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  • On The Road

Set 2, 3 down 3 to go

Life under lockdown continues, I am glad to say, without major incident. Presently the only reasons I have to leave the compound are for medical appointments, whether at the nearby surgery for bloodwork, or at the hospital for chemo treatment. Other than that, I am holed up, and don't even go to the door when someone knocks (which, if you know me well, you'll know is perfectly fine by me). The local surgery did my bloodwork Monday last week: it is a short walk from the house, and living in a small town that is quiet at the best of times, I didn't see a soul on the walk there or back. The surgery itself was significantly less busy than normal, but it is a major relief to me that (for now at least) they are accommodating certain procedures, of which drawing my diseased blood remains one of them.


On Wednesday I had the pre-assessment call with the oncologist. I have been under the care of a clinical team, and whilst they have all been great, the one this time is my favourite. Probably because she is the only one who has given me really good news. She went through my blood markers, basically everything was normal, or close to normal (just that pesky bilirubin coming down from its peak at a glacial pace, plus for some reason I now have elevated potassium), my immune system markers all came back normal (which given my condition, is remarkable), and my CEA marker (the broad measure of disease) is falling. Bottom line, I was given the green light for the 3rd cycle of treatment.


It's worth pointing out at this time how relieved I am that treatment is continuing. Without wishing to get overly gloomy, the alternative is not great for me, it is literally life or death at this point. I am a member of a social media group for stage 4 bowel cancer sufferers (you can imagine how cheery those threads can get), and I have read various reports of people having treatment postponed or, worse, cancelled. Each story is sad to read, and each one reinforces how relatively lucky I am at this point. I do know that there is the possibility that my hospital gets overwhelmed by coronavirus patients, resources get diverted from other clinical areas, and some hard decisions may be taken that will negatively impact me, but for now my goal is to get through these 6 cycles and hope that progress is good, and I can take a treatment break.


And so on to Friday, treatment day. The cancer unit has its own entrance, so patients are somewhat isolated from others at the hospital. I was dropped off and wandered in. Generally a fair number of patients and friends/family members would be waiting for appointments. I think there was 1 guy waiting, sitting a safe distance from me and the receptionist. I checked in and wandered through to the day unit. As a change from prior visits, there was a nurse sitting inside the main doors, in full PPE, taking the temperature of everyone coming in. Sensible move for sure. I made it through this check point and got to the day unit waiting area and took a look around: all the nurses, HCAs, and ancillary staff were wearing masks. One other patient came in, sat away from me (but still in speaking distance), he was wearing a face mask that would otherwise be used for paint and dust particles, and had gloves on. I do have a mask, but tend to only wear it when I come into contact with others: if I stay metres apart, I feel safe(ish).


The whole treatment process was same-old, same-old. There is only 1 way they get the drugs in, so no change there. I was attended to by a lovely nurse (they all are, to be honest): she had retired a few years ago, but now just comes in and takes care of the day unit patients. I asked her how things were going, and she was reasonably upbeat about everything. One humourous moment: during my treatment the PPE Enforcement Officer came in, in her hi-viz jacket. I chatted to her, and turned out it was her first day on the job, having been moved from the infection control team. As it turned out, she was the only staff member not wearing a mask and gloves. I did ask her if they gave her a hat too, she replied she would love one.


The support group I attend meets on a Friday morning, so during treatment cycles (my day is generally a Friday) I can't attend. Given the current state of affairs, in person meetings are rightly suspended, and we actually meet via Zoom. As such, I was able to log in to the meeting, and join in. Certainly made the few hours pass a bit quicker.


And with that, I was done. As I always do, I made sure I personally thanked the attending nurses for taking care of me, and headed back to the house and to wait out the hours until disconnection day on the Monday. It is a slight annoyance that disconnection day has been moved from Sunday to Monday, but it is for a perfectly good reason (generally weekend visits would be to the actual cancer ward itself, not the day unit, and they don't want people coming into the ward at this time) and I fully support it. A key problem with a treatment weekend remains the effect of the steroid meds: basically I struggle to sleep for a few days, and it leaves me cabbaged even after the pump has been removed. Case in point, yesterday I found myself falling asleep on a work conference call (no slight on the interesting presentation a colleague was giving). I also had the neuropathy side effect over the weekend a couple of times. The pain of coming into contact with cold has not persisted beyond treatment, so hopefully that continues to be the case.


With normal life on hold I, like many others, have tried my hand at new pursuits. This past week I baked my first tray of brownies (albeit from a packet mix), but then took it up a notch and baked a batch of banana bread from scratch. The tasting panel (wife and MIL) gave it a unanimous thumbs up. I have also investigated buying a pasta maker, and have found myself perusing sections of Amazon I have never previously visited (stand food mixer anyone?). And I am sure I am days away for revisiting a school-time hobby of making my own wine. So, until next week's treatment I'll be here in the bunker, stay safe everyone.

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