If it's Tuesday, this must be CT

So I told the various members of the family about the news from Tuesday, either in person or by email. I debated not telling my parents at all until they arrived back from Europe, but decided that it would be worse to come home to find me already bald and in the middle of chemotherapy, so email it was.

I am still not quite clear about how non-medical people receive statistics on this kind of thing. For my grade and size of cancer, the stats say five-year-survival is 70%. Does that sound like a good number, or not?

My MIL (mother in law) thought that meant that three-quarters are still alive in five years - that's good! I couldn't help thinking that meant that three in ten are dead at five years. I'm not sure if the difference is one of perspective, attitude or simply mathematical understanding.

So, I spent the next week being chewed up and spat out by the tornado of testing. I was CT scanned, bone scanned, x-rayed, renal tested and cardiac tested. If I had one of anything, it was tested and imaged to see how well it worked. Then the chemotherapy was designed to test it almost to the limits. I hope whoever did the calculations was careful with their decimal points!

However, one side effect of the testing was that I was radioactive for two days. I had to wean Benji, who was then 15 months old and breastfeeding eight times every day. But on balance, I decided that it was better for her to have 15 months of nutritious milk than another few months of milk contaminated with only-the-pharmacist-knows-what. It felt like the end of an era though, and also the end of my brief career as a breastfeeding counsellor. (I felt that my unspoken thoughts of "you think you've got problems!" was not a helpful attitude to take into the therapeutic space.)

My SIL (sister-in-law) took me to get my hair chopped off, and I told myself I was ready.

I don't think it is possible to be really ready for something like this. On Wednesday morning I took the aprepitant and dexamethasone (to prevent nausea) and within 30 mins of the infusion starting I had my head in a bucket. So they gave me metoclopramide as well. And prochlorperazine. And ondansetron. I just about rattled when I moved and still nothing - staying down, that is!

I was moved from the day chemo centre to the overnight ward and given an infusion of IV fluid to make up for what I was losing. There someone had the bright idea that I was sick because of high levels of anxiety, so I was given a dose of lorazepam. Then I was sedated and still sick. (No, you don't want to imagine that - it was not a happy combination.) Suffice it to say that I am never again eating cold beef and mustard sandwiches.

By the next morning (Thursday) I was well enough to go home and lie on my own couch.

Except for the fact that we were moving house on the Saturday.

With truly appalling timing, our landlord had decided to do some key renovations and had given us legal notice to get out. We debated appealing or fighting the order, but my chemotherapy plan was to have six months of chemotherapy. During that time I would expect to get progressively more tired and sick. So we decided to bite the bullet and move on the first weekend after my first chemotherapy.

Who thought that was a good idea, again?

The move, in retrospect, was hilarious and deserves its own post, so that's some fun for another day!