It has been a while since I posted anything to this blog. 2 main reasons, 1 being I was stuck in a holding pattern awaiting a restart of treatment and the other being the gradual unravelling of the entire fabric of society on a global basis was probably worthy of one's priority. Still, I am back in the system now.
After a few abortive blood tests, my various markers came back in a range that allowed the oncologist to give the green-light for a resumption of chemo, albeit with the caveat that my bilirubin count was still elevated (5.5 x normal, I think), so one of the active drugs was on a 50% dose. The new drug package is slightly different to set 1, with one drug switched. This was good news and bad news.
First the bad news. Irinotecan has been switched out for Oxaliplatin. Now this drug has 2 lovely possible side effects. The first being hand neuropathy, which manifests as heightened sensitivity to cold, with extreme pain, even doing mundane things like taking a bottle of milk out of the fridge. The second is that reaction to cold can cause throat spasms, so if nothing else, like in space, no one will hear me scream when I take a bottle of milk out of the fridge.
The good news: the removal of Irinotecan means the removal of the need of an atropine shot at the start of each chemo session. For those of you lucky enough to have no idea of what an atropine shot feels like, think of getting stung by a mutant giant hornet so evil and nasty that it was exiled from Klendathu. And of course, the old faithfuls, the twin side effects of nausea and diarrhoea are part and parcel of the overall bundle of joy for the next 11 weeks.
So, treatment day rolled around, and I reported to the day unit. I saw a number of familiar faces amongst the nursing staff and was welcomed like a returning friend. Scratched record time I am afraid, the nurses and their support staff remain heroes. The nurse tending to me asked how I was doing, I used the old favourite of "aside from the obvious?". She did laugh, and said she had previously been called out by a patient after asking how he was doing. Seemed a bit harsh to me, I would rather they humanise a very difficult situation. The only issue was the fact that they had problems locating the drugs package from the pharmacy: arguably an important bit of the whole process. It meant a delay of an hour or so, but no matter. The whole thing was done and I went home and crashed. This cycle coincided with a friend's daughter staying with me (she was doing a teacher training placement at a nearby school), and later that evening I was showing her the IV line and whole contraption, it was at this point I noticed that the line had clamped shut. It had only been less than 6 hours that this could have occurred, and possibly from the seat-belt when driving home. Ah well, only 6 hours delay, not as bad as last time.
The next day I ventured up to Bristol to see Half Man Half Biscuit in concert with a group of old school friends. I had not seen them since 1986, but didn't want to turn down the chance to see them again, since they only play a handful of shows each year. For those who had no idea who they are, their front-man, Nigel Blackwell, is a lyrical genius, and if there was any justice in this world, he would be Poet Laureate. The gig was superb.
Saturday was pump disconnection day, and due to the delay, it meant I had the chance to watch City squander a lead late on at home to Fulham, in what would prove to be our last game before the apocalypse. Still, it means we will go unbeaten for the rest of March.
On Sunday, freshly de-pumped, I went back up to Bristol to see Sisters of Mercy in concert. I had first seem them in 1984, in basically the same venue, and they were superb. I next saw them in the early 1990s in London, a gig so unmemorable that I can't even recall what year, and one of the lads I went with cannot even remember being there. The last time was 2008 in Atlanta, and they were horrific. The verdict this time? They played a few of my favourites, but I think it's time to stick a fork in them. Well, at least until the next time. And so to today, after blood work on Monday I had my pre-assessment meeting with my oncologist. Well, I say meeting, for COVID-19 reasons these had been switched to telephone calls to minimise face to face contact. We discussed how I was doing, and the results of my bloods (all but 1 marker back to normal, bilirubin almost normal) gave a green light for Friday's treatment.
At this point the conversation took a decidedly morbid tone: I was give the choice of
A: continuing with chemo, running the risk of being exposed to the virus, and due to my underlying health condition, possibly dying or B: suspending chemo, and actually dying. To be honest, it was an easy choice to make, although at this point the oncologist could have injected some humour into the proceedings and asked if I wanted to phone a friend...
Looking at the 800lb gorilla, nestling over there on the sofa, listening to a bit of Johnny Mathis, I guess I should touch on COVID-19 and what it means to me. NHS England have a particularly cheery website, with exhaustive guidance on what each risk group should be doing. Having scanned down the list, I found myself in the group with the highest vulnerability, and apparently should be expecting additional bespoke guidance in due course. At a minimum I have to go into 12 weeks of isolation, and basically shut-off the outside world. I did find the time this morning to do a countdown on my Banksy 2020 calendar, starting from Monday just gone, and am looking forward to 7 June when I might have hopes of rejoining the world. So, we go again in 2 days time.