Release day

For me and - hopefully - for the first of the Chilean miners.

Scores on the doors: neutrophils 0.8,
haemoglobin 10.0. Both heading in the right direction so they let me go. If this trend continues I should be fit for the final chemo on Thursday.

Got out late afternoon, and the sun came out too so we went for a walk round Woolly Park. Took this picture looking out across the lake. Autumn is a beautiful season.

Waiting Game

I am patient - in every sense of the word. Still in hospital. Waiting for neutraphils (white cells) to increase; for red cells to stabilise and for my bone marrow to start producing more cells. Production is slow - yesterday I had 0.2 neutraphils. I need at least 1.0 before they'll let me out.


I feel fine actually. Nice ward. Own room. I've stayed in worse hotels. Food leaves a bit to be desired but visitors have been supplementing with fresh fruit, cake and home-made soup.

I've been killing time with frequent forays off the ward. I am getting to know this site quite well. Yesterday John and I made a great escape off the hospital campus to Mill Lakes. It was a gorgeous day, like summer.

Waiting for today's blood results. Fingers crossed I'll get out soon. Just have to be patient....

Weekend on the Ward

I'm sampling hospital hospitality yet again.  Admitted yesterday when they discovered my white blood cells were down to zero again.

Berman 2 offers superior accommodation, spacious private room plus en-suite shower.

At ONE AM they decided to wake me up and wheel me through deserted corridors to Radiography for a chest x-ray.  Reasons unknown!

They wont let me go until my bloods are back up.  Could be in for the weekend.

Here we go again

Woke to a high temperature (37.9). Waiting for the chemo clinic to open so I can phone for advice. I may have to go into hospital again to get checked over.

This is getting boring. They must be sick of the sight of me by now. And I'm certainly sick of the sight, smells and sounds of that place.

Racking my brains to think of where I could have picked something up; the most likely place is the doctors' waiting room, where I went to renew my fit-note. That involved spending half an hour in an airless space with people coughing around me.

Perhaps for the sixth and final session, I should live in an oxygen tent like Michael Jackson, and only go out wearing a mask. I've still got a SARS mask they gave me at Hong Kong airport, I've also got this this rather fine feline article made for the Venetian ball scene. Some say it's sinister.

Not long to go now. Thursday 14th is my last chemo treatment - three weeks after that I can put an end to this neurosis about germs.

Reunited

This is Oscar with his namesake Oscar 2 - who has recently come home after spending the past 18 months on my desk at work.

My boss brought him round last week with the rest of my personal effects. I've now officially left that Department and transferred back to the bit of Government I worked in before (for complicated reasons involving austerity measures and office closures.)

He also brought gifts, a card, and lots of nice Spanish food, so we had a little leaving lunch here. Thankfully chorizo is one of the things I can still taste.

Oscar 2 is full of beans, and handy for throwing at people. In a previous workplace, he was banned from my workstation because he didn't conform to the clear desk standard. You were allowed one photograph but no soft toys.

Talking of former colleagues, the Nottingham Post is coming to interview me tomorrow for a feature for breast cancer awareness month. Their feature writer is a girl I used to work with 20 years ago when I was a reporter. It will be good to catch up. They're sending a photographer too - better spruce up the wig!

Highs and lows

The mid-point between two chemo sessions is called the nadir - which means low point. It's when blood count is most depleted and energy levels hit rock bottom. It's where I am now. Even small amounts of exertion send my pulse rate racing; getting up the hill in Woodthorpe Park is out of the question. I take comfort in the knowledge that I only have to do this one more time.

Recently when I did manage to struggle up the hill, and flopped down exhausted on the bench at the top, I noticed the man sitting next to me was equally out of breath. 

"Can't believe I used to run up this hill!" I said.

"Me too!" he answered.

Turns out he's a guitar maker who developed lung problems through breathing in wood spores. We were both on steroids so we compared notes.

Funny how through this cancer experience I've connected with more strangers than I ever did while at work, even though my job-title is communications manager!

Accounting for taste

Chemotherapy messes with your taste buds. In some people, they go completely, so eating becomes merely a mechanical exercise with no enjoyment involved.

In my case, sense of taste has become progressively toned down. I have a metallic, acrid tang in my mouth all the time. Eating provides some relief, but is usually a disappointment because most things don't taste as they ought to.

Favourites like bananas and chocolate taste like plastic. Some stronger flavours - ginger, pineapple and a few spices - manage to partially break through, but there is one thing which tastes EXACTLY as it should, and as it always has, and that is Marmite.

Nutritious, sharp and mouthwatering, it cuts through all that chemo crap.  Love it or hate it, thank God I love it. Marmite is masterpiece.

Guess what's on toast for breakfast!