162. Stream of consciousness

Ok, here goes. I’ve not written anything for a week which is disappointing but also good. Good because it suggests there’s been nothing to write about. That must mean things are on the up.

It doesn’t feel like it. However, they can be a bit comical, to me at least.

I’ve been off the anastrozole for 8 days and, if anything, the joint and muscle pain is worse than ever.  I wonder how long it takes to get this evil drug out of my system? Meantime, my hands now get locked if they aren’t moved for any length of time (in tai chi today, I had to stop and straighten my little fingers manually because they wouldn't do it on their own accord). If I grasp something, my hands cramp. Not so amusing.

                   

I walk like John Wayne after a hard day’s riding. I limp because my heels are on fire (I’m told that’s the plantar fasciitis for which I can do exercises rolling my feet back and forth on spiky balls - great, except I have neuropathic pain the medication can’t reach so spiky balls feel like instruments of torture. The alternative is a bottle of frozen water - great, except the pain of the cold is as bad as the pain I’m trying to get rid of). If it’s not my heels holding me back

I can find an excuse for avoiding anything that is meant to do me good.


I am regaining tiny bits of my body. I stopped sweating with chemotherapy and didn't restart. Who’d have thought a woman would want to celebrate the fact that she can smelly-sweat again? Back to the anti-perspirant after all these months.

My chemo curls have gone.

I weigh over 9 stone now. I bought some size 10 skinny jeans since I was squeezing into my size 8 jeans. I can’t wear skinny, that’s for sure. They've been sent back, with a request for the straight-legged version.

I found a great little bra in Asda. It looked perfect and had a pocket inside the pre-formed cup, indicating it had been designed for what they now call Post Surgery Bras. I popped in my prosthesis and my heart sank, along with the prosthesis. My own boob fitted perfectly but I’ve gained 24lb since I was fitted. My prosthesis sank to the bottom of the cup, leaving a hollow that stretched in the oddest ways. Too late to take it back but at the grand price of £7, I can let it go. Obviously I need a new prosthesis.

              

Maybe I should have a balloon I can inflate and deflate as the need arises. Alternatively I could resort to the tricks of early adolescence and stuff the space with cotton wool or kapok. I’m not sure I want to. I am a small-breasted woman. I don’t want to look like Miss R, my history teacher, who had what I would describe as a platform chest. She couldn't fold her arms. I remember finding that hilarious, horrid child that I was. Child? I was 16!




My face still droops. Dennis notices it sometimes before I can feel it. I think a full upper lip is meant to sound attractive. I had one. This full upper lip is inside and it draws my lip inwards - feels horrible.

The house continues to present challenges. Right now it’s a leaking downstairs toilet. Fortunately, this is a toilet that we know is never used so it’s not so bad but no one can come till Wednesday (has to be a Saniflo expert). Now we know someone is coming Wednesday, water is flowing out from wherever. I know how to disconnect a toilet from the water supply but can’t access the necessary screw to do that. We’ll be squeezing out towels every half hour now.

However, Storm Dennis proved a damp squib here. No flooding. Thank you Mr Gallagher for digging all those little trenches.