The Lenny Slayers.
Between the two of us, Lola and I were on a mission.
I've never been one who's been into Sci Fi as a genre, unless you count the odd Stephen King or Dean Koontz novel, and even then I'm not a fan of the hard core Sci Fi versions of their literature. But faced with the never ending lives of Lenny we were finding it necessary to seek more and more weird and wonderful tactics in which to slay him. In reality it was just me who was employing these methods, cats aren't renowned for their cancer slaying ideologies, but Lo seemed happy enough to go along with me.
I spent all of ten seconds reading about alternative remedies on the internet before dismissing the whole idea as akin to sprinkling myself with fairy dust and awaiting the outcome. I remember one article very well where the writer claimed a homeopathic therapy they swore by involving lots of herbal teas and vitamin substitutes would alter the patients cellular oxygen levels - therefore effectively killing cancer cells with cellulite! Surely I would be onto a winner here if all this gobbledygook was to be believed? I surely wasn't short of cellulite.
There really are people out there who believe that eating nothing but cucumbers and pineapples will force the Lennys in their lives into submission. Or that if I was to plonk myself on the floor, cross my legs and chant 'ommmm' for 2 hours twice a day I would never hear from the big word beginning with a Capital C again. They obviously hadn't factored in the problems of a two stone overweight couch potato with 2 spinal lesions getting into that position in the first place, never mind getting back up again. Of course, if these methods give those practising them a little hope then I'm happy for them, but it all seems a bit like throwing a dart backwards and blindfolded to me.
That's not to say that my decision back in June/July 2016 was any better or productive. I'd had 4 months on oral chemo, and the side effects were bothering me. Not an hour went by without me feeling nauseous, though I rarely vomited. My neck and chest were covered in a painful itchy rash that no cream prescribed by my doctors would shift, with my hands covered in a similar rash which made my palms look as though they had scales on them. Attractive. The cumulative effects of my daily dose of poison were making my life miserable. I'd lost a little weight, but because this was due to having zero appetite, I'd also lost all the energy that magically comes along when one is eating properly. In short, I felt rotten.
So I stopped taking them. Just like that. No cutting them down by weaning myself off gradually, and no consulting a doctor.
Within 24 hours, the nausea eased and I was able to eat almost an entire ham sandwich - not including most of the ham which went to Lola, as who can resist a wide eyed feline who's fluttering her eyelashes in their direction? Within a week, my appetite was back and the rashes on my chest and hands were beginning to clear up. I was still mightily short on energy, but I felt better than I had in months. I began to understand those who went before me who said that the treatment for this disease is harder than the disease itself. Imagine having a permanent, mother of all hangovers for 4 months and finally coming out of it. The poisons had ingrained themselves deep and if I'd drank 8 pints, 15 tequila shots and a bottle of champagne then danced on the tables for 2 hours I couldn't have felt worse than I did whilst taking those pills. This was like I'd partied hard every night for 4 months. No wonder I felt better.
I chugged along semi happily for a while, relieved to not be feeling like I'd been dragged through a hedge backwards whilst wearing full body armour after eating raw chicken. I regained the weight I had lost - and some. Lola and I had our little routine - I would sleep whenever I was tired and she would launch herself onto my head if my 'naps' resulted in her food bowl ever becoming a third empty. I often wondered if she was in fear of her life through starvation and might well be cooking up a plan to feast on my very self if the worse happened. She certainly had a gleam in her eyes at times. Still, I figured I would prefer her to get some use from me rather than starve to death if the situation was to arise. I took some comfort after researching this and learning that cats will wait at least 10 minutes before tucking in to their loyal staff upon their demise, I'd have a few minutes to settle at least. It's funny where your mind takes you when faced with your own mortality.
There ultimately came a time where I began to realise that doing nothing wasn't the way to go. Although the rashes and most of the nausea were gone the aches and pains were constant. My sleeping patterns had become akin to being on a never ending rollercoaster, with me sleeping for an hour, waking for an hour, sleeping for an hour and so on.... I never knew what time of day it was, and I often missed meds resulting in agonising pain and a sense of failure. To me, this wasn't living it was existing.
It was time to consult a doctor.
Once again I found myself seated opposite The Donky. Cursing my luck at always drawing the short straw when it came to which oncologist I was allocated for my appointments, I tried as best I could to explain how I felt. Resisting the urge to pound my head off the table in front of me on several occasions I managed to get through to her how terribly ill I felt, yet all she was able to suggest was to restart the hormone blocking medication which I had stopped at the same time as the chemo. No suggestions of restarting the chemo, which surprised me, but as she had explained "at least the cancer will be being treated with something".
So that was that.
Back home I went, filled Lola's buffet bowls (always 3 types of food or I'd get the stinky eye), refreshed her water and climbed into bed.
With all the curling up into a ball, getting up only to eat, drink or use the loo I felt more like a cat than my cat did. I began to wonder if I would ever feel human again.
And that was when, as if she heard my thoughts, Lola leaped from the doorway straight onto my head and pushed her arse into my face reminding me that at least I hadn't developed a furry butt hole yet.
I thanked my lucky stars.
Between the two of us, Lola and I were on a mission.
