In the car, we discussed the name for the breast blog. ‘I need a better name than just The Breast Blog,’ I said.
‘You should call it ‘The Breast Blog in the World,’ said Fred.
It’s perfect. Like finding the right name for your child. It made me happy all the way there.
Arrived at half past two. They called us into the ‘pod’ about an hour later. I lay on the bed with the back up. Fred had the chair.
My nurse, Carolyn, was really informative, obviously loves her job. Two nurses have to check obsessively all the time that you are the right person. Name, date of birth, first line of address, only then are the drugs forthcoming.
The pod was full of peeps. The man next to us had been there since nine in the morning. The young girl opposite had a cold cap on. It can slow down hair loss.
Carolyn put the cannulla in a vein in the left hand, taped it on neatly. ‘Do you not put it in the elbow?’ I asked.
‘Well, better in the hand, in case of a bad local reaction… the further down the limb the better,’ she replied.
‘Worst case scenario, amputation, you mean,’ I realised. She nodded. It’s the reality.
I clutched Warrior Man in my right hand. She put through a bag of steroids which help prevent an allergic reaction to the drug. She gave me an anti-sickness pill. Twenty or so minutes later she flushed with saline for about twenty minutes. Then she put the bigger bag of docetaxel on the drip, covered in a dark brown bag as it is sensitive to light. I must say, it had a bit of an ominous look.
The nurse said she would stay with us, as if you are going to have an allergic reaction it will happen usually during the first few seconds. All went well, though. I felt nothing, just the cold going up the arm, and a bit light-headed. And then suddenly giggly, as Carolyn said the wig lady had retired, and Fred said, ‘don’t worry, we’ve got lots of wigs at home in the dressing up. You could wear the big curly blonde wig.’ He seemed really chuffed by this idea, a blonde wife at last. Really had quite a massive laugh. Carolyn had warned us about the euphoria from the steroids. You have to be quite careful not to succumb to giggling wreckdom for too long, or you can crash again quite badly.
So there I was, trying to quench my laughter. Whenever Fred said annoying things I pointed Warrior Man at him which got us laughing again. We were watching the lovely girl with the cold cap on. Fred was reading the chemo booklet about hair loss still. He said, ‘Oh look, you lose all your body hair. That’s good, I suppose?’
It must be recorded here that both of us simultaneously invented the idea of the muff-protecting cold cap. Don’t try to claim it for your own, Fred! We thought how funny it would be to turn up next time with a prototype. I mean, who really wants to save their pubes? Apart from me I mean? Maybe lots of people. This thought reminded me of the Happy to be Hairy poem, Ancestors by Adrian Mitchell. ( If you want to read it: http://wonderingminstrels.blogspot.co.uk/2000/04/ancestors-adrian-mitchell.html )
Our uncontrollable spasmic hoots were probably disturbing the man next to us, but he and his wife didn’t seem to mind.
Rode at the front of the top deck back to the Park and Ride. Still moderately high as a kite nine hours later at four in the morning. Body feels well oiled, pumping away, beautifully comfortable and energetic. Hey, enjoy it while it lasts….