sore today, but you can be strong again tomorrow

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy, Happiness4 Comments

I have only been sick three times in my life. That is, until about 12 hours ago. FEC chemo two brought with it more pink pee, another ice-cream headache and, yes, you guessed it, a bit more vomit than I’d bargained for (three lots so far!). Thank goodness a) I can read my body well enough to avoid the bedding and the new mattress and b) I had an old washing up bowl by the bed (just in case).

Having experienced nausea in cycle one, I went into yesterday’s session prepared. With an extra dose of anti-sickness medication, I wasn’t even expecting to feel sick, let alone be sick. Just goes to show that, when it comes to chemo, even the best laid plans can prove fruitless.

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As with chemo cycle one, the session itself was really rather nice. I passed by blood test and had a good laugh with the nurses. I got my medication ahead of schedule and everyone seemed to like not just my pretty PICC line cover, but my chemo-friendly Shakespearean T-shirt too (it says: ‘Though she be but little she is fierce’ and it was bought for me by a kind and lovely friend).

Everything was going so well. I enjoyed my dinner and even managed a few Miniature Heroes for dessert. Then the side effects kicked in. They were two hours earlier than round one and they were more intense from the start. Once in bed, I had to lie flat. If I rolled to either side and I felt like a spirit level knocked off balance. I tried to deep breathe my way out of the nausea, but it wasn’t long before I was saying hello again to my chicken and rice supper.

My poor tummy (thank goodness I’m back at pilates so it didn’t hurt to retch) and I made it through the night (along with a very concerned Duncan and mum), only to be greeted by another pile of bile-coloured vomit. The worst bit is when you’re tummy is empty, you’ve got nothing left to give, but your body is still trying to expel something.

Eight pills, two glasses of flat lemonade, a cup of tea and two pieces of toast later and I am still (touching all wood available) keeping food down. Let’s hope that I may make it out of my pyjamas/sleep cap/dressing gown/slanket combo at some point and face the world today. And if I don’t, there’s always tomorrow.

This is the first day in a long time that I actually feel like a sick person. You can read it in my face and the bags under my eyes. You can see it lurking under my sleep cap. And, I can certainly taste it in my mouth. Chemo hasn’t defeated me, but it’s giving me a bit of a beating.

Today, I have one objective: avoid vomiting. Chemo drugs, I plan to put up a good fight.

Breast cancer lesson number 53: There is a time and a place for playing the cancer card

On By Jackie ScullyIn Reflections on cancerLeave a comment

Every patient facing a cancer diagnosis gets a card (I like to think of it as the cancer equivalent of Monopoly’s ‘get out of jail free card’). It’s a card that when played too often can all too quickly become meaningless and frustrating. But, it’s also a card that, when played tactically, can open doors and make things that otherwise seemed impossible, suddenly very possible.

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Up until now, I have been reluctant to call in the card. I don’t want to scream and shout and parade my illness in a way that makes people uncomfortable. I just want to be me. While there have been a few notable exceptions – 95% of which involve couriers and delivery drivers, absurd delivery windows and strange demands ­(the thought that someone might actually dismantle my new kitchen table if it wasn’t delivered on the day of an important hospital appointment being one) –­ my card is pretty clean (and my conscience too).

That is, until today. Today I needed the card and I was more than happy to play it. Having had another steroid high of a day (yes, beyond a constant morning mouth feeling and strange taste sensations, I am doing pretty well after my first bout of chemo), mum and I decided to catch the boat from Greenwich into the city for a lovely long walk along the river. The sun was shining and it was wonderful being carried along by the crowds. It felt normal and we felt normal. It wasn’t long, however, before we realised there was something missing. Two little white anti-sickness pills!

Having experienced a nasty helping of nausea on Wednesday night, these were two pills I wasn’t going to miss. The trouble was, time wasn’t on our side. When we arrived at the jetty to catch the next boat back we were told the boats were fully booked for the next hour. With the memory of Wednesday still firmly imprinted in my mind, we aborted plan a) (quietly sit and wait) and opted for a more assertive (while still pleasant) plan b).

As soon as the words ‘cancer’, ‘chemo’ and ‘pills’ passed my lips, we were escorted to the nearest seats and looked after my a lovely chap in a bright orange high-vis jacket. He squeezed us on the next boat as a ‘priority case’ and we got back just in time for me to take the drugs. I will be forever thankful to this tall, dark, bright-orange clothed man and am now looking forward to – rather than dreading – the smell of sausage casserole filling the kitchen.

It may seem like a small incident, but that moment taught me the real power of ‘playing the card’. I felt weirdly untouchable and important. When I had actually got over the guilt of knowing it was my own fault for forgetting the pills, however, I also felt a little sad. It’s rare that I am reminded of the seriousness of the cancer that tried to take my life. The truth is, you don’t have to be being treated for the illness to know just how scary the whole thing is. When cancer comes into play, everything feels like a race against time. Trust me, it’s a powerful card, and it’s one I hope you’ll never have to play.

