My brain has turned to mush. On a mush scale of 1 to 10, 1 being like a somewhat firm pear, 10 being an explosion in an overripe pear factory, I am about 11 like my Spinal Tap friends. I cannot think properly, make decisions or cross roads. Actually, I do cross roads but with no confidence that I will get to the other side before being hit by something. My senses of distance, time and judgement are all impaired. It is obviously at this point that one would think to change everything and go down a more stressful road. So, yes, we are thinking of moving. The plan had been to move a couple of years ago but that pesky little inflammatory breast cancer got in the way so we postponed. Once I was NED, we thought about it again and, it being a daunting task, went slowly so that by the time we made the decision, that little bugger had got back and in touch and made residence in my lungs. Such a killjoy.
The week is blessed by a visit from Ms Mason from far flung fields. She gamely agrees to come on a house hunting trip with us which involves holding the bag of treats in the back of the car and complaining about the sat nav. The chemo regime I had begun in June seems to be doing a bad job. My lungs are worse and, as you possibly read before, resulted in me being detained after a meeting with the oncologist. There is a tense period while I am discussed at the Multi Disciplinary Team Meeting and, late on a Friday, I am told I can have oral chemotherapy which will start the following Monday. I see Fica, the lovely registrar who explains everything and passes me on to the secondary breast cancer nurse who goes through things in more details. I am adding another 9 tablets a day to my current level and have to take them at the same time each day with roughly the same amount of food in my stomach. Hmmmm. And to manage to take the steroids for my lungs which have their own considerations. I start to add up the ‘essential’ drugs and stop when I get to 29. I cannot cope with the numbers. My mushy brain can’t seize the information and I know I have to also take some every day and others get reduced. I need a whole new drug diary and my head just isn’t up to working the dates out. Yet.
I have been wearing a scarf or hat to cover my lack of hair but while we are away, I decide to dispense with it. We go into a coffee shop for a late lunch and the young man serving clearly thinks I am under supervision of two carers. He smiles widely and shows me two menus on the wall. “This is food” he beams, “and this is for drinks!” He alternates his head, indicating each one. “Food and drink!” He is nothing but polite but clearly thinks I am not capable of deciding and refers visually to Mr and Ms Mason before allowing me an Orange Fanta and a smoked salmon bagel. Throughout our stay he smiles encouragingly at me. I am too weak to protest his happy conclusions.
At this point, you may realise this is all old news. I don’t find the energy to blog because I feel so ill. A wheelchair has been ordered and my chemotherapy has been changed. Sorry, too tired mentally, physically and emotionally to do more but please be assured I am OK, just needing to recover strength as even standing is hard at the moment. Normal service, as always, will be resumed and it will be worth waiting for as Mr Mason helps me take a bath. The bath bit is not too bad but getting me out is another matter. Something to look forward to, I hope.