After Thursday's day-time meltdown, I had a shocker of a night's sleep (or lack thereof) and woke up (sic) on Friday feeling rotten. I figured I was well enough to get up to my support group, so chanced the drive. I was fine, and spent a couple of hours there catching up with people after a gap of a few weeks. I headed home, and needed to crash out before cooking for my MIL. I got back up, still feeling rough, and started on tea. By the time I dished up I really didn't have any appetite, indeed, I had not actually eaten at any point in the day. After a couple of mouthfuls I was throwing up. There we are. The moment the promised nausea kicked in. Thank you cancer, thank you chemo. I really felt low. I soon went to bed, hoping to finally get some proper sleep.
I had planned to go to football on Saturday, and after waking up from a better night's kip, and generally feeling brighter, I decided to chance the journey. All was Ok, I met up with friends, and my sister, and we headed to the ground for a beer. It was then that things got iffy: I started to feel dizzy, and vision started to blur and white out. I was pretty sure that none of those things should really be happening. Still, I went to sit down, and that passed. The game itself was a scrappy, but ultimately satisfying, win over a generally poor QPR. Points on the board for the good guys. I headed back home, scrapped plans to head out for dinner, ate some food and crashed out again.
By Sunday I hoped that things would be on the up, and whilst I felt relatively better, it was not great in absolute terms. My MIL headed home for a couple of weeks, so was back on my own. My appetite had returned, and I camped on the sofa, watching a mix of movies, football and cricket. It proved to be the perfect way to spend a day in isolation. Surely all on the up now?
Monday morning it all went to shit again: I noticed that my hair had started falling out. Not major league, like needles falling off a dying Christmas tree, but enough that it caught my attention. I had been warned this would happen, with a 10-20% chance, but hoped that maybe in this regard, the odds would work in my favour. This sent me into another downward spiral, so, in tears, I called my wife. In general terms I couldn't really give a stuff about going bald, the issue is that this is another marker that puts me in the "cancer/chemo" group, and another reminder of all the shit that has been going in recent months. I know it means that likely the chemo is scorching anything and everything it is finding, but I struggled to appreciate the positive at this point.
The mental side to this situation is incredibly tough. I don't consider myself a particularly strong person, but I am stubborn, and even I struggle to keep the lid on the demons at times like this. I have long taken the view of aiming to stay positive in the face of even the bleakest of situations, but these past few days are testing my resolve.
After my call, my wife clearly triggered an amber alert to the support network, and the help mobilised. Friends got in touch, and visits were arranged. Once again, the response of those around me was humbling, and to be honest, set off the waterworks a couple of times.
Today, Tuesday, I had an appointment with genetics counselling to discuss possible heredity issues in my family. My sister and I attended the meeting. For once, a meeting ended on a positive: the counsellor advised that the initial genetic review of my tumours had suggested that my condition was not a result of heredity, and so put my sister in the clear. There was more digging to do on my side, to ascertain whether I am just the victim of piss-poor luck (regarding stage 4 bowel cancer at my age), but at least we had something to take away. After the meeting we went for a celebratory lunch, then I headed home to get on with life.