I grew up in a family where superstitions were a thing. Saluting to a single magpie, no new shoes on the kitchen table, never passing anyone on the stairs, never accepting money when you give anyone a stamp, never buying a kitchen knife for anyone (not 100% sure why you would want to do that one but anyway) and NEVER must you EVER say ‘Candyman’ in front of a mirror 3 times…The list is actually endless. As I have gotten older not only do these childhood superstitions still take up a fair amount of space in my tiny brain but I have I have also developed my own personal superstitions and routines for different occasions. If I was a psychologist, I could delve into the fact that I use these as a form of control but I’m just going to go with the fact that I just like them and they make me feel better 🙂

During my Chemosaturation treatments (and interestingly where I don’t have any control over what my pesky liver mets are doing) I have created some additional routines and superstitions that have shaped my experience for each round. So you can imagine my face and anxiety levels when ‘what I like to do’ took a curve ball heading into round 4…

It started before I had even left the house to go to Southampton when I couldn’t find my ‘lucky slippers.’ They are the most disgusting things that you have ever seen but they have a delightful rainbow across the front of them and I had stolen them off of the teenager before round 1. The theatre team at the hospital even recognised them and we always had a bit of a convo about slippers before my procedure. The suggestion from Mr-Me-Myself-And-Eye to ‘just take another pair’ wasn’t going to cut it. Panicking that I had packed them away along with half of the house whilst we were having some building work done, I tore the house apart looking for them only to eventually find them tucked away in one of the cat beds. Phew, crisis 1 averted!

So with the confidence of a mature cheddar a week past its best before date, we began the long trundle down to Southampton. We were on the M1 when the second curve ball hit. There is a specific service station that we usually stop at to stock up on over priced M&S goodies and an even more overpriced Pret sandwich but it seemed that the universe had a different idea this time. I say universe, but what I actually mean is my 44 year old weak bladder that had nailed 2 litres of water prior to setting off so she didn’t appear dehydrated on arrival at the hospital had a different idea. Not even 1/2 hr into the journey (which is even before you get to Sheffield – and NO ONE stops before Sheffield when travelling down south from Leeds) and I/my bladder had to stop. Faced with a service station that had a Waitrose instead of an M&S was quite frankly discombobulating and lets face it, they do not have anything that compares to a fresh Percy Pig…It also meant that we had to factor in a second stop on the journey as it was too far to go from stop one all the way through to Southampton. This meant that we had to find a stop on the A34… a road that is not widely known for it’s ‘advanced’ facilities… #bladdergate meant that I couldn’t be picky and so the second stop was at a deserted garage and had the feeling of one of those petrol stations in a Marvel film that is deserted before some out of this world baddy slams into the forecourt with Thor following close behind and then there is a close up of the petrol station attendant inside the building looking on open mouthed…Shaking off the unexpected changes to our journey, we continue onwards to Southampton with the sun shining down and temperatures hitting a balmy 9 degrees.

Arriving at the hospital, everything was as it should be (at the posh hospital, you check in at reception and then someone comes to show you to your room) but that is where my anxiety over my Chemosat superstitions and routine became heightened. Firstly, I was in a room in ward 2 rather than ward 1 for the night, not only was this on the other side of the hospital but it also meant that instead of having the sunrise on a morning, I got the sunset on the afternoon. It was a beautiful sunset but it wasn’t what usually happened and I just couldn’t settle. Luckily, I only had to stay there for one night before I moved to ward 1, but instead of being in one of the rooms near the nurses station, room 1, 2 or 4 as I had been before, I was way down the corridor in room 10! I mean how was I going to hear about all the gossip from the nurses if I was no where near them and I couldn’t keep my room door slightly open to hear them?! Not only this but the cannula that usually goes in the back of my hand to give me a hearty dose of Iron (have I mentioned that I have excellent veins for needles and cannulas) ended up in my elbow crease, giving me the fear that whenever I was going to bend my arm the cannula was going to pop through the back of my arm (Blugh!)

As soon as I woke up on the morning of my procedure, I had a feeling that something was going to be different. I was first on the list which was as normal and I knew that it meant that despite having to be in recovery for a long time due to my inability to come round from a general anaesthetic very well and the impending doom of the lines being taken out of my neck and groin, I would be back up in my room in time to snooze in front of The Chase on ITV sipping tea through a straw.

Usually when I head down to theatre (arse firmly covered by a scratchy dressing gown over the theatre gown) we go down the corridor and take the lift down to directly outside the Cath Lab (theatre) which is where the chemosat procedure takes place. I know the drill and so as my nurse was walking with me down the corridor, I automatically started to go towards the lift until my lovely nurse said, “I quite fancy getting some more steps in, shall we take the stairs…?” Now I am someone who LOVES to get their steps in, nothing fills me with more joy than when my watch tells me that I have achieved my step count before 8am and then comparing my total daily steps with Mr-Me-Myself-And-Eye on an evening and always absolutely smashing his. So now I was in a quandary, do I stick to my pre procedure routine of taking the lift, especially when a lot of my rituals had changed up until this point making me feel very out of sorts, or do I give in to my ultra competitive side of getting my steps in (and a few cheeky flights of stairs) and live with the unsettling feeling of things not being quite right…?

You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to know which one I chose… it was the steps and the stairs obvs (but annoyingly I didn’t have my watch on to actually record the steps – eye roll, just the one though) and although my head was screaming at me that this was all wrong and it could mean a potential disaster when I was in theatre (not that I catastrophise much…) in the end, my competitive side won and my overwhelming desire to beat Mr Me-Myself-And-Eye’s step count on as many occasions as possible.

So what lesson have I learnt about superstitions and routines? That although I do love a routine and have possibly some form of underlying trauma from a superstitious childhood… it is ok to break out of routine on occasion and if I do, my world won’t collapse and bad things won’t happen…. Now where is that ladder for me to walk under….

Hx