Well a very good evening to you all, loyal poultry fans – and what a pleasure it is to invade your quiet soiree, one and all. What are you doing anyway? Is it Strictly (#whocares #goodbye50%offollowers)? Boris’s Bonkers Bumblings? (#wtf) or…?
So, what brings me to this keyboard ce soir?
A number of things. First of all – and if you followed my breast-tastic adventures two years ago, you’ll know this – (all in the same blog, new readers – just scroll on down!) I need something funny about this hilarious rollercoaster of ridiculously undignified happenings which is cancer treatment – to set me off.
I’m going to focus on pain and drugs today. Well – I say that – who knows where we’re heading. I’m off my face (ON PRESCRIPTION DRUGS OBVS) as usual.
Anyway, back to pain and drugs. Lord knows, most of us experience one, and need the other, of a typical working day; although not me, obvs, because I have an amaaaazing new job…[enough? Too much? Bit creepy? Desperate? Whatever).
I was with some amazingly wonderful work colleagues just yesterday, who’d kindly come to see the old bag just to check I hadn’t been telling fibs, I expect me at home, to cheer me up and just be really nice people, which they are.
It was slightly awkward in that, at various points in the conversation, for no reason whatsoever, I kept dissolving into stitch-splitting giggles – all of my own volition. I think at one point, one of the lovely people in question just said the word ‘but’ – and that was it! Tears rolling down my face, clutching my sides, trying to hold the rest of my right lung in, as I swear it was attempting an escape via the three incisions in my back. That worked ok (the stemming of the escape mission); but (oh no!!! that word!) – it just kept coming. After a few such random outbursts, the only thing I can offer these lovely people by way of explanation is that it’s the drugs.
There was another time, during my hospital stay. So, I am back up on the main ward post ICU, and am tethered by five lines. Two IV drips; one lung drain; the power supply to my permanently inflating/deflating surgical stockings (phwoarrr!), and of course, and the ubiquitous oxygen. If I want a wee, I have to call a nurse. Up we get; and while the nurse can carry most things, it is me who has to transport the lung drain container, replete with its gurgling mass of browny-red gunk, filling fast, to the loo.
As it is important to mobilise as soon as poss, Nursey suggests we walk down the corridor with this lot.
“Fine!” I tripped. Because, one of the drips is of course, full of lovely morphine. And I get to administer it to myself. Oh happy days! Trippy as you like! Off my face 24/7. Loving this!
I am always very upbeat in hospital, wanting everyone to have as funny a time as I am. This has not always worked well; for example, they didn’t seem to appreciate me in the End of Life ward in Acute Oncology, when my mum was on her way to brighter shores. I mean, what was wrong with me initiating a regular quiz, “Guess my Cancer!” ? To be fair, it wasn’t obvious, looking around – and Mum won (I made sure of it!) because hers was melanoma, which has NO OUTWARD CLUE!.
Hmm, looking back – not for everyone, I suppose.
Never mind; new hospital (I think I have been barred from the last one); me as patient this time – so, why not?! Liven everyone up is what I say!
“Nursey! It’s Wednesday! Mid-week Happy Hour!! Quick – put a catheter in can you? We can offer Dirty Martinis and lovely warm oak-aged Chardonnay!”.
I am not sure why, but the tugs on the four tethers in her grasp were, to say the least, unnecessarily harsh. Nasty Pursey Nursey.
Off we set, back to my bed, Nursey leading the ensemble of wires and rigs, a little faster than I felt was necessary, sloshy, trippy, freaky – and then leaky. We didn’t make it to the bathroom.
At that point, post lung cancer surgery and all that, I didn’t think it was quite the right time to ask her to take me to the smoking room.
Now on that – as you know – I haven’t smoked a fag since 8th May 2013. By that time, I think I had exhausted the world’s supply of Marlboro Lights, and enjoyed every smelly one of them. I miss it to this day; smoking is LOVELY (for the smoker; not for anyone else). I still run to be downwind of a good old puff from someone..while being grudgingly accepting that it is not a good thing to do. And it isn’t, in the long run.
