One Step at a Time

8 down. 25 to go. It's the same routine every day. Eat. Drink. Crap. Drink some more. Drive to the hospital. Undress. Put on the weird gown and the shorts with no elastic. Lie on the bed with the new fresh paper covering and the small blocks for knees and feet. Watch the machine and the green lasers. Lie still. Stare at the white ceiling. Count the whirrs as the masks are set and the whine as the doses are delivered. 1...2...3...4...5...6...7...8...9...10...11...12...13...14. Dress. Go home. Spend the day getting bladder and bowels in order for the next one.

I feel OK, sort of. There's nothing to feel when it's happening, but there is a continual dull sense of unwellness that is creeping over me day by day. Nothing I can put my finger on - metaphorically or literally - but a feeling some where down there like a mild hangover. A feeling like the last spoonful of Lanes' Emulsion is still sitting pretty heavy in your stomach and your Mum wants to give you another one.

There is a community of sorts amongst the people who are all going through the same thing. Cancer is no respecter of persons, so there's a wide range of types and ages. There are greetings and chat all laced with a certain gallows humour concerning microwaves and crisping drawers. Despite the pile of Jigsaw puzzles, I don't spend much time in the waiting room. The team is efficient, people are processed rapidly and on time, and you don't hang around socialising. The staff are, by and large young, and invariably respectful and friendly. But this is something you do alone. The door is a foot thick and it is closed.

There was a hiccup yesterday. One of the two radiation machines took an unexpected New Years holiday, and everyone got rescheduled. This meant a disruption to the routine by which I carefully manage my interior. Small differences were noted on the pictures. It meant rechecking and remeasuring, and an earlier than usual session for me this morning so that they could give me another CT scan. Different machine Same process. It was all OK in the end, sorry about the turn of phrase, just a slight variation in the pattern my feet make as they plod across this particular dune. Now it's the week end off. Then, on Monday, it's back to eat, drink.....

...and Tuesday...

...and Wednesday....

Comments

Kate said…

Hugggs. Hope you continue to feel ok, Kelvin. A friend of mine got through five weeks with no nausea at all...

9 January 2009 at 18:30

Anonymous said…

Kelvin - I'm not sure that the phrase "withb you in spirit" is helpful because I can't go through it for you, but am thinking of you and praying for you every day.

9 January 2009 at 21:00

Kathryn said…

Hi Kelvin, reaching out my hands to you across the thousands of kilometres and praying for you as always: that God will heal you while you are lying on that table staring upwards. God loves you and you are doing mighty work for Him during this time.
In His love, Kelvin, for you and your family. :-)

11 January 2009 at 12:50

Anonymous said…

Crap [deal] indeed....
But keep plodding "One foot in front of the other and don't forget to breathe" (Fr Tom - Ann Lamott).
We would all plod and breathe alongside you if we possibly could, Kelvin.
With love to both of you.
Jo

12 January 2009 at 19:10

Alden Smith said…

Take care Kelvin, hang in there, thinking of you during this trying time.

Love and best wishes.

13 January 2009 at 23:55

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