DRAMA, daaahhhlings!

I love the journey to my appointments. There are quicker, shorter routes to the hospital, but this one is my fave.

Up the steep hill I go, me and the car in synch like a race-fit horse and rider, straining impatiently to reach the summit. Tyres eat tarmac, hooves gnaw turf. Up and up we go, collective hearts pulsing. We push, push, push.

And we’re up.

Now, we have the whole of the world ahead of us.

This is such a beautiful time of year.

Out to my right, nascent rays warm the earth, the harbour, the sea – and the prism of the island beyond. I can see the church we were married in, and the castle in whose grounds it shares home. Dots of yachts illuminate one by one; the smooth ripple of the morning breeze awakens gentle, swishing in the trees and the grasses below.

FEC, I’m off my face again!

I was thinking the other day, that if ever a screenplay was to be made of this little period of interesting-ness in my life, it would have to start with this journey. I mean, not that I’ve over-thought it or anything; but here’s the first six episodes.

The camera is side on from the passenger seat, taking in the views I’ve described, then it focuses in on the actress who would play me. As I’m a perfectionist I’d insist on say, Johansson, Winslet or Jolie (just so we get the likeness absolutely right). Actually, let’s just go with Winslet, as she’d find the driving bit easier.

Obvs we’d have Colin Firth in the carer role, just so I can write in a cameo appearance from me for every romantic mini-break you’ve heard about in my story so far. Oi oi!! I’ve loved Colin since I saw his Mr Darcy – and that’s not even a euphemism.

Once up, we’re free as birds. We have the two-mile run along the easterly ridge ahead. Life is very, very good.

Cut to Winslet, smiling, singing and laughing to Today on BBCR4 (off her head already), vaping like a beast, sitting patiently behind cyclists and learner drivers (this is the only part of the screenplay which would be fiction).

As we look down over the hill – behold! A monument bedecked in burnished gold and regal blue; Lidl, basking in the morning sun. How much better can life get?

We park at the hospital trilling merrily; the world is a wonderful place. We check in for six hours of non-stop toxic lols, and life is good. Then Colin comes in and gives me a peck on the cheek (full on tongues if I’m cameoing at that point), or some pile cream or something. I can’t cameo with Col the first 72 hours after chemo as I’d be physically toxic to him, with possible injury to Colin junior. This is a true fact. But I know you won’t tell him, will you. (As I received this information while I was alone with Head Honcho Chemo Nurse, there was that tiny, weeny, minuscule – yet quite enormous – part of me which wondered if that quarantine period could, maybe, just accidentally of course, translate in conversation once home, into five months. Shhhhhh! Virgo intacta!)

Good, innit! See you at the BAFTAs dahhlings! You’ll be in the front row, I’ll be in the Primark.

Why all this nonsense, you ask. Well, it’s simply because I am very, very happy. I choose that route because it makes my heart sing, and so I can’t ever arrive for an appointment – whether a tox-fest, or a refreshing morning PICC flush – feeling grot. I think you have to hard-wire some failsafe things into this malarkey, just to anchor you should you drift. This is one of mine.

The thing that inspired this post was the penultimate cycle, numero 5, which I have to say bloody nearly saw me off.

As the cycles have gone on, different things have happened. All of it was in the small print; none of it was guaranteed; and none impossible. I’ve had some, not all; and even some that weren’t listed in the contract. Never all together, seldom too far apart. That’s one of the many good things about this process – rarely are there any surprises. I love that.

So to discover that cycle 5 was an absolute head-banger, in terms of sheer fatigue, pukiness, and feeling generally sh*te, was a bit like knowing exactly what you’re getting for Christmas and opening the present you put on the list last because you’d run out of ideas. A touch of, ‘I knew it was coming but…uh…thanks’.

Well, talk about drama (see what I did with the opening? I’m here all week folks!).

This one brought together a collection of experiences which I had when I was pregnant – and which have happened separately along the way. As usual, I must stress, this is only medically accurate for me (in chemo and in pregnancy, I may add). I don’t think any of my readers are pregnant – unless you’ve been careless with the pill again. Keith.