And that, my friends, is why I am where I am today; totally expected, and totally fair. It is nice this time not to be told why I might have cancer (to this day, I cannot get over the fact that non medics would suggest a reason why I had got the disease!) As my Onc said at the time, I had got breast cancer because I have breasts. With this one, obvs (EMR), it is because I smoked. Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time! I was talking to someone today who said, ‘well, I am only a social smoker so that’s fine’. No! It is not! Just think: if you took out a fag from a packet and on it, it said: ‘This is the one which will start it’ – you’d put it away.
Here comes a tiny bit of science (PAH! Me? Science? LOLliing my pants off!)
Pre-breast cancer, I didn’t really understand what it was all about. I still only know what it meant for ME; every case is different, every treatment tailored – you cannot, and must not, generalise.
Same goes for lung. For example, I had no idea that it wasn’t a case of simply hoiking out the tumour and patching up the hole, as it was for me with breast. They have to take out the whole lobe – where the tumour has got cosy. Effectively, you are bursting a balloon, to get at the cancer. It can’t go back in – that is that! Consequently, you are left with permanent, reduced lung function.
For neatness, and for my never ending luck, mine was tucked snugly in the upper right lobe of my right lung …but….almost abutting the next lobe. Hence, no way of doing a biopsy on it prior to the main op. It was offered; with the proviso that I would very likely bleed out and die. I hesitated; (as if!) and then opted to pass, thank you very much. It was local anaesthetic for a biopsy after all – and hey – would I want to embarrass myself in front of Dr D?? I don’t think so! So we all agreed – just get that whole lobe out. No problem; lungs are big, right? I could lose some weight???
The neatness point is that you have three lobes in your right lung and two in your left. So! I have evened myself up! Result! It was done by keyhole surgery, which means I have three fairly reasonable wounds in the side and middle of my back. Neatness abounds once more; with my boob scars, which are on the left, I am very well balanced. I am pretty happy with that!
Crumbs, my drugs must be wearing off! Speaking of which…
May I introduce you to my good friend, Colin. Codeine Col, the troll, the nastiest yet most effective home-based pain killer you can wish for. As you know, when you take Codeine (perhaps as Co-Codemol, Solpadol etc) – the minute you ingest it, the body converts it to morphine. Oh happy days!!! I was sent home with some, but pretty fast, I remembered its effects on my central plumbing system. And oh boy, did I feel them.
After three days, I was more backed up than the M5 southbound on a sunny bank holiday weekend. I think you know what I’m saying, my friends!
I did the thing you are not meant to do (I’m not talking about calling Dynarod to relieve me of my pressure, though damn, that was a fine , and very big hose!) I elected to withdraw all pain relief. A week ago.
Result? Lots of lovely, easy trips to the loo; not so lovely evolution of the bits which look outwardly simple, in terms of the wounds, but of course belie the internal rib manipulation, pulling and pushing of squishy bits inside, tugging, dragging – well, you know it. Well – actually, I don’t, but I am beginning to get the hang of it!
Having passed out in Sainsbury’s from weird pain now at the front of my ribcage, (damn it: 24 years earlier, I’d have got my shopping paid for; trouble was, that liquid wasn’t coming from any birth canal) – and falling asleep at nearly every opportunity, I realise that perhaps I do need some chemical help after all.
I ring the doc – my local surgery GP, who has been on both my TripAdvisor cancer tours, and other things before, and always gets me through.
Me: “You know that Codeine stuff I had?”
Her: “I’ve prescribed you 240 of them, I’ll bring them round.” [because she is amazing, always has been].
Woooooo bloody hooooo! Anyone up for a Colin-Fest this weekend??
Pippity pip lovely friends – more soon xx
Who's going to get the chicken? 