Ding Ding, Round 2

Before I could even get back into couch to 5km it was time to pack up and get myself back down to Southampton ready for round 2 of Chemosaturation. To say that I was anxious would be an understatement. People kept asking if I was feeling better about it because I knew what was coming… the problem was… I KNEW WHAT WAS COMING! It’s almost like randomly punching someone in the face and then saying to them, “I’m going to punch you in the face again now, but it should be better because you know what is coming!” It didn’t feel better and what made it worse was the fact that I had no idea if this treatment was even working. All I knew is that it was brutal and I felt like dogshite afterwards and the thought of doing it all again wasn’t really appealing.

I was also struggling with severe anaemia, something that I have had for quite a while but had got used to the utter exhaustion and slightly grey look coupled by a constant feeling of breathlessness. When I told my CNS Vicky what activity I was doing (walks every day, a few jogs around the block and trying to keep up with a 20 year old Aussie lady on YouTube as she throws around 20kg kettlebells compared to my dismal 8kgs) she was a little bit surprised and asked how I was physically able to do it. It is amazing what becomes your norm though. I had felt like death (is it too much to use that comparison?!) for so long that I thought that it was what every over 40 year old female felt like… turns out, it isn’t normal!

For this round, I valiantly declared that I was going to travel down on the train on my own and Mr Me-Myself-And-Eye would stay and look after the kids (and he had some wallpapering to finish and if there is anything that Mr Me-Myself-And-Eye loves more than anything, it’s a distraction from the task in hand and I wasn’t going to give him that opportunity) so I said my goodbyes and headed off for the long journey down south (hearing the small one say ‘enjoy your holiday’ as I left actually broke my heart a little bit) The train journey down was pretty uneventful, a very loud man sat opposite me talking on his phone until the conductor shifted him and I had fun watching the obscene amount of old people getting on at Birmingham all heading down to the barmy Bournemouth with their extremely large suitcases and Panama style hats.

It wasn’t until I got to the hospital and had gone through my ‘hotel’ check in that everything hit me like a 10 ton truck. This was going to be shit and I was down here in my own and I had no one just to sit with me and help me wallow in how shit it was going to be. My dad would be arriving on Tuesday ready to take me back on Wednesday or Thursday but I needed someone there before the procedure to talk rubbish to and release some of the anxiety. It was a terrible idea going down on my own and I won’t make that mistake again… I might even hold auditions next time, who can be the most entertaining on a 6 hour journey and who can help me wallow the most. If anyone fancies a trip to the South Coast, just let me know!

Despite my anxiety, the pre op started and Dr Laid Back and Dr Relaxed came and did their spiel and I was then hooked up to have an iron infusion to try and raise my iron levels before the procedure. I was slightly disappointed that I didn’t feel like Popeye after it, and that the 20 year old trainee nurse had no idea what I was talking about when I mentioned Popeye (eye roll…. just the one though) and then it was a waiting game for the next day.

Monday arrived and I did my James Bond escape for a power walk around the block in the morning and then waited… It did cross my mind a few times to just walk out of the hospital and get the next train home and just pretend that none of this was happening but unfortunately in my family, we have this annoying saying of ‘Corne’s don’t quit’ and after using this phrase on my poor cousin half way through an 8 mile run when she had only ever jogged a few km’s before, I felt that I couldn’t let the side down… does the comparison of a life prolonging procedure and an 8 mile run work?… Let me know your thoughts… It was then time for the walk of shame down the corridor to the operating theatre but this time the hospital had given out dressing gowns, so my arse was safely tucked away behind a thin cover (relief all round!)

I find it really strange when you walk into an operating theatre and get yourself comfortable on the operating bed, a million things are happening around you, preparing for the ‘show’ and then there you are, the ‘star’ of the show taking your opening position. Naturally I cried on Dr Laid Back and Dr Relaxed, big sobbing tears with snot thrown into the mix (which I am sure they are very used to) and then I was out for the count.

The ‘after’ was the same with the horrendous procedure of taking the lines out of my neck and groin and flat on my back for a number of hours and then Dr Knows His Shit came in (new character to the story) to tell me that they had decided to give me a blood transfusion to complement the iron infusion that I had had the day earlier (almost like an accompanying wine to a fine dinner) as he wasn’t sure that I would be able to function with all the various levels being so low. I cracked the obvious joke about hoping it was an athletes blood they were giving me (zero reaction) and before long I was hooked up and being pumped full of the good stuff!

Discharged and ready to go, it was time to make the long journey home (via a stop in Elstead to see my Aunt and Uncle) my dad provided the entertainment on the way back in the car which consisted of describing every services we went past on the motorway and marking them out of 10…but he did have some cracking 80’s and 90’s tunes on his playlist which more than made up for it. I’ll be interested to know if the iron and blood help me feel better during recovery this time round… If anyone sees a woman in her 40’s in North Leeds lifting up any cars or with obscenely large biceps, you’ll know it’s me and that I am doing ok!

Hx