The eyepatch rules

Rules have been much on my mind in the last couple of weeks. Well, maybe not so much rules as the mores that we grow up with even realising we have them.

This has been on my mind because I'm wearing an eye patch 70% of the time, also a woolly hat to keep my poor scalp warm in the freezey cold. It's quite a sight, I can tell you. Eye patch goes on first, then hat, then specs. Then my piece de resistance - a buff worn around my neck so I can pull it up overcky up to my nose like vintage Smiffy from the Bash Street Kids. (He's changed his look these days, not nearly so good)

Anyway, back to the rules.

There I am, tucked into my pit on the sofa in the back room, blankie over my legs, beautifully accessorised cat on my lap and matching cushion under my head, when someone knocks at the door. Bloody buggery. Throw blankie and cat to the floor, furniture surf my way to the door. Get there and stop. Something in my head says "it's very rude to answer the door with a hat on. It's even WORSE to answer it wearing a hat and an eye patch, with specs perched on the end of your nose".

Now where the hell did that internal rule come from?

I have some I can completely understand - it's not done to eat in the street, for example. No idea who told me that, possibly a grandparent, but it has stuck with me and, unless it's a total emergency, I still won't eat in the street.

But who the hell would have told me it's not polite to answer the door wearing a woolly hat, an eye patch and specs on top?

Who would have had the imagination to a) think of me in the future  regularly wearing such an eye accessory and b) think it not the done thing to wear it when greeting visitors?

Things about food I didn't know when I started cancer treatment

1) I can open a packet of three Reese's peanut butter cups, eat half of one and put the second half back in the packet.

2) I can leave the open packet of Reese's peanut butter cups on the table in full view of my seat on the sofa for, let's calculate, three weeks and two days and not eat them.

3) I can look at a pork pie and not want to eat it.

4) I  can open the last packet of cheese and onion crisps, eat two, then give it someone else.

5) I can have trapped wind so badly that I have to ask my husband to wind me. He does so willingly, but won't put me over his shoulder to do it. No wonder babies cry.

A ne'er seen before phenomenon

What is that?

No really, what is that?

I peer down to look closer but still can't quite believe what I am seeing. I find my specs (leaving wet footprints on the landing in the process), set them on my nose and try again.

Oh. My. God.

It is! It is! My tummy is not obscuring the view. My tummy has shrunk to the extent that I can actually see my pubic hair if I look down. This may not seem like a big deal to you, but it certainly is to me.

I've been trying to remember when I last saw them just by looking down and I'm pretty certain that it's never - my tummy was well rounded enough as a young teenager that when my pubes grew they were obscured already - so I've never actually viewed them from above, as it were. It's pubes a-gogo here at Villa DW.

So I am really quite happy today ;)

Front or back?

A strange thing has happened to our house. The back has become the front. Or, to be more accurate, the back is becoming the front. This is most disconcerting, especially for someone who has poor depth perception and issues with recalling where she is at any one time.
The house still has its (horrible glass but very obvious) front door, with a (weedy) path leading directly to it from a (rusty and squeaky) gate that opens on to the pavement. There is also a door at the back of the house. This was previously seldom used by anyone but ourselves, but is now used by friends who know we generally can't hear knocking at the front. (Mem to self: get Mr W to fit a doorbell.)
We have a perfectly nice front room - comfy sofas, cushions, fireplace, telly; all the normal accoutrements. It's not very often used because it tends to be cold and we rarely watch telly. There are also, in this house of wonders, three bedrooms and a loft room latterly inhabited by LF3. No problem so far. Or so you'd think.
The house is plenty large enough for five, meaning this middled aged, empty nester couple rattle around in it horribly. Our plan has been to, I think the current term is, repurpose some of the rooms. Viz: the back bedroom, which gets all the sun and is the warmest room in the house, has become a joint drying room/study/Spare Oom. Part of this repurposing is to detach the LF from 'their' bedrooms, mainly because they tend to all come at the same time and squabble over the one double bed which is located in what Malin thinks of as his room.
What the repurposing means is that Mr W and I have trouble in naming any of the upstairs rooms. Is the little front room 'the little front room' or 'the fridge' or 'Izzys room'? Is the back bedroom 'the back bedroom', 'the study', 'the drying room', 'Ellys room' or even 'Izzys room' (since she was the last occupant)? Luckily the loft has become simply the top room - at least to me.
However, I guess the main reason for the shift in orientation of the house is the fact that we (well, alright then, me) spend all our time in the back room which has become the front-er-back room. Thus the back bedroom becomes the front bedroom as it is located over the front-er-back room, which causes terrific confusion because the front bedroom remains the front bedroom.

Christ, are you as bored and confused as me? Probably.
Therefore; the Director of Operations is signing off from the special DOA seat on the sofa in the front-er-back room.

x

The return of the hair

I had chemotherapy when my lung mets were first diagnosed.  Your usual sort of intravenous chemo that makes you feel sicky and your hair fall out.  Then I had whole brain radiotherapy when the brain mets were discovered.  Apparently, WBR can cause hair loss and affect regrowth.

