A very chemo Crimbo: treatment 1

How my first week on chemo played out - panic, wigs, picc, park run...

I’ve had some glorious Christmases. 2024 has not been one of them. But don’t worry, this is not going to be a Scroogefest.

Because today is five days since my first chemotherapy treatment and I am feeling fantastically, joyfully ME again.

Here’s how it went:

December 23:

black coffee at last!

I’ve already met the team who’d be looking after me and seen the kit used to infuse the three different treatments. I’ve had to fast, so that my bloods could be measured, but as I’ve fasted pretty much every Monday since August 2012, this s tiny element of familiarity on a very peculiar day. Except no coffee allowed until after the test!

There are more consent forms with more scary warnings. A wait for the bloods to come back ok. And now, apparently, I am ready.

As ready as I’ll ever be…

My picc line - the plastic tube that allows me to receive chemo without having to find a fresh blood vessel each time - is checked and rinsed. Already, I love my line with a possessive passion. I’ve even bought it a cover.

because picc lines deserve animal prints

Next come the meds to reduce the chances of my body reacting to chemicals that are, to say the least, unexpected. Anti-histamines and steroids. I pull on my compression socks and gloves. I admire my still fresh manicure (designed to protect my nails from UV after treatment). I finally get a black coffee. During the wait, I do the regulation steps that my Fitbit suggests, 250 an hour to stay active.

While we’re waiting for the meds to kick in, time for cold-capping. I’m going to post about that, and hair, separately, as it’s a whole other saga. In some ways, also a distraction. And, at least the first time, more bearable than I feared.

But now it’s time for the hard stuff. Immunotherapy first, then the chemo drug that makes you lose your hair, and to complete the trio, one with platinum! Or something… I have decided to learn slowly, here, rather than do the crash course.

what a pretty colour of bag

Altogether, we are at the hospital for over six hours. It never quite gets boring - I am too on edge for that - but time stretches in the space. I don’t feel the infusions going in, the only sensation comes when the line is rinsed with saline, a slightly odd sneezy feeling in my nose that is probably my imagination.

The cap comes off, my hair has ice in it, I get my partner to take a photo as proof.

Everyone has been incredibly kind and now I get the world’s least welcome party bag, containing anti-nausea pills and steroids. And an emergency number in case of trouble.

We go home. It feels the same, I don’t. I am tired but wired. Later, nauseous, emotional, glad I’ve got round 1 out of the way.

My Fitbit tells me my resting heart rate is dropping - it hits 35 - and I panic, but apparently this is a side effect of one of these meds. If I didn’t have my smart watch, I wouldn’t have a clue.

December 24:

This morning, I go with my lovely friend to look at wigs. It is surreal - I’ll save that up for another post, so I can share the hilarious photos. In the afternoon, she injects me in the tummy with a medication to boost my immune system. In the nineties we used to meet for hangover recovery. We laugh about the change.

As darkness comes, I am less cheery. Christmas settles around us, memories, lost loved ones, comparisons, an undertone of anger. Why me/now/this?

December 25:

Like I say, not the best day. Nausea. Worrying about lack of energy and whether I am going off coffee so soon. I manage a walk, and to eat some nut roast. Force it down, along with a bit of prosecco. Don’t feel like opening gifts but then feel guilty about not thanking people for what is still wrapped up. Feeling bad about being a wet blanket when partner is trying really hard. Gavin and Stacey perks me up just enough, though.

Boxing Day:

Bored now! The nausea is well-controlled by drugs but I hate taking them so I push the boundaries a little bit and leave a longer gap, with no disasters.

It’s a beautiful bright morning and I decide to go for a walk/jog. Best thing I could have done. I am awfully slow, but I do 4k of walking with a few runs and I feel like it’s a marathon.

Afterwards, I even walk up to my office in the loft and tinker with a project, not because I have to, but because it reminds me who I am.

Yesterday:

Discombobulated - one of my favourite words, though not my favourite feeling. I am brighter. I manage to cook lunch. Dal, tempered carrots, a halloumi and broccoli curry, plus prepared bhajis and pakoras fresh from the air fryer. My appetite is back!

I know further into chemo, many people can’t tolerate any spices but I genuinely thought I’d already gone off them, so the mix of garlic, turmeric, coriander, cumin and chilli makes me tingle.

Today, now:

I did the Park Run this morning! I am very pleased with myself. Slowest time since I started running, but I bloody did it. I won’t judge myself if I can’t complete it in future but today I am me again. 100%.

If I’m honest, maybe 99%.

Because I’ve set sail now.

That’s what hits me, seeing the photo my partner took of me in the big chair, hooked up. I look small and overshadowed. Adrift? Surrounded by kindness and love and yet, ultimately, alone because no other body can come on this ride.

That’s how it has to be and I’m alright with it. All your support still means the world.

The first message has been sent to my Brussels sprout. It had better be listening!