Chapter 15 - "Oh and by the way, you've got Norovirus"

With thanks to Matt (and please don't sue!)

It is less than a week since my last chapter, but it seems an eternity. Partly because the days (and nights) can, and have, dragged and partly because so much seems to have happened since then it seems like another era altogether that I was at home, knackered and deaf in one ear, but soaking in the luxury of home life for a wee while.

Back to the hospital - again
8.30am Thursday morning for a blood test back at Southampton and possible/probably readmission seemed a bit harsh to Sal and me, having hoped for a few days with the kids at home to celebrate early their birthday. But we did as we were told and I was duly readmitted  to hospital after the initial blood tests show my blood count to be very, very low and my platelets only 17 (we need 50 to function normally). So I wasn't surprised. And of course, 'readmission' means repeating the mind-numbing pages of questions about allergies, next of kin, etc. Why can't they just assume it's me? I've still got the same hospital number and have to confirm my DOB, and often my name and address for good measure several times a day anyway. Crazy. What I hadn't expected was that instead of my nice, familiar Ward D3, I found myself on that same, open C4 ward I was on a few weeks ago in the middle of the night. Hrmmph. This isn't going to be fun I thought, and by golly I was right.

The upsides and downsides of a side room
It started with diarrhoea overnight (sorry those of you having your tea); that at least assured me a side room. Not a nice side room though, a side room with a rather obvious CCTV camera, no view (hardly any windows), decoration from Cell Block H - in fact altogether very reminiscent of a prison cell. Here I spent a miserable 36 hours. I developed a spontaneous, but copious, nose bleed around midday Friday which doesn't sound too bad but this one just didn't want to stop - presumably as a direct result of my platelet count being so low.

"Platelets. That's what you need. And some blood. We'll order them up".

But by early early evening there was no sign of either, only a couple of bags full of bloody tissues and me getting more miserable by the hour. So the young doc (Fraser, nice lad who won't mind me saying he looks younger than most coppers these days), took advice from ENT who sent down a pack of - well - tampons for the nose. This doesn't sound too bad but having one inserted in both nostrils (I was only bleeding from one) was initially very, very uncomfortable and then just awful because (a) the bloody one was leaking in no time and we were back to square one and (b) I couldn't breathe except through my mouth which as anyone with a nasty cold will know is not very nice.

Less comfortable than it looks. Don't try it at home.

A few more hours, the removal of the unnecessary pack, a new one inserted in the necessary nostril (still very uncomfortable), a kindly but probably nuisance call-out for an ENT specialist, and I was left, with an extra barrier to breathing in the form of a gauze under my nose tied behind my head to a night of utter misery catching snippets of sleep and having to wet my lips and mouth every five minutes to prevent drying out. Oh, but the platelets arrived! Hoorah!

This is not a night to go down as one of the best; in fact it ranks high up there with the Life On Mars night of a week or so before but for different reasons. Just replace 'nightmares' and 'vomiting' with 'suffocation' and 'diarrhoea'. Oh, and still total deafness in my left ear; not disastrous in itself but just one more candle on the cake.

A high point - two nurses persuaded me to move to another sideroom. This one has a window, fresh air and is altogether much more pleasant. One of these same two nurses made me a hot chocolate; how sweet is that?

A room with a view - of sorts. At least I can see out.

Gradually, gradually the weeping wad weeped pink rather than bright red, and started drying up. Saturday became bearable, or at least for me it did. For poor Sally, with her plans for a family weekend in tatters it was just starting to prove too much and I felt so helpless and to be honest with all the other stuff going on I too probably hit a low point emotionally. Sally, Lizzie and Tom visited on Saturday - making the best of keeping the family weekend a reality. Sadly Zoe couldn't make it as she had a lurgy herself so kept away.

Temperature spikes
Although my temperature has never gone above 38 in six weeks (I am willing to stand corrected) I suddenly developed a spike of 39.6 - enough to start a flurry of activity (although no doctors) with i/v paracetamol and antibiotics. This repeated itself twice more over the weekend. Obviously an infection there somewhere!

Sunday showed a gradual improvement - but I felt so tired, dead tired, dog tired... whatever the right expression is - this is real chemo fatigue for sure. Lizzie popped in on her way back to Devon and we cheered Sally up a bit by setting up Skype. At least it makes you feel one step nearer to being there in person.

Isolation
Monday morning - and my door was ominously shut tight. When everyone came in wearing yellow aprons, white gloves and a few with face masks, I guessed that something was up. It was broken to me that I have Norovirus, the winter vomiting bug, although it's not winter and I haven't vomited (thank goodness, now that could have been really difficult). It seems I have been harbouring three different infections; I feel like a leper. I was sent for a CT scan in readiness for the Big White Chief Docs' round on Tuesday and presumably to catch up with what's happening to me - and importantly the tumour cells - inside. To help this I had to drink a litre of fluid in an hour. At least mixed with orange squash it was palatable. Drinking beer was never this difficult. Two pints? Pah!

I was visited by a very dapper chap from ENT with an impressive head torch, who gently removed my nose wad (it having been in place for well over 48 hours). Surprising very little blood and no fresh bleeding. Fresh air again and what a difference that makes. He also looked in my ear, declare it full of wax (hence the hearing problem) - all sortable - and prescribed some more drops for an mild, or developing, infection.

A CT scanner - a very expensive doughnut but a clever bit of kit

The Great Plan
Tuesday morning and feeling great (not really great, just a shedload better). A wash, change, clear up, breakfast and lunch that went down and stayed there willingly. These small improvements mark a big change. The docs' round (still with yellow aprons and white gloves so I am still officially an Infected Person) was interesting and rather inevitable but the three interesting things were:

"We aim to send you home at the end of the week".
"Your CT scan is looking great regarding the Lymphoma".
"You're halfway through the whole thing and doing well. Don't worry if we bully you a bit, it'll be worth it".

Can't argue with any of that.

So with luck (FINGERS CROSSED), I make a speedy recovery over the next few days, get my hearing sorted out by those nice ENT people, get home for the weekend (ironically the kids' birthdays!) and then come back in on Monday to start all over again...hang on in there, Cradduck.