The Fur amid the Blur
The next couple of weeks passed in a blur.
More scans were done, thousands(?) of blood tests, some requiring overnight fasts that left me half demented with a hunger and thirst that would never have even registered if not for the fact that I was fasting, and worst of all - I began a new regime that involved injecting my stomach with biophosphonates, a drug used to treat and strengthen my bone marrow which came complete with a needle the size of a bic pen. Ok, maybe a slight exaggeration but it felt that way as the chemo nurse, after taking my blood pressure, noting my aches and pains and dispensing my super duper chemo tablets, dug around in my belly fat and administered a shot of pain that made me almost jump clean out of my comfy chair and look tentatively around hoping none of the other patients had seen my public display of complete wussyness.
As if the cancer itself wasn't causing enough pain, primarily around my lower back, down my legs and into my feet, this new belly jab had the effect of causing, wait for it - bone pain. As it's repairing some aspects of the bone, its destroying others, much like chemotherapy, so of course the pain became progressively worse. By now, I'd began taking morphine for pain relief together with other drugs, but it did little to alleviate the pain deep inside the bones.
Life, as I knew it, changed.
My mind was in a constant whirl, trying to keep track of dozens of upcoming medical appointments, while being dulled by the effects of the morphine which was being raised periodically in an attempt to reach the exact dose in which to keep me comfortable. I began to get concerned about the amounts I was taking and mentioned this at one of many GP appointments (at this point my GP was managing my pain medications). I was surprised to be told that it wasn't a problem if I became addicted, it was more important to be made comfortable.
I had entered the world of palliative care, aged 48.
My days when not attending medical appointments were mostly spent in bed. My body was under attack and it took all my energy to just 'be'. I watched so much daytime TV during the periods I was awake my brain didn't stand a chance and together with the effects of the morphine I became more and more vacant. There was the odd time I would haul myself out of bed and select one of the hundreds of DVDs I've collected over the years in a bid to inject some humour into my existence but they were becoming fewer. I hit an all time low.
What pulled me back?
The past few weeks, as mentioned, were spent in a blur of medical appointments, the processing of news, and adjustments to medications.
Throughout all of this, there was Lola. Forever by my side, always knowing when I needed a cuddle or when I needed to be left alone. She would adjust her behaviour accordingly, either laying in my lap whilst I watched TV in bed purring her little head off, or napping by my feet, always one ear cocked just in case she detected a change in my mood and could be beside me in a heartbeat.
Those days I found it such a trial to pull myself out of bed never once impacted on Lola. We had a system, the two of us, which allowed us both the freedom to plod along nicely until things got better. Lola was and still is free fed - meaning that when I'm up and about I fill her dishes with enough food, kibble and water to last her a day or 2. This way I don't need to feed her to a schedule and she is always assured that there will be food and water available for her. This doesn't however, stop her trying it on when I AM up , the little Diva!
I often ponder on how lucky I am, having Lola in my life. There was a time soon after i had upped my morphine fairly considerably when I slept right through the time I was due to re dose. It was a particularly low point, when I would try to stay asleep for as long as possible as when I was sleeping was the only time I wasn't in pain. There I was, presumably snoring away when I felt the gentlest touch of fur on my cheek. Not wanting to wake up, I ignored it. And then there was another, and another. Eventually, I received a small slap on my forehead which woke me up properly and there she was -Lola, with a look of disdain on her little face. She didn't need feeding, her tray was clean. I didn't know why she'd walloped me awake. Then I looked at the clock and realised I was an hour past my med time. The second I downed my meds off went Lola - tail high in the air, free to go back to doing cat things. How's that for a personal nurse?
The more often these little things she would do happened, the more I felt blessed to have her. She gave me affection, company and above all a purpose. From the day Lola woke me up to take my meds, I did everything I could to ensure it never happened again, often failing, but I tried. I couldn't and still can't quite get my head around a cat feeling that kind of responsibility for me.
Her actions did however, give me the title for this blog.
Carry on Cancer
(I've got my cat)
The next couple of weeks passed in a blur.
