Yesterday we trundled off to St James’s yet again, this time for Den’s counselling (he is so getting into the swing of all this - he even told his ‘7am Friend’ Suzanne about it this morning, it seems). Had it registered that this would mean an additional 6 journeys to a place I am, for obvious reasons, not overly fond of, I might not have suggested it. However, the benefits to him (and therefore us) outweigh the frustrations of finding myself on the wrong bloody road in Harehills every flipping time. I used to visit so many schools round there and I used to travel through it on an almost daily basis when I was an adviser, I thought I knew the place. However, narrow residential streets are no longer through routes, many are one way and one of the roads has a concreted barrier between the two lanes, the only way to try to control the crazy drivers of Harehills, who drive to their own version of the Highway Code. Yes, I got lost again. Fortunately I still carry my trusty but outdated A-Z and, after a couple of hairy manoeuvres, managed to get back on track and enter the hospital at the right place.
I sat in peace and quiet for about 30 minutes, then the crowd came out from their Moving On course and I found myself in conversation with three women, all trying to convince me I must do the Looking/Feeling Good course. I think the decisive factor for me was when the woman with very black tattooed eyebrows said her eyebrows had been as pale as mine before. I actually had used my eyebrow pencil that morning, a relatively new and post-chemo custom, so I was pretty insulted. I shan’t be going. I really have had enough of cancer and the thought of a day being jollied along when every bone in my hands and feet hurts and my knees feel ancient, all for a bag of very appealing goodies like Mac eyeshadow and Kenzo perfume, just lacks any appeal for me now.
So what does 2020 hold in store for me? Acupuncture and a blood test next week. Zometa infusion the following Monday (more chemo, but good for my bones). An MRI somewhere along the line (I have the appointment date for getting the results, but no date for the actual MRI) and a referral to Neurology. I wonder if I changed oncologists, I might get one who said ‘You know what, you may be right. It may not be a coincidence that all this muscle misbehaviour started after the first week of chemotherapy so what you are experiencing is side effects.’ How good it would be to feel I’m being heard rather than just referred on for more medical procedures and consultations that cost the NHS money.
In the meantime, I wait till my pharmacist can obtain Accord and I can give it a go as my hormone therapy brand. I’ve reverted to my Teva after a week on the replacement brand that just made me so much worse. If Accord can’t be acquired and/or doesn’t do the trick, I face the dilemma: living with a lot of pain and discomfort that will stop me doing stuff I’d like to do (you should see me walking down the stairs at the moment - I’m laughing hysterically inside while I’m clutching the bannister without using the outer part of my hand (too painful) and walking like John Wayne); or coming off anastrozole, known to be the most effective drug in reducing the chances of recurrence, and trying something different, with no guarantee that I won’t get the same side effects. It’s ‘kinder.’ Great. That’s just what I was told about paclitaxel and that was mini-hell.
Back to the start of the new decade. Last year, I assumed all this would be sorted and behind me. Nope. No chemo, no radiotherapy, but otherwise, no different to 2019. Grrrr.
Oh cheer up woman!
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