Vulnerable.

A devastatingly poor weekend has just passed me by. Being admitted to hospital on Saturday for having an infection and not being discharged until today was lame, putting it lightly. Stoke Mandeville Hospital is an actual madhouse. The nurses are mental, the doctors are mental, EVERYONE IS MENTAL. Not to say I'm being ungrateful or anything, they took good care of me on reflection. But there comes a point when the novelties of eccentricity wear off and you start doubting whether you'll actually make it out of this place alive.

More than anything though, the whole getting an infection kinda put a downer on my 'bring it on chemo ain't sheeeeit' attitude. Maybe I should just try harder when it comes to looking after myself, or maybe I have to drastically improve my living conditions (which, trust me, has its own issues). But I really didn't see something like this happening so damn early on. I'm not even neutropenic yet. God forbid I get a bug when I am at that stage because I might actually die.

I despair.

But then if you're going through hell, keep going. Winston Churchill said that one time to someone apparently. A bit apt, it seems.

And I won't die, don't worry.

Bitesize blog this week. I used to watch those bitesize revision things for foundation maths when I was at school. But that's because I was crap at maths. I only got a C. C for crap. I know my times table though.

Big love.

Ryan.

Level 2.

I wonder what the boss will be like.

Back in Sheffield then, chemo cycle two now into its second day. And as I ponder quite ridiculously which figurative Bowser awaits me at the end of this phase (the boss is more likely to come in the middle really seeing as that's when you feel like the crap's been kicked out of you the most) I must say the nerves are a tingling. Looking after yourself whilst on chemo is quite a challenge, say the doctors and patients I've spoken to anyway. Infections can be common, tiredness prevails on most days and going about your daily routine can be stressful when having to deal with hospital visits on a daily basis. Oh it might seem all doom and gloom but whilst I am nervous I'm not scared. I'm just happy to be out the hospital on a full time basis so if it's just a case of keeping an eye on my health then it can't be too difficult can it?

Plus I have Ellise to basically look after me so I'm sorted.

Day clinic is weird. You arrive and well, nothing really happens for a while. Like yesterday. Turned up at 10 o'clock sharp (it was stressed that it was absolutely imperative I arrive at 10 o'clock sharp) and... nothing. For like, two hours. Then a nurse pops up and goes 'well, your medication hasn't actually been authorised yet so you might as well disappear until the afternoon.' I can see this kind of pattern developing annoyingly. In any case, I returned and got my chemo. Bucket loads of Cyclophosphamide and a tiny bag of Cytarabine. Look at those pretty new names. The first stuff looked evil as sin. Presented in three big black bags not too dissimilar in liking to biohazard warnings, I'd by lying if I say they didn't make me feel a wee bit of apprehension. But so far I don't feel to bad, so bring the rest of it on! Obviously.

Other than that there's not much else new to report. My legs are complete waste at the moment. Having been in hospital for a month and not had to take on gravity during that time my muscles have weaned away to a state of liability that makes the Ethiopian weight lifting team look like world beaters. So the problems that this has caused have been plentiful. But I get by, mostly by having to rely on public transport and running the risk of brain aneurysms because of the sheer stress that this creates. WHEN I PRESS THE BUTTON THAT MEANS STOP YEAH, NOW I HAVE TO WALK FURTHER.

Officially a bus wanker.

I'll try and get a few photos involved with the blog over the next few entries, including maybe a picture of myself with what's gonna be the closest you'll see to me having a bald head I HOPE. The hairline is still visible which is all that matters really.

Big love,

Ryan.

A Big Step Made.

I've been umming and ahhing over this blog entry for the past few days because I'm in many ways struggling to find the right words that really portray the emotion that Wednesday brought out in me. You see, a lot has happened since I wrote on Sunday. Since my excursion to Smiths I've since then traveled a lot further, because on Wednesday I was discharged from hospital from my first phase of chemotherapy. I'm home, sitting in my room, typing this blog entry from my desk. It's bloody surreal.

I was in hospital for one month. Normally during a first phase of treatment patients with ALL can stay up to six or seven weeks, completing their chemo then facing a slog of recovery as they await their blood counts to climb back up to a healthy level. Apparently my counts were doing so well I was told staying in hospital was unnecessary and that I would be home that week. This was on Monday, Valentine's Day, perhaps the best day to get the news seeing as Ellise was right there with me. We celebrated with a curry takeaway that evening and it was bloody great, perhaps the best I've ever had. I think it was made all the more sweet by the prospect of leaving the hospital mind you, but that's irrelevant. Oh, and it was free too. That possibly played a part.

SO ANYWAY, Wednesday arrived and home it was. Arriving home with a car full of things amassed over the course of a month and two very excited parents, seeing the house was quite the superb experience. I imagine that would have been obvious, but more so after a long two and a half hour journey in the car. I walked in gingerly (bone marrow biopsy the day previous, I was in a world of pain), mobbed the cats, sat down and didn't move really for quite a while. There I was, home. Started the week thinking I was going to be in hospital for another two weeks. Wednesday comes and I'm watching the Arsenal - Barcelona game on my sofa whilst eating a fat pasta bake. Life can really surprise you.

Christ, this entry has been a bit of a mess. Things are still complicated. I need to get back to Sheffield for Monday to start my second phase. This makes me nervous, starting chemo again for another month. I don't have to be in hospital twenty four/seven, which is great, but a chemo phase is a chemo phase and this time the emphasis on me looking after myself and making sure I don't come up ill is heavy indeed. A new experience perhaps? Chemotherapy on the outside word. Bring it on I say. If I can manage that first phase, which really was the most brutal month ever, I can handle it again. Nervous, yes. Positive? You better believe.