Ok, let’s get down to it. Regular readers may be wondering if a guest editor has hijacked the first couple of paragraphs. New readers – we’re about to transition back to the usual coarseness. If that’s not for you, let’s uncouple now. #shagisland

Those who’ve had babies (listen up Keith, as I think it’s your first), here’s what I’ve observed.

Hunger: I’ve found that when I’ve got to eat, I’ve GOT to eat. My answer to chemo nausea is to eat my way through it. Face it head on like the bloody trouper I am. I didn’t put on four stone for my 6lb baby for nothing readers. I have form in this department.

I might have had my quinoa buckwheat organic grass fed bloody grass clippings for breakfast ten minutes ago, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to get hangry. Immediately.

The other day, such a situation befell me. I’d had my wheat arse grass porridge, but found myself in the Co-op for a pint of almond milk and a chocolate eclair. I was Marvin – eating my bloody sleeve off. I’d have scoffed the carpet had they had one.

Our Co-op is lovely- small, friendly (unless you get V at the till, she’s a right cow), slow, gentle – and mainly filled with very old people shuffling along leaving wee in their wake. I feel so much more at home there now.

I was desperate. Not able to wait til I got to the eclair cabinet, I grabbed a warm Gingsters and ran to the emptiest checkout. In front of me was Mrs H from church, laying out her meagre groceries on the conveyor belt; three slices of corned beef and five bottles of Gordon’s – ( the norm in our Co-op, I must say).

Anyway, under normal circumstances, I’d have helped old Mrs H; I’d have got all the bottles into the articulated lorry waiting outside; helped her with her card payment (PIN is 3971 if you’re interested); helped her and her corned beef slices to the taxi waiting to take her home.

Not this time.

There’s one thing standing in the way of me and my pasty. And that’s YOU, Mrs H, you selfish lady.

Move it sista – I need FOOD, and I need it NOW.

Fat: Yes, I am. But hoping for a little miracle at the end, which is what I got 22 years ago, and still have now.

Sick: I have good drugs for that, but I do feel a chunder coming on every time the evil cold cap goes on. This passes after around 15 mins, when I still feel too rough to speak, so tend to put the cardboard sick bowl on top of the cold cap, in situ, to indicate to all that the panic is over and I’m back on form. As with my experience of being up the duff, I feel sick a lot of the time.

Once, after cycle 1, my carer made me my usual stove-top coffee and I was gagging at the smell. The stock market waited nervously for 24 hours; Italians put on their best Armani, and packed their bags of 00 flour to flee to a more prosperous land; the Lavazza factory bosses started whip rounds for staff leaving presents. Luckily, order was restored the very next day with my usual vat of the aforesaid brand washing in with ease. Mamma Mia.

Tanned: maaaaaajor upside for me. As with up the duffness, my chemo cocktail heightens the production of the thing in your skin which makes you go brown. I’ve always loved a good tan, but since my lovely mumma passed away from malignant metastatic melanoma four years ago, I’ve been a bit more sensible. Anyway, top news readers – on (my) chemo – you’ve only to think pina colada and you’re a deeper shade of pale. Wearing factor 30. Result. Shallow one, I grant you, but with no eyelashes, eyebrows, a big gut and an inflammable backside, I take all the pluses I can get.

On the eyelash front, now, I’ve only got some little stubby things left. I had long ones, but they were fair, hence I’ve worn mascara since I was born. As I’ve said before, and as my friends know, I have an absolutely massive face. So, with blonde stubby lashettes, my eyes now look like two pin pricks in a doughnut. I can’t do anything about this – no falsies, extensions, blah blah, until this cycle ends and I stop shedding hair from everywhere. This is possibly the one and only thing I’ve minded about my treatment so far, just because it makes me identifiable as a patient, and I reckon that until this point, no one would have known. Damn! Busted!

