Denial or bust
First, the boring medical bits. Saw Alison today, my bloods are back on track and at normal levels so it’s green light for chemo tomorrow (yes it is that time already, grrrr). She’s reduced the dose and scrapped the day 8 entirely (normally I have 2 drugs on day 1, and a top-up of one drug on day 8 but it’s caused so many delays and problems that we’ll see how we go without that second hit). Next scan will be after the 5th cycle, tomorrow will be my 4th so about another month. Which is good as I wasn’t really feeling ready for a scan as early as next week which is what it should have been technically. I’ve got a belly like a pin cushion as am still being injected with this blood-thinning drug every day, probably for a good few months. Poor Andy, he’s having to do it as I can’t bring myself to and I don’t think he likes it very much.
Speaking of which, he’s moving in. After a mini freak out thinking it’s too soon and going to be a disaster, I’ve had a few pep talks from the girls and a little word with myself, and realised that it’s actually lovely. More than lovely. He makes me v happy and he virtually lives with me anyway so it’s not a big deal. The new house felt like ‘ours’ rather than ‘mine’ right from day dot and it’s starting to feel even more like our home with every day. We’re really enjoying being here, together. Hurrah. There was a slight incident over some fishfingers (long story) but it was contained and we’re good.
There’s been something weighing quite heavily on my mind recently and I’m starting to question how well I am dealing with everything, and whether I fully understand what’s happening to me and what’s likely to happen. Still figuring that one out but I think I am starting to realise that I could be in a little bubble of denial. Which is weird as, in earlier posts I remember being very much against denial, especially in others. It’s not that I don’t believe it – I have no choice but to believe it when I spend so much time in hospital – I’m just nowhere near being able to process it and come to terms with what could happen in the future. I know the stats and the averages obviously, and I’ve accepted that I probably won’t live as long as I thought but that’s as far as I can go at the moment. I’m not ready to think or deal with the specifics. I don’t want to know my prognosis (which can only ever be a guess anyway), I can’t bring myself to think about what might happen when drugs stop working and there’s nothing more they can do for me or when it spreads. I just can’t, I’d never leave the house, probably not even my bed, if I did. I’ve got plans for my life and yes they do stretch years into the future, the next few years anyway. Rightly or wrongly. I have a relationship to nurture and grow, a career I’m proud of and want to develop, charity work I want to get stuck into because it’s important to me. I can’t let the ‘reality’ get in the way of all that, not right now. I’m quite happily putting my fingers in my ears at the moment and it suits me to do so until I really have no choice but to accept and admit it. Until then, I need to pretend that everything’s cool because when I do that, I can function. I have to believe there is some hope for me. I don’t know what form that hope comes in – it’s just a vague feeling that, you know what, things might, just MIGHT, be ok. And if they’re not ok in the future then I’ll deal with it then but for the moment I’m too scared to face it.
It’s all very strange. I thought I was sailing through this quite well really but I really have had a good think over the past couple of weeks, since all that being in hospital nonsense, and perhaps it’s just another of the many complex stages you go through with this thing. Who knows…