Just before the chemotherapy treatment began, we planted vegetables in the extended garden. Kale and spinach, broccoli and bok choy, and rhubarb.
They are as good an indicator as anything that end dates for various treatment regimes are approaching. We’ve harvested some leafy greens already. I’m looking forward to seeing the broccoli flowers start to bloom. That, and eating mid-winter rhubarb crumble.
The first chemo infusion yesterday took away some of the mystery of what’s ahead, at least as far as the hospital days are concerned. Notwithstanding the pre-medications I’ve been taking since Monday, the medley of drugs began with steroids and anti-nausea meds, then culminated in 1 hour of Docetaxel and 30 minutes of Cyclophosphamide, shaken but not stirred.
I’m grateful for the fact that treatment is available on Tuesdays at our local hospital which means a short drive there and back. The first four hour session was longer than the next three will be, largely because we had to wait for the doctor to turn up. When he stops calling me ‘dear’ and insisting that I must be nervous, I may warm to him a little more. Perhaps by then I’ll be calling him ‘dear’.
The oncology nurses are on their game. They bring a bundle of competence, empathy, humour and no-nonsense to their work. It was really enjoyable to be in their company.
We left the hospital with the contents of the pharmacy and more permutations and combinations around the what ifs than I could possibly remember. Thank goodness I do good notes.
Apart from a short sensitive reaction from my nostrils at the end of the session, all went well and I was able to go home and have a regular meal accompanied by pharmaceuticals to prompt, the details of which I’ll spare you, a few bodily functions.
I rejected an offer of a glass of red wine with dinner. Yes I did. The two books I’m ‘reading’ at the moment are languishing on the bedside table as head on pillow has a higher priority.