245. Looking promising

 First of all, it’s day 13 of cycle 6 and I’ve been for a drive. More of a drive than I planned and I wasn’t overwhelmed by information overload from other cars as I feared. Changing things like the heater and air con are beyond me for now. Partly, I can’t remember where the buttons are but mainly because I really have to keep focused or I swerve. Friday I got a car valeting service in as the car was filthy - I think there’s a load of dust in the top of the garage. I have never seen such a shiny sparkly car. But they reversed into the garage so I could just drive out. That’s not what I do. I reverse into the laurel that is three times the size compared to when we moved here and then I smoothly (?) drive out of the second entrance. This time I had to drive across the drive and then turn out of the first exit and on the third attempt to avoid the stone walls each side, we were off - wondering how much damage the scraping sound had done. It’s a garage job but no dent, Dennis is using it as evidence that I’m not really fit to drive but I did it once before, exactly the same low wall - and I was normal then. Oh well, you see plenty of cars with scratched sides, don’t you?

Yesterday I had my quarterly CT scan. Joyce took me so we were half an hour early but I went straight in, got cannulated and we’d finished by the time of my actual appointment. I took a picture because she did it so perfectly despite the warning on the front of my file. I’m forever branded as Difficult To Cannulate!At our last consultation, Dr U said I was having my head scanned. I said the letter specified pelvis, abdomen and thorax so he said he’d put it right. Nope. Just the three areas. They looked up my details and said I’d had an MRI on my head in January and everything was clear so not to worry about it. I pointed out that 8 weeks later, the ophthalmic surgeon found secondary cancer in my eyelid so the scan had missed it and, since that’s where the cancer is located, I needed my head doing because it was something to worry about after all. They weren’t really listening so I’ll have to go back for another scan now!!

Usually they are very conscious of patient modesty. They give you a gown and a curtained area to remove any garment with metal in. This time, no such modesty. I lay on the scanner bed and then had to roll down my jeans till the zipper was past my knees, desperately trying to keep my knickers in place. Then one of the radiologists placed a sheet of paper over my knickers for modesty (while others were milling around). I thought such things didn’t bother me but obviously they do. I was as cross as one can be after taking one lorazepam -I stopped smiling maybe. Then I was warned I may feel like I want to pee but I wouldn’t. Great. The contrast dye shoots up your arm and then you lose track of it till whoooosh, it hits the throat, you taste metal and everything feels very warm for a few seconds, by which time you’re distracted because whoooosh, it hits the pelvis and there’s a ball of heat pressing on your bladder (no wonder people want to pee)/ Then it’s utter boredom as you hear a disembodied and almost incomprehensible voice issue instructions about when to breathe, hold or exhale.Unfortunately they don't tell you when it’s ok to breathe normally so you’re kind of stuck there wondering how much longer you can hold that breath!

Now comes the scanxiety, as I’ve learned it’s called in the world of secondary breast cancer (from now on referred to as SBC as it seems no one likes to write the actual words). I don’t get scanxiety. How can I when almost every scan I’ve had has failed me, starting with that false mammogram result. Look where it’s got me. Well, actually, don’t bother because no one seems to know where it is at the moment. A few possibilities but nothing worth looking into - let the capecitabine slaughter it. I thought it was slaughtering me but I’m delighted to say that apart from sporadic dry mouth/throat, almost perpetual constipation and fatigue, I feel so much better this month. Presumably my body has adjusted to it now. I do hope that’s a good thing because I know one day, capecitabine will stop working and I’ll need another treatment to control the cancer as it spreads wherever it spots a weak spot. Not having to take 18 tablets morning and evening will be the only good thing about it.

The PPS I was warned about is beginning to show up. I have bright pink patches on my palms, my heels are bright pink and I have a patch on my big toe that is lurid pink, feels like (but isn’t) an ingrowing toe nail and I stubbed it last night. Ouch.  Now I have to wait till Thursday when I’m to see Dr K, the oncologist who encouraged me to be treated in the Bexley Wing. I don’t know why I’m not at Friday’s clinic with Dr U so I’ve started imagining things, none of them good. Maybe it’s my alternative to scanxiety.

Apart from that, a scratched but shiny car and fatigue that makes me want to lie down and sleep yet again (I did it this morning - till 12.30!!), all is hunkydory. Fingers crossed. And yes, I know I owe some emails. Please don’t think I’m ungrateful - just bone idle (I now understand why they used that description).