Cissing myself – laughing

Good evening chickies and I hope you are all super?

Two weeks since toxic dump number one, and then number two, one week later (weird pattern: tell you more later) and I must say, all is quite well.

You do get a bit nervous about these matters, having had the old cytotoxic blastola before ,  four years ago. You make certain assumptions: and then you remember your own advice. This is chemo for lung cancer; I had chemo for breast cancer. Different organ (alright love), different drugs, different cycles – different outcomes. 

Fine. I settle in, for my first blast of….well, I can hardly bloody wait. Nice thing is, most of the ladies who looked after me so well last time, are still here. I’ve brought Krispy Cremes and they’ve brought – Messrs Cisplatin, Vinorelbine, and a cheeky five day supply of self-injecting  Filgrastin as a chaser! Happy days think I; I’m the winner here! Who wants a doughnut anyway?

Off we go. Pre-med and anti-vom go into the central line drip; I’m woozy, boozy, floozy, dozy rosie pudding and pie…. off my flipping face. I love this shit. 

In the midst of the sheer off my face-in-ness, I’ve forgotten that Nurse R, with whom I had more lols than actual treatment last time, is constantly in, topping me up with other shit. Which turns out to be 2 litres of electrolytes, shot straight into the central line. This accompanies the 1.5 litres of poison (Mr Cisplatin, the C pronounced as an S – now to be known as the nasty bastard), which is given over 7 hours. I’m wondering why so much, um….fluid? (I admit that’s not a great word, but it’s better than MOIST – and I’m sticking to it. Urggh – hang on – can you stick to moist?? Just thrown up – soz.)

The reason is soon clear.

‘Cisplatin damages your kidneys. You may end up on dialysis from it. We give electrolytes all through the day and we will measure your pee each time you go. You need to wee in a cardboard top hat, and I’ll come in and get it lovey.’

Sounds ok, think I; I know how to de-rig myself from the poison giver and shuffle into the loo; what could possibly go wrong?? 

Now,  there’s top hats and there’s top hats. As the day progresses, it transpires that what I actually need to do is put the plug in the bath (it’s no accident you get a bathroom for this little baby!) – and basically stay there. All day. 

First attempt, squatting over the loo with the cardboard top hat: not too bad – most of it in. I felt a tiny bit pleased with myself and stored it neatly by the door.

 
Two hours later: the 2 litres of electrolytes, with the mixologist’s soupcon of Mr Cisplatin, is warranting a drip stand shuffle to the bogola. 
Top hat goes on the loo. Bladder releases. 

The Dambusters arrive.

“Good God Cisters! We’ve got a bloody flood down there!”
“Righto chief! Let me rumble Binky, Stinky, Whizzo and Chips!”
“Get the nurses out first, old boy! Think of Queen and country!”
“I’m trying, Sir, but she just won’t stop….cissing..herself – and it’s splatin all over the place!”

Lovely. It was bloody everywhere. All I can say is that the kidneys must be working, so far.

Since, because my backside is backed up like an A road on a bank holiday (aka, the total opposite to other parts of me), I’m drinking three litres of water a day – to keep those kidneys from being devilled. 

All good so far my chums; a few dodgy days following blast one; had second dump of the shite a week later; and I’m in perfect limbo now until the next, next week. 

When I’ll be cissing and splatin all over the place.

Do me a favour: can you call Binky for me?

xxx