I am absurdly excited by the forthcoming Bank Holiday. Last year, I can’t remember what we did. I do remember being in the supermarket with Mark and wondering whether Easter had happened or not. My thought processes were so scrambled from chemo and the amount of information being thrown at us that I was unable to think straight. Today, although my thought processes are still muddy, I am so much clearer and better that I am able to look forward with keen anticipation. Yes, I know I’m not working but the thought of 3 days without appointments or any other kind of distraction is very, very appealing.
Today had a good start. Thanks to the idea of one of my blog followers, I contacted my GP to ask if I could be prescribed an Acti-Glide sleeve to help me put my compression sleeve on. A day after I sent her the email, I receive a phone call from the surgery informing me there is a prescription for me. A day later and I am the proud owner of a bright blue Acti-Glide sleeve. It is made out of a kind of woven plastic and has elastic and a plastic tie. The instructions seem very simple so I try it out and hey presto! My sleeve is on magically without the sweating and carry on I have enjoyed before. I slip on my tattoo and I am ready to go (having showered and dressed first – I am not going out in just my sleeve, not even if you pay me).
Today we go to Cambridge so I can work with some researchers looking at an intervention to help people share bad news with friends, family, colleagues etc. We drive past fields full of gloriously yellow rape. The skies are dark and the contrast is stunning. We arrive at Hughes Hall and Mark and Dog decide to go for a walk while I meet the researchers and other patients. They provide lunch which is plentiful but slightly bizarre. There are sandwiches with the crusts cut off, wraps and, on just one platter, half a bagel. It looks as though lunch has been composed of left-overs but it tastes fine and it is kind of them to feed us. There are 6 of us excluding researchers, all having experience of cancer first-hand. Ann, a lady sitting opposite me, has had bowel cancer and, just before her fifth anniversary, found out she has developed bladder cancer. Her friends and family had arranged a party to celebrate her 5 years clear and she had to announce her new diagnosis. I can only guess what this may feel like and she is clearly distressed at recalling the very recent events. We discuss what sort of information might be useful but it’s difficult to imagine what anyone fresh from diagnosis may be able to take in. It’s an interesting meeting, though, although periodically I wonder about Mark and Dog as the rain lashes down outside followed by bright sunshine.
At the end of the afternoon, we leave the meeting. Ann and I swap email addresses and I find Mark and Dog in the car, waiting for me. We drive home via the supermarket where, full of Bank Holiday cheer, I run around throwing lovely things into the trolley. I plan to buy a big tub of sweets for the Chemo Suite staff as it is my final dose of Herceptin tomorrow but, amid legs of lamb, pots of fresh herbs and cream, I somehow manage to forget this completely, only remembering as we drive away.
It is one year since I began receiving Herceptin. I started the infusions in a confused and chaotic state and cannot remember exactly when the first dose was given. The only thing I remember is being given the first dose carefully and slowly in case I had an allergic reaction to it. I was bald and was being given my first dose of Docetaxel, the wonder drug made from Yew trees. Light sensitive, it is given under a protective bag to keep it dark.
This weekend will be a celebration. On Saturday we are having lunch with friends and I plan to make arrangements to fly in our friends’ light aircraft, another of my firsts. The fact that it coincides with a Bank Holiday just makes it extra special. I have been so lucky with the support and love of friends and my immediate family. I am not sure I could get through it without them.