Diary

Dear, well, you know who you are…

9

On my walk, on the morning of July the 10th, I spoke to Michelle of my fears for today. I reasoned with her as we trudged along the muddy track along the top of Pussell’s Wood that whatever the result, the only thing that will change is the amount of knowledge we hold. I concluded that I was expecting anything from, ‘You have a week to live…’ to ‘Oh my goodness, you’re a bleeding miracle!’ Though obviously I was hoping for something a little nearer to the latter.

A busy morning with the start of construction of the steps in the back garden and the continuation of the floor preparation in the garage. Then, of course, it was Nigel’s oncology appointment to discuss the MRI findings. Oh, I was not looking forward to this.

Parked quickly and easily, arrived promptly and had bloods taken swiftly. All good so far. Then, at just five minutes after our appointed time, we were summoned. Professor Beresford asked after Nige’s wellbeing,

“I’ve been alright overall. I’m getting these strange nervous attacks which have got more often since the MRI thing but other than that… Actually I do have a headache at the minute.”

Nodding, smiling and with four monitors staring at us from his desk, he replied,

“The headaches do corroborate what’s here on the scan I’m afraid…”

My tummy didn’t lurch like that initial diagnosis back in September, but just fell away a bit. My mouth went dry though. Nige just nodded and said,

“I thought so. Well, I thought something was going on.”

When we visited Dr Barua in Southmead (all of us, en masse), we collectively refused to look at the scan results. Instead, each of us choosing to have a different visual manifestation of the tumour that had, uninvited, attached itself to Nigel’s brain. No such luxury this time with the monitors seemingly encompassing the entire room. Eagerly, Prof Beresford sought to explain the scan. He compared it to the one taken just after the operation last October where we could see just a black chasm. The recent one however had a little extra something next to the same hole. The tumour apparently, back for it’s encore. Odd, I never saw it as a white, fluffy cloud. And where were the teeth? It would appear, and I’m paraphrasing a bit here, that the radiotherapy and chemotherapy thus far has proved fucking useless and the bastard tumour is back. The complete cunt.

*

What next, I hear you cry?

Well, something called PCV chemotherapy. We have a handout offering us a full explanation but the gist is:

There are six courses, each course takes 42 days (6 weeks) and consists of:

A blood test, followed by a trip to the Chemotherapy Day Unit for treatment. This is delivered via a drip, through a cannula. Then we start a 10 day course of procarbazine capsules. Thirty two days off before we begin again. It’s gruelling and a bit of a knock back but, hey, I think we both thought this was what we were getting with the last lot of chemo!

On our return home from this ‘punch in the stomach’ meeting, we were met by Nick, who was levelling the garage floor. I think he could tell by my face that things hadn’t gone to plan.

“It can take years some time to find the right treatment for these things Liz. Hang in there, I mean, so that didn’t work but this might!”

He’s right of course. We always knew that we were facing a full-scale war but we became complacent in the face of his improved health. With everyone commenting on how well Nige looked and how well he’d done, we forgot (briefly) that the problem was still there. As I said earlier, nothing changed except the amount of knowledge we now had. And that’s power.

Whenever Nige went upstairs I cried. Whenever I left the room, I cried. At 8 o’clock I took myself down to the van to apply my long awaited stickers. For a while I stopped crying and started planning. Not anything major, just where the gold stars and the silver stars needed to go…

As I reflected on the day I realised what was bothering me most. It wasn’t the return of the tumour – we half expected that. It wasn’t the thought of 6 months of gruelling chemotherapy – I can support Nige ten-fold with that. It wasn’t even the thought of having to rethink my job situation. No, it was seeing that bloody scan, putting a face to the name (finally) was surprisingly hard. It meant that whenever Nige gets a headache, for all eternity, I’ll see that fucking white cloud buggering up our life. With it’s metaphorical teeth.

 

 

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