Back in clink, making the best of hanging on to the memory of a lovely 30 hour break in Cheriton, feeling decidedly homesick (but luckily not feeling actually sick) and girding the loins for tomorrow's Methotrexate. Not a great night, as they fixed me up to Horace to prehydrate me in readiness for the morning.
I understand Methotrexate is bright yellow, takes about three hours to administer and stays in the system for 24 hours after which 'chemo rescue', a sort of antidote, follows to neutralise the chemo and fluids to start flushing out the system, then a two-three day period of flushing the fluids rapidly through to ensure the toxins produced, and the breakdown of the cancer cells, do not clog the kidneys. All sounds horrendous.
What surprised me rather was at the early doc's rounds on Monday morning, they announced that my white blood cells are almost zero already; strange, I feel fine – and although I was expecting this, I hadn't anticipated it coming so quickly. Suddenly feeling rather vulnerable and the staff obviously agree as they moved me later to a side room again. Not unhappy about that bit.
Monday was to be A (much anticipated and mentally prepared for) Big Chemo Day. So when mid morning came and went without starting, I was curious to know the delay. It seems the body has to be alkaline to accept the Methotrexate and my urine shows a ph level of 6 - too acidic by far. Perhaps the fluids were started a bit too late in the night but they were trying to get me to have a good sleep before starting. Testing throughout the day, the level finally came down late afternoon ad I thought "Yes - let's get started". It wasn't to be; partly because the Methotrexate is not a 3 hour job this time but a 24 hour one! And they don't want to start important chemo at the start of a night shift. Hence a 24 hour delay; frustrating but inevitable.
Tucked up in my own room again I slept very well even if Horace and I did go on many a journey together to the bathroom before sun up. I was very, very tired last evening and probably started snoozing early on, so not surprisingly my body clock was awake and raring to go at 5.30am again.
Tuesday is another day
The autumn sun shone brightly through my rather grubby windows overlooking the ambulance bay. The staff are keen to connect me to the chemo now my body is ready and alkaline. One minor hiccup is that there may be a problem with my PICC line, the line which goes into my upper left arm and then deep inside my shoulder/chest cavity: My left arm is swollen a little again - a quick panic whilst I remove my wedding ring with soap - and this could mean that the line is leaking (not so bad or just fluids but pretty disastrous if bright yellow Methotrexate leks into the tissue or that there is some kind of thrombosis, or clot near the line. Either way, in order not to delay the chemo further, they ignored the line and started stabbing me with needles to put in cannulas in my right arm.
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| My right arm - the pin cushion |
There is a logistical problem with being tied to Horace for the next 24 hours - I cannot get changed. So I will probably have to stay in my shirt overnight and forego the simple pleasure of the shower until tomorrow.
Meanwhile, I am just about 25% of the way through my bright yellow bag. I have been told it might be replaced tomorrow by a big red bag of blood as my haemoglobin levels have reached a very, very low point. But I still feel ok! Odd.
Oh - and one final piece of news: the fundraising page for Lymphoma Association has now passed the 50% point - £2,500 not including gift aid. Well done, everyone, thank you. Lymphoma Association seem pretty pleased too : "The amount you have raised on your Virgin Money page is staggering and our thanks go to all your friends and family for the support they have given to the association."
Hear hear.
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