Oncology (Shock and Awe Part 2)

This year I had intended to be in the South of France, Northern Italy and Croatia about now celebrating a significant birthday. A global pandemic put the kibbosh of that. Weirdly it wouldn’t have happened anyway because I would have been sat at Auckland Oncology having chemotherapy.

I love travelling. I especially love warm places and the sea. I also love vineyards, museums, churches, olive groves, swimming, eating outside, limoncello, staying up late, dancing, exploring and getting lost in old towns. In saying all that I also love the UK, which has most of the things I love, except for a sea you’d want to swim in or warmth (but for, in my experience, a couple of days per annum of stupid, humid hotness in an unairconditioned office, where we were forced to eat iced lollies whilst seated on the concrete floor). I still dream about London and I haven’t lived there for 20 years. When I was homesick I used to walk onto the middle of London Bridge at night and look at Tower Bridge, the city, the river, Southwark and the lights. It made me feel like I was in the centre of the world. To compensate for my inability to physically travel I have read lots of books - that way I can go somewhere in my head - and if I read by the fire I can feel the warmth of the Mediterranean sun. If I read outside I can pretend I’m on London Bridge.

My appointment with my oncologist on my first day of chemo was in Remuera at 8:30am. Now that is about the worst appointment time one can have when you live in the bloody outback. The other very bad appointment time is 4pm. I caught a cab into town and arrived at 7:48am. It was freezing cold. I crossed the road and sat in St Michael’s Church (the church I was married in) for half an hour. Two people asked me if there was Mass that morning so I must have looked suitably devout. Remarkably the wooden pew I sat on was warm. I took it as a sign - but on reflection maybe someone else had been sitting there earlier. Either way, what is the chance of sitting on a lovely warm wooden pew on a freezing cold day in a church with a very, high ceiling? God’s house was very peaceful - despite me being in it. As I said above I love churches and St Michael’s church is very beautiful and it’s interior is red, my favourite colour.

My friend Inger met me at the Oncologist’s at 8:30am. I had a bag full of supplies - woolly blanket, snuggly socks, gingerbread biscuits, lunch, a book called “How to be a Complete and Utter Blunt” by James Blunt (thanks Eugene, some of the tweets made me laugh out loud), IPad, headphones, glasses, restorative confectionery and Inger bought magazines, herbal tea, M&Ms and her fabulous, hilarious self.

We met with the fantastic and very funky Sheridan (my oncologist) before I main lined some cancer killing drugs . Sheridan was rocking the most awesome outfit. I was too busy loving her outfit for the first few minutes to properly listen to what she was saying. I needed to compliment her on her sartorial elegance before I could focus. Once that was out of the way we had a good chat and then I realised I forgot to ask her about all my base line tests - heart scan, bloods and urine (sorry if too much information, but you have probably read all about breast amputation and I suspect that is worse). I guess those tests must have been OK.

I spent the morning with a cooling unit on my head in an attempt to save my now short hair. I wish I had one at home to put on when I get migraines. I almost liked it, as I had a headache going into it. I didn’t have a headache when the cooling unit came off 4 hours later. I can’t use any heat on my head for the next 4 and a half months. No brushing, no blow drying, no dying, no visits to the salon, no straightening irons - I now have a curly shambles going on up top. As I think chemo pretty much stops your hair growing I am hoping that my grey streak at the front doesn’t end up looking like Cruella de Vil, though in saying that, I could probably rock a fake Dalmatian print coat.

One of Inger’s magazines had Khloe Kardashian’s various different faces on the cover. I have never watched “Keeping up with the Kardashians” but I have seen a few episodes of “Khloe and Lamar”. I liked Khloe in that TV show. Inger and I had a conversation about poor Khloe’s plastic surgery and the fact that she was fine about her looks until she was on TV. In April she said “You never get used to being judged and pulled apart. This is how I have been conditioned to feel, that I am not beautiful enough just being me.” Just reflect on the sadness of that statement for half a minute.

And then I reflected on the fact I was sat in a room with other people, main lining drugs with an air conditioning unit on my head to stop my hair from falling out. We all have our crosses to bear. I get you Khloe. All power to you gurl. If your new face(s) make you happy then who am I to judge? I quite like having hair on my head.

