Written in a week in which early treatment made me realise that cancer treatment needs considerable patience – and I
suspect is going to be a preparation for series of several similar waiting times as I move into a
Chemotherapy regime.
If you have read the post 'Cancer 1', you will have seen there was one late
shock as the respiratory doctor bowed out, handing us over to the
oncology/haematology team. He admitted he had thought that he was going to be
telling us I ‘only had weeks’ when he had believed I had lung cancer: but with
it being a lymphoma, there is a good chance of ultimate recovery (although it
would usually be referred to as ‘in remission’), both reminders of our mortality
and vulnerability. Interestingly, Pam had already intuited that the respiratory
doctor had been thinking along those very bleak lines, whereas I had been
naively thinking in terms of a few
years. So, in this, a sharp reminder of just how hard this sort of path is for
a spouse or a partner who truly cares for their ‘other-half’.
Now, over to the oncology clinic and a
minor shock of a different kind. The clinic was awash with people of all
adult ages and stages: young women with scarves on their heads, elderly folk
looking battered and scared, middle aged people with multiple tattoos and rings (Oh
dear! I really do need to take a check on my prejudices! I’m going to be sharing
facilities with many of this group for some long weeks ahead); Addenbrookes Hospital treat 4000
new cases every year! But in all of this we realise again just how fortunate we
are to be so close to such a well resourced hospital and also realize how often
this disease visits much younger people: people who have to balance their
treatment with demanding jobs and people with children to tend to and cope with
the children’s fears as well as their own. A prayer-in-every-chair, it seemed
to me.
Thankfully this week of waiting is not one of
complete inaction. In order to get me as well prepared for the chemotherapy as
possible, I was put straight on to a daily dose of steroids and in just a few
days that has brought relief from the presenting symptoms of acute coughing and
low energy. Two mile walks have suddenly become practicable (delightful to walk
by the river again) and my appetite has improved significantly: the wonders of
modern medicine! More to be thankful for.
But the other part of this week is the not knowing.
I guess most of us find that one of the hardest times of life. When will the chemo
start? Friday or next week? How to plan this weekend; how will I react to the
chemo? How necessary might the emergency card I’ve been given be – am I really
likely to succumb to a sepsis? How will my appetite ebb and flow, if it does?
Problems for Pam and me to share and another pause to reflect on what a lonely
road this must be for single people to tread.
Then there is the literature – a folder full of
several books mainly from cancer charities and SO-O-O much information to try
and take in. How difficult for the not-particularly articulate? And hiding in
amongst all that, a recommendation to take up or revive a hobby to give purpose
to the possibly gruelling way ahead. This for me, not difficult: I will
continue to pen as many verses as I can – and that, I will enjoy unless my
brain is so addled, which I understand happens to some chemo patients. Another
unknown.
So one of the lessons has to be to live each day
for itself and rejoice in those that are good. One night, the steroids (I
assume) woke me suddenly in the early hours. An opportunity to edit a seasonal
poem I jotted in the previous week and once again in thanksgiving mode, I end this
journal-style entry with it. We immensely valued the prayers
– thank you again to so very many of you.
Gossamer
Spectrum
Sun emerging from an autumn mist
slants across fine gossamer weavings
that bedeck the window pane.
The angle of the shafts of the sun
and the seat from which I gaze
Is accidentally perfect;
for each near-parallel thread
glistens with
an exquisitely fine spectrum.
A Spider’s overnight endeavours
delicately revealing the complexity
of our star’s life-giving, visible rays,
and I give thanks.
It is
not my intention these journal-style entries should become frequent bulletins:
I will try to record only the more significant times – and in between simply share some of my more ‘normal-style’ poetry with its usual 1 to 3 week
frequency.
You can read the start of this journey (Cancer 1) HERE and the third part (Cancer 3) HERE
You can read the start of this journey (Cancer 1) HERE and the third part (Cancer 3) HERE