More scans were done, thousands(?) of blood tests, some requiring overnight fasts that left me half demented with a hunger and thirst that would never have even registered if not for the fact that I was fasting, and worst of all - I began a new regime that involved injecting my stomach with biophosphonates, a drug used to treat and strengthen my bone marrow which came complete with a needle the size of a bic pen. Ok, maybe a slight exaggeration but it felt that way as the chemo nurse, after taking my blood pressure, noting my aches and pains and dispensing my super duper chemo tablets, dug around in my belly fat and administered a shot of pain that made me almost jump clean out of my comfy chair and look tentatively around hoping none of the other patients had seen my public display of complete wussyness.
As if the cancer itself wasn't causing enough pain, primarily around my lower back, down my legs and into my feet, this new belly jab had the effect of causing, wait for it - bone pain. As it's repairing some aspects of the bone, its destroying others, much like chemotherapy, so of course the pain became progressively worse. By now, I'd began taking morphine for pain relief together with other drugs, but it did little to alleviate the pain deep inside the bones.
Life, as I knew it, changed.
My mind was in a constant whirl, trying to keep track of dozens of upcoming medical appointments, while being dulled by the effects of the morphine which was being raised periodically in an attempt to reach the exact dose in which to keep me comfortable. I began to get concerned about the amounts I was taking and mentioned this at one of many GP appointments (at this point my GP was managing my pain medications). I was surprised to be told that it wasn't a problem if I became addicted, it was more important to be made comfortable.
I had entered the world of palliative care, aged 48.
My days when not attending medical appointments were mostly spent in bed. My body was under attack and it took all my energy to just 'be'. I watched so much daytime TV during the periods I was awake my brain didn't stand a chance and together with the effects of the morphine I became more and more vacant. There was the odd time I would haul myself out of bed and select one of the hundreds of DVDs I've collected over the years in a bid to inject some humour into my existence but they were becoming fewer. I hit an all time low.
What pulled me back?
The past few weeks, as mentioned, were spent in a blur of medical appointments, the processing of news, and adjustments to medications.
Throughout all of this, there was Lola. Forever by my side, always knowing when I needed a cuddle or when I needed to be left alone. She would adjust her behaviour accordingly, either laying in my lap whilst I watched TV in bed purring her little head off, or napping by my feet, always one ear cocked just in case she detected a change in my mood and could be beside me in a heartbeat.
Those days I found it such a trial to pull myself out of bed never once impacted on Lola. We had a system, the two of us, which allowed us both the freedom to plod along nicely until things got better. Lola was and still is free fed - meaning that when I'm up and about I fill her dishes with enough food, kibble and water to last her a day or 2. This way I don't need to feed her to a schedule and she is always assured that there will be food and water available for her. This doesn't however, stop her trying it on when I AM up , the little Diva!
I often ponder on how lucky I am, having Lola in my life. There was a time soon after i had upped my morphine fairly considerably when I slept right through the time I was due to re dose. It was a particularly low point, when I would try to stay asleep for as long as possible as when I was sleeping was the only time I wasn't in pain. There I was, presumably snoring away when I felt the gentlest touch of fur on my cheek. Not wanting to wake up, I ignored it. And then there was another, and another. Eventually, I received a small slap on my forehead which woke me up properly and there she was -Lola, with a look of disdain on her little face. She didn't need feeding, her tray was clean. I didn't know why she'd walloped me awake. Then I looked at the clock and realised I was an hour past my med time. The second I downed my meds off went Lola - tail high in the air, free to go back to doing cat things. How's that for a personal nurse?
The more often these little things she would do happened, the more I felt blessed to have her. She gave me affection, company and above all a purpose. From the day Lola woke me up to take my meds, I did everything I could to ensure it never happened again, often failing, but I tried. I couldn't and still can't quite get my head around a cat feeling that kind of responsibility for me.
Her actions did however, give me the title for this blog.
Carry on Cancer
(I've got my cat)
(y)
ReplyDeleteExcellent insight as usual Dawn xx
ReplyDelete