I quite like eyebrows and eyelashes too - but I imagine they’ll be departing soon - as for the rest of my hair, good riddance to you. I have always been scared that my Balkan blood will manifest itself in excessive facial hair in middle age. Fortunately my British blood has kept it in check so far. Chemo will hold if off for a few more months...and then my chemo induced menopause might mean I’m bearded. I’ll deal with that as ruthlessly as Khloe has dealt with the perceived imperfections in her face.

Speaking of eyebrows - I have been without them before. I drank too much one night in the Halls of Residence at Otago University and one of my dear friends shaved one of my eyebrows off. I think he is the Chief Executive of an Australian Bank now. I had to make the very difficult decision to draw one eyebrow on or shave the other one off. I shaved the other one off.

My husband came and relieved Inger of dedicated supporter duties. He told me he thought the cooling unit on my head was similar to the head gear All Blacks wear. I preferred it when he thought I looked like a yoga instructor (refer to earlier blog). We eavesdropped on a very moaney conversation taking place across from us and gave eachother looks that only people who have been together for 20 years can decipher - and then got the giggles. I told my husband with my eyes that if I got like that he was to make me stop.

Once the chemo drugs had been diffused into me I had to keep the cooling unit on my head for half an hour afterwards. I was counting down because I was desperate to go to the loo. All those bags of chemo drugs were in me, plus a few cups of herbal tea and water…

And at long last at about 1:30pm the cooling unit came off - and I just had the herceptin and perjeta to go. Hubby left to pick up Eva from school around 2pm and I put down my novel set in Ireland (perfect cold head reading) and then did emails. I was stoked to see my old school debating team mate, Michael Robinson, has been appointed a (young) High Court Judge and that his chambers buddy, Davey Salmon, has been appointed QC.

I was all finished around 3:30pm (7 hours!) and was collected by my family. The ride home was in that 4pm appointment traffic I so hate.

I felt good straight after chemo and went for a 5km walk. The next day I felt pretty good too and got a 6km walk in. I had to go to see the oncology nurses for an immune booster shot that makes your back hurt. Day 3 I had a wee bit of drama (all fine though) and felt like I could sleep for a year. The worst side effect is fatigue, followed by thirst, followed by nausea. It feels like having a new born baby and morning sickness at the same time. I’m day 4 post chemo today and have come off some of the drugs. The nausea is a bit worse today and I have an unpleasant metallic taste in my mouth so I am regularly partaking in one of my gifts - a packet of Disappoint Mints.

So far, so good. I feel way better than I thought I would. Everything is controlled by a drug regime attached to my fridge. Those nearest and dearest to me know how much I LOVE a good schedule. Check this beauty out:

I am so grateful to be alive now when there is so much knowledge and I can be treated and monitored. I am profoundly grateful for the care of the truly wonderful medical professionals I have surrounding me. And I am also profoundly grateful for the flowers and gifts that still keep coming. Thank you everyone. Here are some particularly amusing gifts I have received recently. The sweary colouring book had a post-it note on the “Calm your tits“ page.

So here’s hoping that in the not too distant future, in a post COVID world, I will be well again. I can walk to the middle of London Bridge and reflect on the air conditioning unit I once wore on my head. I can swim in the Adriatic Sea; eat cheese and fresh baguettes in the South of France; cycle around vineyards; sit and read in the shade of an olive grove; drink limoncello, chiati and champagne; get lost in some old towns - and if it all goes well I might even go to Mass sometimes, especially if the pews stay warm. In the meantime I have books and music and a cosy fire to stretch out in front of.

One chemo down, five to go. Shock and awe part 2 is on!

PS: I heard this song on the radio today and thought it summed up my young self. I didn’t get married until I was well into my 30s because I was restless. I also had terrible taste in boys. My husband is amazing (he hasn’t even paid me to say that). He is excellent at grounding me and helping to put me back together when I get broken (which doesn’t happen often but when it does it is spectacular, like cancer). This is for you you Luvvy https://youtu.be/fmVFeyHeJQg