Once I had got out of the hospital I knew I was facing a few weeks of recovery. I had been seriously ill that week, and my body felt shot. Still, I had time on my hands. I could work around periods of rest, I had a week's worth of pills to guzzle down, and I had no plans to do anything remotely taxing.
The week after I got out I had a scheduled call with my oncologist. Unsurprisingly the decision was to delay a 2nd cycle of treatment, since my body needed to 1) build up some strength and 2) flush out the antibiotics before they jacked me up on the even-more-toxic chemo cocktail. This would mean I would end up with a 6 week gap between treatments. Clearly not ideal given the underlying condition, but there was not a lot else that could be done. The fact that my latest CT scan showed stability across the board was the one piece of comfort.
In the 1st week out, we actually took the monumental step of making a visit to the local pub, the first time since March. It was a lovely day, we could sit in the beer garden, and as it was, there were no other patrons within 20 feet of our table. The ordering and collection process in the pub was well organised, all the staff were wearing appropriate PPE, and it all felt safe. It was a nice feeling to have some sense of normal living, even if it was just the same 3 of us that had rode out shielding and lockdown. During the rest of the month we went back a couple of times with friends and family, all appropriately distanced and all that.
After 2 weeks of recovery another possible treatment week came around. I got bloodwork done on the Monday and then waited for the oncologist call on the Wednesday to find out the results and whether treatment would get signed off. Of most concern to me was the CEA marker, in light of the fact that I had had no chemo in the past month. As it turned out, the CEA result defied logic again, and the marker had actually fallen. Quite how this works I have no idea, but I'm happy to take scraps of positive news when I can. The oncologist confirmed treatment was a go for the next day, and that this would be cycle 4 in a planned set of 6. He also confirmed that it was likely I would roll quickly into another set afterwards, based on the end of set CT scan.
And so I headed to the hospital the following day. Being out of practise, I stupidly had breakfast (forgetting that I generally don't eat before treatment). This decision would come back to haunt me. Treatment itself was as uneventful as always. The staff took good care of me, and it was nice to see some familiar faces after the hiatus. I had actually commented to various friends in the previous weeks that after the sickness and the week in hospital, I was actually looking forward to a return to the "normality" of chemotherapy. It is odd how one's view on life changes in the face of bad shit. It was during the treatment that I started to feel a little nauseous. Nothing major at that point, rather something didn't feel right (again drawing on my significant medical expertise). The drive home was about 45 minutes. I spent most of it in silence, concentrating on not puking up over myself and the car. Thankfully I made it home without incident, but within about 30 seconds of being inside the house I was bent double over the toilet, saying hello to breakfast. It was about now I remembered why I don't eat on treatment mornings. That pretty much was how the rest of my afternoon and evening progressed. I was sick twice more, and having managed only a small bowl of soup, there was not a lot else to expel, and I was probably down to stomach lining by the last visit to the bathroom.
By the morning I was starting to feel better, and my appetite slowly returned. My weight has been a cause for concern in the past year. I get weighed every treatment cycle (before all this I might step on scales maybe once in a blue moon). I had actually dropped 4kg in a matter of days at the start of the hospital week. And so, me not eating always becomes a worry for my wife and MIL. The slow release pump was depleted on schedule by the Saturday morning, and I was all set for a disconnection visit. I checked my schedule list and was dismayed to see that, whilst it had originally been set for the Saturday, it had been switched to the Monday. That deflated me somewhat. In the greater scheme of things, having to be hooked up for 48 more hours is not the worst thing that might happen during treatment, but getting rid of the thing is the highlight of a treatment fortnight, and actually allows me to get on with life. As such I called the hospital to see if I could come in, and the lovely Irish nurse I spoke to said sure, come on in. It ended up being the same nurse who dealt with me. We had the now-obligatory game of hunt the heparin, but I was provided with a cup of tea and a cupcake to keep me going in the interim. She found a vial in the end (it turned out that a nurse who lived nearby, and had a key to the relevant cupboard, came in on her day off to assist: again, the nursing staff in the NHS never fail to amaze me), and I was good to go.
The next couple of weeks have passed with little to report: I have been busy with work, I haven't been sick, the dogs are still keeping us busy, and as I write I am expecting treatment in a couple of days, assuming a positive oncology call tomorrow. Life is still odd: whilst the official advice is that shielding has been suspended, we are taking a much more cautious approach, and continue with avoiding anyone we don't know and trust to be doing the right thing. I have no plans to diverge from that approach anytime soon.