Tired: This is when I make like a clockwork toy, slowing running out of steam. I call it the ‘putt putt putt putt …putt….putt…….putt……..SPLAT’ scenario. And I know when it’s coming; if I’m with others, funny things start happening. My voice starts going a little bit on the high side, by degrees, until I sound like a gentleman whose had his gentlemanly bits squished quite comprehensively. Then, something weird happens around my outer eyes – a wibbly wobbly ‘let’s go back in time to when x happened’ situation. And then, I know I’ve got about five minutes to get to a bed or sofa and go splat.

As the cycles have gone on, and I’ve got to know how this temporary me behaves, I’ve organised the day so that I can head the splats off at the pass (well, for the most part – the best laid plans and all that). I wake up very early, so if there’s anything I have to do, such as a hospital appointment (usually between 1-4 per week, sometimes on the same day), a quick Tesco swoop, a spot of garden tidying and so on, I get it done first. Almost without fail, I’ll conk out at midday, at whatever point in the cycle. I’ve made a sign to hang on the front door, which just says Resting, told the postman where to leave stuff if that sign is on; I shut the curtains and go and snore my head off.

For visitors, I’ve had to be rude up front and say that 45 minutes is my max. That’s before they say that to me! I’m hugley boring after 45 seconds, even in non-C word life, lols! Oddly, it’s very tiring talking one to one for a long time, or indeed listening to someone who has quite a lot to say for any abnormal duration. Early in the cycle, 45 minutes really is it. Later, I could do more, and I’ll want to, but if I do, I’ll go splat for the rest of the day. But then I’ve splatted out twice yesterday and today and not seen a soul. Funny, this lark, isn’t it!! I’ve even lol’d in my sleep about it!

I suppose the oddest one of these was after an 8.30am PICC flush. As I may have said before, the hospital is perilously close to my fave garden centre. (Perilously close to our financial ruin, muttered my horticulturally-agnostic carer, one time out of many.)

Peter the PICC was flushed, re-dressed and refreshed by 9.15, and eager to beat off Mrs H and all her gin-soaked pals perusing the Perovskias, I felt a quick visit to the GC was the law. Well, festuca me, as I drew into the car park, I was absolutely over bloody whelmed with tiredness. I could barely navigate the car past all the zimmer-driven oldies pissing their way into the perennials. What to do?

Quick logic check. Both carers are at work and cannot be disturbed. I’m 10 miles from home. My voice is going higher and my eyes have gone wonky. I’m so shagged out I’m looking for a washing line to sleep on. I don’t trust myself to drive.

Yes, I’m going SPLAT, faster than I can work out how to spell it.

One, simple answer. Put the back seats down, crawl in via the boot, shut those wonky eyes and have a damn good snore. Genius! I woke up 45 minutes later, pushed past the pissers and got what I wanted, all with a cheery, ‘good morning!!’ to all I encountered.

There was the other time, when I was getting a bit dizzy doo dah all the time, which I still do. Similar sitch; home alone, conked out in bed, then I need a wee. Off I set along the landing, upright but wobbly. I have terrible vertigo by the way; so I get as far as the stairwell and think, ‘oh FEC.’ I’m wibbling and wobbling; then the practical side kicks in. The only way to get to the loo, and stop changing the colour of the carpet, which could be a new F&B mix (and texture – Parp Splatt, 000) by this stage is to crawl. Yes, actually crawl. Talk about drama daaaaaaarlings – it was epic. Just like Scott of the AntArstic, only more carpet drenching. Bleuchh!

Gosh, I wish Winslet could have been with me then. She knows trauma, that girl. Not everyone survived Titanic with the dignity and the make-up she had.

Hang on a minute though. Wasn’t she the one lying on that old bit of wood (on location in a lido in Antigua with an ice machine blowing?) Didn’t she kick Leo off the inflatable dolphin dressed with a bit of old 2 be 4 in the sale from B&Q that time?

Oh Kate. Please be me. You have it sussed. (Does anyone have her number?)

Pip pip – a huge sorry for the length of this one. It’s been a while, as I’ve not been fab, but I’ve missed you. Yes, Keith, even you xx