I'm a pretty hairy person and am lucky enough to have a nicely shaped skull, so losing my hair didn't bother me much. I looked alright and it saved me time. There were odd places that the hair hung on - my bikini line, for example. Now, tell me, how can that be fair? This may be TMI but the rest of my pubes fell out, why not the fringe that sticks out from my knickers?

Anyway, recently my hair has been regrowing. At a tremendous rate. Everywhere. Except on my head. I decided that was it. It seemed clear I was going to be bald forever. Fine, I can deal with that. Hats for warmth, hats for sun protection, maybe even a wig (tho I'm not a big wig lover. They're too... wiggy).

But no. It was just taking its own sweet time, my head hair. I have growth. It's not beautiful, not by any stretch of the imagination.  I don't wear my specs in the bathroom so hadn't clocked what it looks like, but when Mr W asked me this morning whether I would like him to shave my neck, I knew it must be pretty bad. He's a very sensitive chap, Mr W, and will do anything to avoid making me feel bad about my appearance. If he thought it needed shaving, well, it must be a bit 'orrible.

I got him to take some photos of my head - have you any idea how difficult it is to take pictures of your own head? It's difficult and the photos I'd managed were to blurry to make anything out. The pictures he took told a sorry story: basically my hair appears to be growing back in classic male pattern baldness shape, if that makes sense.  This is compounded by the furry fringe on my neck and a weird but quite cool round shape on the back that is growing really quick.  You couldn't make it up.  I have tried and tried and tried but cannot work out how to upload the illustration. I think I'll just put in the next post all on its own.

Oh, and the other thing is that the hair is coming back curly. I'd forgotten that from last time. Like a flippin black sheep or something. Groovy.

Clinic fun

I'm writing this from the waiting room of the consultant clinic at Bristol Haematology and Oncology Centre and it's rammed.  There's at least an hours delay for the consultant and the same for bloods.  If I'm as unfortunate as last time I was here, the nurse will shout my name just as I've gone in to see the consultant and my name will go back to the bottom of the pile.  Then I'll have to hang around for an extra hour.

On the bright side, I have been lucky enough to secure a seat near both the doctor's office and the nurse station where all the bloods are taken.  This will mean, fingers crossed, that I won't miss either appointment.  My mother-in-law wasn't so lucky.  No seat available for a 74 year old woman even if she is bouncing (literally) with health. After standing around for a while jiggling like a school kid waiting for the bell to ring on the final day of term, I managed to persuade her to go off for a walk.

This is a routine visit, happens every three weeks to check over how I'm responding to whichever chemotherapy is being administered at that point.  Strangely, I've always been given an appointment at 3pm or 3.15pm, although getting in is never earlier than 4.30pm and often later. I'm not moaning, I can see for myself how many people have to be seen and how ill they are. I'd rather be seen late and know that those before me have had the time they needed with their doctor.  I'm sure it was the same when I came with my primary cancer. I don't know how long one has to attend or how badly sick one has to be to get an upgrade to 1.30pm - the coveted first appointment of the afternoon - but it's obviously much sicker than me.  At which thought, my mind reels.

The idea of being more ill, feeling worse, than I do already is horrible.  When it comes to physical malaise I am definitely not a Stoic.

Maybe I should be thankful for my middle of the afternoon appointments and only start worrying when the appointment letter tells me I'll see the consultant at 2pm...

Constipation

Constipation

Not the most glamorous of subjects, I know, but sometimes needs must. Funny to think even cancer has themes that are less than popular than others.  And constipation is definitely one of these.

I've been chugging down various painkillers for a few weeks now, happy as larry that I'm not getting headaches.  However, it has finally come to my attention that there is a price to pay for my pain-free existence.  And that price is a bunged up bum.

I can't remember exactly how many days I went without a satisfying turn-out, but it was over a week. Eventually, I decided I ought to do something to rectify the situation.  In the age-old manner, I thought I'd begin with some prunes.

I love prunes with a passion.  It may sound odd to you, but they seem like pudding to me, so I'm always happy to open a tin and get stuck in.  Well, last week I chugged half a tin with great glee, sat back and waited for the, er, fall-out.  Which didn't come.

The prunes tasted delish, but I was left sadly unsatisfied.

The next port of call was a liquid stool softener.  Tasted disgusting.  Didn't work.  I probably should have taken more than one dose, but just couldn't bring myself to do it.  Then yesterday, I brought on the big guns.  Another stool softener, in capsule form this time.  I spent the whole night lying awake trying to decide whether the murmurings in my belly were softening stools or something else.

Well, I can tell you now the stools didn't soften very much.

It was bloody agony.  Pinching off inch-long lengths of what seemed like brown plastic drainpipe, horribly unsatisfying.  I even resorted to a packet of baby wipes.

It reminded me of the great glee with which a lovely lady I met in the Bristol Oncology Centre clapped her hands and whooped.  "That's stripped me right out!"  She'd been chronically constipated for over 2 years - can you imagine her relief?

Anyway, I'm sure you'll be glad to know that I eventually managed a moderately satisfying dump.  Will keep you updated...