Chapter 14 - To Mars, Hell and Back

Life on Mars

Does anyone remember that zombie like state the Sam, the hero, was in when he was 'living' in a completely false world, knew it and could do nothing about it but act out the role given him?

Nothing epitomises that state for me better than the BBC test card with the erie girl who one night scrambled out of the TV to talk to Sam.

And what has this got to do with anything?

Well everything really, because where I went for a few days and nights while on R IVAC - the second set of chemo - was the closest thing to
living a dream/nightmare I have ever experienced. I was ready for the other side effects: acute sickness (despite anti-sickness drugs I had a battle to keep anything down, including meds), fatigue, loss of appetite (interestingly I didn't have the very sore mouth. My hair, which has stopped growing, is still there, bizarrely.

I won't give the blow-blow, day-by-day detail but I was unprepared for the vivid, slo-mo dreams, set in a giant film set like they used for Superman, in which I had a major role but apparently without any script or direction - more as an active onlooker - involving death, being buried underground, time travel over centuries, being a key player in a drama I couldn't alter, this I didn't expect. I also experienced mini hallucations and 'out-of-body' feelings.

The pic of the round light fitting here shows it in the middle of the square of roof tile, yes? At the time I took the pic, the light moved three or four inches one way in the square and tantalisingly back again. I repeated the experiment several times and each time it shifted without me making it do so.

Is this light fitting in the middle of the square?

Some Interesting Conversations
Sally and her dad came to see me after a day or so of this particular batch of drugs - according to Sally I "just kept changing the subject or answered the wrong answer. I couldn't decide if you couldn't hear or your mind was elsewhere."

Zoe said that Sally had described me as being "very confused and out of it, mentioning random things and going off on tangents and staring into space for no reason; quite an interesting visit". It must have been for poor old Ted, my 87yo father-in-law who is very deaf now. With him being deaf, me being deaf in one ear and me behaving as if I was in that famous Ronnie Barker and Ronnie Corbett sketch where someone answers the question from two questions before, he must have been rather bemused.

I can only describe this peculiar state in terms of the brain's ability to process something. Normally we do it, eg answer a question, at lightning speed and think nothing about it - but imagine each process slowed right down, broken down into its component parts like a multi-switch clicking through the whole process and giving you time to analyse the whole process bit by bit. Fascinating for me but pretty infuriating for the person waiting for an answer. By Friday (Day 4 or so of the 5 day chemo) my brain was probably working at 60% of its normal speed and capacity. By Sunday morning that had dropped to 10% and now, some four days later, I would day that I am still only functioning at 90% of proper cognitive speed and functionality.

Horace in overdrive

My body has taken a hammering too. Despite the ups and downs of fluid retention and overloading via Horace (at one point I had three separate bags going into me!) I am now down to 72.9kg. Basically in old money that is around 11st 6lb. I haven't been this skinny since before our wedding over 33 years ago. Of course it is all muscle that has gone - my legs and arms are pitifully thin and I feel constantly weak and tired. The one good thing is that my swollen arm is now pretty much back to normal.

Look - three fingers!

The pic shows me putting three fingers under my id band. A week ago it was tight to get one finger under. They are now able to get my BP from that upper arm. It had been taken on my leg and lower right forearm, neither of which was easy or gave an accurate reading.

Shore leave
It is now Wednesday 19 November and I had been given the wonderful news that I was to go home from last night (Tuesday) for effectively the rest of this schedule, so about a week to ten days. That was basically reduced to about 36 hours. They need to keep a very close eye on me at this stage so have to go back for a blood count tomorrow which is likely to show a big fat zero on certain things like red and white blood cells. So I fully expect to be kept back in when I go in tomorrow and connected up to a couple of pints of the red stuff (I had one lot of platelets before I left yesterday). I also have a CT scan scheduled for Friday when they will presumably get a snapshot of where we are with killing off the tumours.

So here I am again on the sofa, enjoying a few hours of being pampered, getting some real food, even though I can't taste it, and getting some nightmare-free sleep in my big comfortable bed. Thank goodness for Sally, who is my constant rock and soulmate. And Rosie for her unequivocal love. Thank goodness I have nothing else to worry about in my life at the moment - like running a business - and thank goodness for all those loyal friends and family supporters who constantly send me messages of joy and good luck. This is a voyage of discovery and even though I have journeyed the whole of it and have to go through it all again I suspect it will throw up new challenges, new obstacles.

Words of Wisdom from my Consultant:
"It's not surprising that you feel under the weather. You have just been administered some of the most aggressive and intensive chemicals known to man". Another medic, a specialist Lymphoma nurse said "If you survive the treatment you'll survive the cancer".

I do hope she's right.