Calling all Überneutrophils…

Day 114 

General status update

Fatigue/weakness: I’m so weak now I just want to lie down on the sofa with Chemo Brian and stay there – I may have to get a taxi to the hospital in the morning because I’m not sure I can manage the walk.

Anxiety level/insane euphoria (+/- 1-10,000): sudden leap in anxiety level with the realisation that if they postpone the chemo on Thursday, I won’t be getting the Dexys and concomitant insane euphoria for 7 more days. It’s not that I’m addicted, but I’m so feeble I could really do with a bit of that mad Dexy rush right now...

Nausea demon: back from his monastic retreat, which he apparently found very spiritually uplifting – maybe he’ll convert and become an ex-Chemo Demon. I wonder if they’re allowed to do that, or if Chemo Demon apostasy is punished with…. how would you punish an apostate Chemo Demon? Sending him to hell wouldn’t really be much of a threat, would it?

Despair Demon: I’ve been finding him rather trying in the last couple of days, as his constant conjuring up of the worst possible outcomes is seriously morale-lowering, especially when you’re feeling very weak. So I had a quick word with the Chemo Muse, pointing out that her ex-boyfriend is messing with my head and my motivation, and asked her to intervene. She said no problem, and simply shook her snaky locks in his direction, which had him immediately transfixed in the manner of a mongoose in the presence of a King Cobra. Then she allowed him to take her to Starbucks for an Espresso Macchiato, and I got a little peace and quiet.

State of mind: The fear of not having chemo on Thursday is nowmuch  greater than the dread of having chemo on Thursday. Go figure.

Hair: currently non-combatant.

Today I have been mainlining pomegranate juice, in the hope that its fruity vitamin-dense crimson goodness will perk up my neutrophils, as well as channelling Nietzsche in the hope of willing them on to power so that I will be strong enough to have my sixth and last dose of FEC on Thursday.

Pomegranate–fuelled Überneutrophils, that’s what we need right now…

I have to be at the hospital at 8.45 tomorrow morning for Matron Becky to do my bloods so that they will be processed in time for my pre-chemo meeting with the oncologist, whichever oncologist it happens to be, consultant or registrar; you never get to know this in advance, which is quite annoying. With the surgeon you always get to see the surgeon himself, however many acolytes he may have in attendance, and can plan questions/conversations accordingly, but getting to see a consultant oncologist seems to be much like being granted an audience with the Pope – it doesn’t happen very often, and there’s no predicting when.

Tomorrow everything will depend on the wretched neutrophils: if they’re below the cut-off point of 1.5, which means 1,500 cells per microliter (= cubic millilitre) of blood, then I will not be allowed to have FEC6, however much I beg and/or whine, because they really don’t want my 6 inglorious cycles of chemo to end up with a FEC-related fatality giving the lie to the infamous ‘FEC is well-tolerated’ oncological motto.

I was discussing the phrase ‘well-tolerated’ with my Cyber Chemo Buddy Cressida, a veteran of two different courses of chemo, the other day - she has also endured Taxotere, FEC’s even nastier evil twin, which turns your nails black and makes the skin on your toes and fingertips blister and burn before dropping off, which serves at least to distract you from the constant agonising joint pain - and she said that what ‘well-tolerated’ REALLY means is ‘doesn’t actually kill you’, which is the only outcome oncologists are really interested in.

We then talked wistfully, not for the first time, of how much better it would be if all oncologists had to experience a small dose of chemo themselves as part of their training. I did once suggest this to Stan, my late-lamented first oncology registrar who has now rotated off to pastures new, and he looked at me with an expression of absolute horror:

‘We couldn’t do that’ he said ‘it’s poisonous.’

Please keep your fingers crossed for me and send positive vibes – or, better still, threatening messages – to my indolent neutrophils tonight; if they don’t do their stuff tomorrow morning it’s going to mean yet another week incarcerated in the chemical prison, waiting for parole…