I've never been one who's been into Sci Fi as a genre, unless you count the odd Stephen King or Dean Koontz novel, and even then I'm not a fan of the hard core Sci Fi versions of their literature. But faced with the never ending lives of Lenny we were finding it necessary to seek more and more weird and wonderful tactics in which to slay him. In reality it was just me who was employing these methods, cats aren't renowned for their cancer slaying ideologies, but Lo seemed happy enough to go along with me.
I spent all of ten seconds reading about alternative remedies on the internet before dismissing the whole idea as akin to sprinkling myself with fairy dust and awaiting the outcome. I remember one article very well where the writer claimed a homeopathic therapy they swore by involving lots of herbal teas and vitamin substitutes would alter the patients cellular oxygen levels - therefore effectively killing cancer cells with cellulite! Surely I would be onto a winner here if all this gobbledygook was to be believed? I surely wasn't short of cellulite.
There really are people out there who believe that eating nothing but cucumbers and pineapples will force the Lennys in their lives into submission. Or that if I was to plonk myself on the floor, cross my legs and chant 'ommmm' for 2 hours twice a day I would never hear from the big word beginning with a Capital C again. They obviously hadn't factored in the problems of a two stone overweight couch potato with 2 spinal lesions getting into that position in the first place, never mind getting back up again. Of course, if these methods give those practising them a little hope then I'm happy for them, but it all seems a bit like throwing a dart backwards and blindfolded to me.
That's not to say that my decision back in June/July 2016 was any better or productive. I'd had 4 months on oral chemo, and the side effects were bothering me. Not an hour went by without me feeling nauseous, though I rarely vomited. My neck and chest were covered in a painful itchy rash that no cream prescribed by my doctors would shift, with my hands covered in a similar rash which made my palms look as though they had scales on them. Attractive. The cumulative effects of my daily dose of poison were making my life miserable. I'd lost a little weight, but because this was due to having zero appetite, I'd also lost all the energy that magically comes along when one is eating properly. In short, I felt rotten.
So I stopped taking them. Just like that. No cutting them down by weaning myself off gradually, and no consulting a doctor.
Within 24 hours, the nausea eased and I was able to eat almost an entire ham sandwich - not including most of the ham which went to Lola, as who can resist a wide eyed feline who's fluttering her eyelashes in their direction? Within a week, my appetite was back and the rashes on my chest and hands were beginning to clear up. I was still mightily short on energy, but I felt better than I had in months. I began to understand those who went before me who said that the treatment for this disease is harder than the disease itself. Imagine having a permanent, mother of all hangovers for 4 months and finally coming out of it. The poisons had ingrained themselves deep and if I'd drank 8 pints, 15 tequila shots and a bottle of champagne then danced on the tables for 2 hours I couldn't have felt worse than I did whilst taking those pills. This was like I'd partied hard every night for 4 months. No wonder I felt better.
I chugged along semi happily for a while, relieved to not be feeling like I'd been dragged through a hedge backwards whilst wearing full body armour after eating raw chicken. I regained the weight I had lost - and some. Lola and I had our little routine - I would sleep whenever I was tired and she would launch herself onto my head if my 'naps' resulted in her food bowl ever becoming a third empty. I often wondered if she was in fear of her life through starvation and might well be cooking up a plan to feast on my very self if the worse happened. She certainly had a gleam in her eyes at times. Still, I figured I would prefer her to get some use from me rather than starve to death if the situation was to arise. I took some comfort after researching this and learning that cats will wait at least 10 minutes before tucking in to their loyal staff upon their demise, I'd have a few minutes to settle at least. It's funny where your mind takes you when faced with your own mortality.
There ultimately came a time where I began to realise that doing nothing wasn't the way to go. Although the rashes and most of the nausea were gone the aches and pains were constant. My sleeping patterns had become akin to being on a never ending rollercoaster, with me sleeping for an hour, waking for an hour, sleeping for an hour and so on.... I never knew what time of day it was, and I often missed meds resulting in agonising pain and a sense of failure. To me, this wasn't living it was existing.
It was time to consult a doctor.
Once again I found myself seated opposite The Donky. Cursing my luck at always drawing the short straw when it came to which oncologist I was allocated for my appointments, I tried as best I could to explain how I felt. Resisting the urge to pound my head off the table in front of me on several occasions I managed to get through to her how terribly ill I felt, yet all she was able to suggest was to restart the hormone blocking medication which I had stopped at the same time as the chemo. No suggestions of restarting the chemo, which surprised me, but as she had explained "at least the cancer will be being treated with something".
So that was that.
Back home I went, filled Lola's buffet bowls (always 3 types of food or I'd get the stinky eye), refreshed her water and climbed into bed.
With all the curling up into a ball, getting up only to eat, drink or use the loo I felt more like a cat than my cat did. I began to wonder if I would ever feel human again.
And that was when, as if she heard my thoughts, Lola leaped from the doorway straight onto my head and pushed her arse into my face reminding me that at least I hadn't developed a furry butt hole yet.
I thanked my lucky stars.
Enjoyed reading your latest blog Dawn and although such a serious subject must admit to a chuckle or two over the humorous parts - well written and ty for sharing xxx Graham
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