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.
Saturday, 23 November 2013
Tuesday, 19 November 2013
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...
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...
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