There was another reminder waiting for me at home of the doormat – confirmation of my histology results. For the first time, printed in black and white were the words: ‘multifocal grade 3 invasive pleomorphic lobular carcinoma with admixed LCIS’. As well as my dominant tumour, my naughty breast was also filling up with LCIS (lobular carcinoma in situ). With the LCIS and the invasive mass, the total tumour measurement came to a total of 60mm. Add in the lymph node involvement and that puts me in the stage 3 camp. High-grade, aggressive, and not very fun. The good news? It was stage 3 (click here for the science) and not 4 and it’s out. I have a life – and a wedding – to look forward to and my fight will end. I am lucky. But, I know there are many people who are not so and, for that, I am very sorry indeed.

It was a letter packed with medical terminology. But, it still made me smile. Tagged on the end, after talk of ‘macrometastic disease’ and ‘adjuvant therapy’, was the phrase: ‘On examination her wounds have healed well with good cosmesis’. Thanks to the wonders of Wikipedia, I looked up the word ‘cosmesis’ and discovered it to mean: ‘the preservation, restoration, or bestowing of bodily beauty’. In short, the new boob is pretty good looking. I’ll take that. It’s in a medical letter. It must be true. It may not have a nipple, but the shape is there.

Of course, fuelled by my steroid high and no longer fearing the nausea I didn’t dwell on the letter or the boat trip. Mum and I proceeded to clean the kitchen floor (until I cut a finger on my right hand and went racing for the Savlon), do the washing, hang out the washing, change some lightbulbs, do some composting and cook up some Turkish delight. The dinner is now on. Let’s hope when the steroids wear off tomorrow, the positivity and productivity continue. There’s publishing work to get back to next week!

Cancer doesn’t do days off. In most cases, a pill or a layering of antiseptic cream will bury it in the background for a moment, but it never goes away. At some point, you will need that card. Hold it safe and play it wisely ­­– and dream about the day when you won’t need to play it again.

Breast cancer lesson number 51: Where there’s a will, there’s a way

On By Jackie ScullyIn Chemotherapy4 Comments

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What would you crave after a steroid-induced sleepless night? A really good shower. What does a PICC line usually prevent you from enjoying? A really good shower. That is, unless you, like me, have a new plastic protection sleeve as part of your chemo kit list! Meet LIMBO.

Ok, so it looks like I am about to enter a radioactive zone. But, as a sleeve for keeping my arm dry, this rather odd tube is pretty effective. And, most importantly, the shower was really good (worth mentioning I did not shower fully clothed, but I don’t think you’d want to see the rest!). I won’t dwell on the fact I am now over-analysing every part of me to make sure nothing is falling off – or the fact I cut my legs shaving for the first time in about a decade.

If I’m honest, the last 24 hours is not something I would like to repeat (only 21 days to go until I have to sadly). I think I have got off lightly so far, but here’s the side effect list. It’s steadily growing…

a)    A nasty bout of nausea lasting from 4.30pm until about 11pm (but my ‘three vomits in a lifetime’ record is still in tact thankfully). We had some emergency extra anti-sickness meds, so these were taken and made me feel a lot better.
b)    A bright red face (maybe hot flush, maybe drug reaction, definitely not temperature). More a source of amusement rather than a pain.
c)     A sleepless night (for me, Duncan and mum). Steroids made me wide awake, but my body was screaming for sleep. Too weary to read or get up. Too bright-eyed to rest.
d)    An ice-cream headache. Easing this morning thankfully.
e)    A dry mouth. I feel like I have consumed two bottles of wine and haven’t drunk any water for days. This couldn’t be further from the truth.
f)     Weird taste sensations. Tea still tastes good, but it feels like it has been diluted down (if that makes sense). The taste is there, but my palate has been suppressed. I know Weetabix tastes like cardboard on a good day, but today it was hideous.

The chemotherapy hangover on its own is not particularly exciting. Add in the continuing effects of surgery and the ‘trying-to-get-comfortable’ game is not particularly pleasant. I roll onto one side in bed and find PICC line. I roll onto my other and the odd sensations in my bad arm and new boob kick in. I lie on my back and my tummy pulls through the body corset. In the end, I ditched the corset in favour of some Bridget Jones-style pants and felt a little better. Thanks to more than 30 wonderful university friends, we have a new mattress arriving today (the last one was given a shelf life of 10 months when I bought it more than a decade ago), so hopefully that will help us as we search for sweet dreams tonight.

Of course, it’s not all bad. I don’t have a temperature. The pink pee is getting lighter. My appetite is still there (even if the food tastes weird). There wasn’t a strand of hair in my sleep cap and I’m even getting chemo tips from the boss. Plus, flat lemonade is really exciting. The weirdest part is just not knowing what to expect next. Thankfully mum and Duncan aren’t staring at me constantly for the next reaction.

Having popped eight pills this morning, I am hoping for a quiet and better day. The queasy drops are working, the baby toothbrush is kind on my mouth, and today’s mission is fresh pineapple (before settling down with a good book and a film).

I’m still smiling. If this is it, I will be very lucky. If it isn’t, I may need to dig a bit deeper and cling on to every bit of positivity I have. Here’s hoping for a better night.