Yesterday and Sunday had been pretty diabolical. Both days I’d woken up with ‘to do’ lists in my head, but I felt too sick and overwhelmed to attempt any of it. I spent a good couple of hours crying in bed on Sunday morning, trying to process what was really going on. It sounds so silly but sometimes I still have moments where I don’t think I’ve fully caught up. One moment I’ll be bobbing along nicely and the next something will remind me that two months ago I was dying and without the help of some truly remarkable people, I still would be. The rest of Sunday was spent moping about the house and flopping back onto my bed at any given opportunity. Yesterday morning I had an 8am appointment at the hospital for bloods and a nebulizer. I thought I’d be a little more prepared for the nebulizer this time, as the first one had come as a bit of a surprise and I hadn’t really known what to expect. It’s really not the worst thing in the world and it’s absolutely nothing to complain about in the grand scheme of things, but I find the whole process utterly repulsive. It’s essentially a piece of apparatus that you breathe in and out of for 20 minutes (what purpose it holds is beyond me), and if you can imagine crushing up ten paracetamol tablets and then trying to swallow them all at once, without water, that’s basically what it feels like. Absolutely heinous. I felt so grotty after said experience that I spent the rest of yesterday in bed feeling sorry for myself.
This morning however, I woke up feeling good. I got out of bed at around 7.30, gave Isla her breakfast, made a cup of peppermint tea, stuck a load of washing on and wrote a list of what I could achieve throughout the day. I’ve learnt not to push myself at the moment, yes it can get frustrating when I don’t accomplish huge amounts, but I end up accomplishing a lot less when I’m pressuring myself to do too much. I was starting to sort out some boxes in my room when there was a tap at the door. “Can you get that, I’m not wearing any hair!” – there aren’t many advantages to being bald, but no longer having to answer the front door is most definitely one of them. About a week ago an old university friend, Anna, had asked for my address so that she could send me a little something in the post. Today her parcel arrived and it was gorgeous. After two weeks of feeling completely awful in every way possible, her love in a box from 200 miles away managed to remedy every recent bad thought, and reminded me that I had people rooting for me everywhere. I spent the rest of my morning doing the laundry, tidying up and digging out my winter wardrobe – all very menial tasks, but it felt SO amazing to finally take some control back. This afternoon my dad and I took Isla for a walk to Hill Head. I love the beach during the autumn and winter months; the only people you really come across are other dog walkers and the clinically insane (aka. overly keen kitesurfers). The sun was slightly shy, poking its way through the clouds only occasionally, but the cool air was welcomed after two days of tearful napping. We ended our walk at the Osborne View as usual. Hot chocolate and a shortbread for me, coffee and a slice of carrot cake for dad, and a generous helping of treats for Isla. “This must all be so awful for you, I don’t know you do it”. I looked at my dad and simply smiled. He understood. We might not feel the need to talk about it in depth when we’re together. We might not cry about it in quite the same way as my mum. But we’re on the same page; it’s shit, but we’ll get there eventually.
Dad cooked his homemade Chinese for dinner and I poured myself a glass of wine to accompany it. My mum told us about her work day and we made plans to go for a pub dinner tomorrow evening. After a treacherous couple of weeks, today felt like one very big warm hug, and I feel so very happy.
Tomorrow I’m off to a crafts morning at the Macmillan Centre. I’m pretty sure I may not fit in with the average demographic in attendance, but I don’t mind that one bit. Bring on the creative cancer fun!