Yesterday was my first appointment at The Christie hospital.
I felt awful in the morning, and I didn’t want to get up, could barely get myself dressed, and wanted to curl up into a ball and stay there. The nausea I had was terrible, and the tablets they gave me at the hospital weren’t working too well. I managed to pull myself together enough to get ready and out into the car along with my husband, and my mum who had insisted on coming with us. Then I cried silently to myself pretty much all the way there. Part of it was self pity I guess, the other, the sickness driving me mad by this point. I also had this overwhelming feeling that this was it. This was the point where it would start to feel real. Because for the best part, I’ve been sitting there asking myself if this is really happening. Because after being told that I had Cancer, I didn’t feel any different. And I expected that I should feel different. And all I had felt was maybe a little numb; not anywhere near the hysterical woman I thought I’d be.
We got to the hospital on time, checked into our reception, and after a short wait were shown into a room where we waited for the Dr. One of the registrars came in to see us, and went through the history of this – I am so tired of going through the history of how long I have had the symptoms and how long I’ve been trying to get this seen to and how many times I’ve been in hospital and how I found out I have Cancer. I laid on the bed in there because I’d brought two supporters, not just the one normal people take with them, and there were only two chairs. And as I laid there, she assured me she would give me something to stop me feeling so sick all the time, she said she would give me something to top the bleeding, and she told me they were looking to ‘cure’ me. And that my treatments would be done by the end of the year. By the time she finished talking to me and I was waiting to be called in for the pre-treatment blood tests I felt a million times better. I still felt weak, and I still felt sick, but I could cope with it. I don’t know, I guess she gave me hope again. I guess I’d lost it somewhere between A&E and bed number 19.
I went home, and I managed to eat. And then in the afternoon we had to go back – just me and my husband this time, to go through my pre-radiation scan. I still felt better. I didn’t feel so sick any more. Even when I had to drink the aniseed flavour iodine solution I didn’t throw up. I signed the consent forms, got my three pinpoint tattoos, ready to start the radiotherapy treatments and got to go home again.
At home, the good feeling carried on. Sure, I went straight to bed until my dinner was ready, but I got up for food – a first in a while. I helped to set the table – something I haven’t been able to do for at least a month. And I managed to eat most of the stew my mum had brought round for me. I did really well, even if I do say so myself.
I’ve been the same today. I’ve been up and about equal to the time I’ve spent sleeping. I’ve been making sure I have enough to eat and have even been snacking on sweets in the house. I feel like I’ve turned a corner and that everything is going to be okay. If I can get up in the daytime and play with my son like I have today then my quality of life is a hundred times better than before I went into hospital last week where I stayed in bed twenty-three hours of the day. Better for me and better for my son, and better for my husband and better for my mum. I don’t know if it’s because I have the start date for my treatment now, or if it’s just the new medicine so I don’t feel sick. Or if it’s the knowledge that my doctor expects my Cancer to be gone by the New Year. The thought that I will eventually get my life back as opposed to it just being a waiting game. The fact that I have dates now in my diary are important to me. I can begin to plan things now. I have something to tell the people who are wishing me well and asking how I am doing. It just feels good to me. I have something to aim for.
And it feels good.