Saturday, November 27, 2010

  I have the most horrendous lower back ache. I can hardly walk and there is no relief- not lying, not standing, not putting myself in rather precarious positions against the wall - Nothing!!! The doctor has prescribed vallium which means that most of my day consists of lying half conscious in a semi-dimmed room. As you can imagine, the memories flood back to me.
  Beside the expected: "I hate 2010" and "I wonder what I have done to deserve this much in one year"; the mind drifts in directions beyond your control.
  Naturally the next time you get sick after ceasing treatment and getting the 'all-clear' will be tremendously stressful and conjure up panic about this being the same thing as it was before.
  I think I've spoken on this before, how after five hours of Christmas shopping with screaming kids all around the stores and the non-stop chiming of 'Have Yourself A Very Merry Christmas' rings in your ears like a bad case of tinnitus- you have a headache. But of course, for us it's not a headache. It's a brain tumor.

  Come on, you know what I'm talking about? You have cold sore on your lips because you're run down because you're getting the big C again, not because of some germ you've picked up unknowingly. And the doctors, sure they indulge you and send the swab off to pathology or peruse your full bloods but lets be honest, that smirk is not so easily hidden. They tell you that it's all right that you are a little on edge but it's followed by a nervous chuckle because they (just like everybody else) wonder why it really is so hard for us to let go. 

  It's a fine line between being vigilant and paranoid. I've crossed over, I'm sure. Slouched with my swollen, crying face buried into the cool leather of our couch, wailing that 'There's a lump! There's a definate lump in my back! Right next to my spine! Damn it, can't you feel that? I feel it, and I know my body!' And of course, it's the same as that other lump one year and six days ago. It is hard and cannot be moved. Lymphoma, for sure. 
  Then of course we Google (which is never a good idea) and learn that lymphoma quite often spreads to the spinal fluid. And off I go on tangents of whether I would have treatment agin, where I would spend my last few weeks, how I could possibly tell my mum. Don't get me wrong, I'm not dramtic by nature but these are possiblities which are not so far fetched now.

  Realistically, my back is probably a strain or subluxtaion from where I lifted something and twisted or move in the wrong direction. The fact is, treatment has made my body an unrecognisable lump of flacid indulgence. I have the body of a seventy year old and it is weighing me down as much as these sombre thoughts are.
  The term 'viscious cycle" is a shameful understatment.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. That I can't be more brave or more strong. I'm sorry that many nights this thing gets the better of me . I feel sore tonight, and have been as sick as chemo ever made me. The oncologist has said that my constant stomach upsets are a side effect of the treatment, my system is trying to clear the toxins from my body and rebuild the tissue in my lymph areas.  
I feel so alone and no longer try to look for the words to explain my condition to others. Now, I just stay quiet. After all, it's been a while now. That's what they would say. Even if they didn't voice that, I would imagine that's what they were thinking.

It has been too many nights with, to now be suddenly without. I'm sorry.

Wednesday, November 3, 2010