I keep confusing Dexamethasone with Dexys Midnight Runners….

Day 4

 

General status update:

Hair – was allowed to wash it today. But strictly NO HAIRDRYER
Nausea – starting to kick in, but bearable
Anxiety level (1-10) – too tired to worry about anything
State of mind – fragile

 

..but I gather the side effects are pretty much the same.

 

Yesterday I turned into a fairly reasonable facsimile of a whirling dervish, thanks to the steroid high provided by Dexamethasone, which is prescribed for the first couple of days after each chemo dose to alleviate the nausea. FEC is notorious for nausea – one of the most vomit-inducing chemo regimens. But only for the first week of every cycle, apparently.

 

I had been expecting to spend my first post-chemo day lying on the sofa and weeping, with intermittent dashes to the bathroom to throw up. However, with the help of the various anti-emetic drugs and the steroids the nausea, although very much present, stayed in the background, and I worked hard most of the day writing and publishing a lengthy blog post; at 2am I was still at my computer, playing Mah Jong and listening to Radio 4 podcasts. Steroids give you lots of energy, but they really don’t want to let you go to sleep.

 

Today came the first post-steroid crash, of which I had been forewarned: I woke up, and remained, feeling weak, weepy and nauseous. But it will go. This is the worst day of the cycle, they say. And hence a shortish blog post, but I hope to do better tomorrow.
 

I have managed to get some food down, and go for an hour’s walk – regular exercise is important to help you tolerate the chemo better. I have, very cautiously, washed my hair (you can’t do this until at least 24 hours after the cold cap treatment), but am no longer allowed to use a hairdryer, so it has to look after itself from now on.

 

I am fully expecting to go bald in the end, but the cold cap should help to delay the process. When my mother heard that I was going to have to have chemo –

 

… ah, this is perhaps the time to introduce you to MamaFo, an important off-stage presence.

 

My mother is 81 years old, lives in the foothills of the Tramuntana Mountains in Mallorca, and is in generally excellent health, despite existing on a diet which consists principally of prawns, full-strength Benson & Hedges and dubious Spanish brandy. She swears her longevity, still-spectacular good looks and continued mental acuity are down to smoking a large, um, home-grown herbal cigarette, every evening just before bed time. She has been doing this for the last 30 years. You must realise that everything I say about my mother, however outlandish, is true: you simply COULD NOT MAKE IT UP.

 

And if you look at the photograph below, you will see that there is every reason to believe her claims - my mother could easily be mistaken for Joanna Lumley’s rather more glamorous elder sister:

 

 

Anyway, when my sister broke the news to her that I was, after all, going to have chemo, (which had not initially been thought necessary), MamaFo immediately asked
 

‘Does that mean all her hair will fall out?’

 

‘Yes, I’m afraid so. But it will grow back again later.’

 

There was a long silence as my mother inhaled deeply on her cigarette, and then blew out the smoke, emitting a thoughtful ‘Ah’.

 

Then, brightening, she added ‘Oh well, darling, Caroline’s hair has always been a complete catastrophe, so perhaps it will grow back a bit better next time.’