The blog will take a new turn, I suppose. Coping with Luke and living a life. That's if I don't have to be dragged back into a hospital ward again. But I'll still be writing, a bit more coherently next time I hope. This entry has been difficult to write, perhaps my most challenging one yet. Big times and all, but I hope you still enjoyed it. Next time I'll let you know what the second cycle involves and how I'm coping with having basically no hair.

Big love, thanks for reading.

A very happy Ryan.

I Want To Be An Explorer.

Who knew that a trip to WH Smiths could invoke such feelings of liberty and freedom?

Yes that's right, today I went shopping. So what if I only bought a magazine, an ice tea and a mint bloody Aero, being in an alcove of consumerism made me feel alive once again. I even stood outside for about five seconds before the smell of tobacco emanating from the desperate smokers overwhelmed me. And before you take me for for one of those nutty anti-smoking agents of doom it's worth mentioning that I am in fact a smoker myself, though whether I still consider myself one is a bit up in the air right now. You'd think the smell would inspire feelings of joy and comfort but it actually made me feel a bit queasy. Bizarre. Is this the end of my smoking habit? Maybe I'll turn into one of those annoying social smokers who steals cigarettes from people because he just can't get over the association between drinking and smoking, yet won't commit to buying his own pack for the night. You know. That guy.

Anyway, I fear I'm veering off the point here. Yesterday I woke up needing to escape. I've been here a whole month and the place is quite frankly driving me bonkers. Yet until my chemo finishes, here I must remain. But today an on call doctor gave me the all clear to venture to B floor to check out the Smiths establishment, and just that mere fifteen minute adventure really made my day. Feeling the cold air and using my debit card changed things up more than you can imagine, and it's made me even more excited to be going home soon. Not long now people!

In other news, my hair is falling out at a rate of knots. So it goes. At the moment it's just thinning drastically but sooner or later I'm gonna have to bite the bullet and get it shaved again. I wouldn't mind so much if it weren't for these damned steroids puffing my cheeks out so much. My dosage it getting cut down tomorrow but I still fear I'm gonna wake up one morning looking like the elephant man. If I still had my shaggy locks then at least I could retain my boyish charm. Not to be. We move on. But if my hair hair grows back ginger and curly, then God officially has it in for young Ryan.

I hope your weeks have been prosperous and productive. I've been ebaying, and being absolute balls at it on the most part. Won a bid on a shirt today though, just a fiver as well. I could get horrendously addicted to this, you know. But hey, with all the weight I've lost, I could do with a new wardrobe.

That'll do. A quick thing before I go, please take some time to read this blog. Katie was diagnosed with ALL back in May and she's just started up a blog about her own experiences. It's a great read and she's showing magnificent courage, so I implore you all to get behind her!

http://tenacious-kt.blogspot.com/

Big love to you all.

Ryan.

Home From Home.

So Greybeard comes in this morning flanked by about five enthusiastic student doctors, all of whom are armed to the teeth with questions about my illness. Eager learners, they will go far. It made me feel like quite the celebrity, as the whole experience had a kinda press conference feel to it. One would ask something about my symptoms, then another would chirp in with a question about my Hickman line, and then Greybeard would sort of oversee the whole thing by making sure the information was sound and true. Their gazes were fixated on me, all it needed really was a camera crew and sound guy for it to be the real deal. It made me feel important and noticed, yet I suppose this is all part of the process for students. But to hell with it, I'm gonna revel in my sense of arrogance. GO ME.

It's fast approaching a month since my diagnosis. I'm not really sure how I feel about that. It also means I've spent nearly a month in hospital, deprived from fresh air and restricted to a ward that's no bigger than the shop floor of a Topman. Yet in spite of this arduous hospital stay, it means that I am in fact coming to the end of my first phase of chemo treatment. I am officially in the last week of induction. After that week, all I have to do is recover my blood counts and then I am allowed to return to the place that I've missed more than anything these past few weeks: home. Oh how one word can invoke such emotion just by thinking about it.

There's nothing overtly special about my home, except it is what it is. My bed is a single bed, not particularly great, but it's mine. My room is tiny, a bit of a box in fact, but it's mine. The shower is crap and it's a pain in the arse because it leaks, but it's mine. Home is truly where the heart is. You can pick out as many flaws as you want but deep down you know there's no other place in the world you would rather be. And knowing that I could be back in just two weeks (optimism is flowing through me) is already choking me up.

And I'm officially a pussy.

I'll keep it short and sweet for this evening. I'm desperately tired, but then you all know the drill with this chemo nonsense. Makes you knackered, down for the count, blah blah blah. One thing before I go, many thanks to all the people on twitter who have been ever so kind to retweet my blog today. And to anyone who's reading for the first time, big thanks for dropping by. I hope you enjoy your stay at The Deadly Rhythm.

Big love,

Ryan.

The Avengers.

So after last time's crazy font debacle I'm hoping that things have returned back to the simple, smaller typeface for this entry. I don't know why I'm so aesthetically obsessed with these things, but having a slightly different font for one post really annoyed me. It will be the last time I do my entries on Microsoft Word instead of the usual blogging template, I assure you.

So it's just gone quarter past nine in the morning and I've been up for about two and a half hours now contemplating what to talk about. Things have been a bit slow these last few days but I've continued to feel well and many positive vibes are flowing through my inner sanctum as I progress through my treatment. So I ask myself again, what to write about? Then it occurred to me that I haven't really touched upon the weird and wonderful staff that patrol the P Ward at the Royal Hallamshire Hospital. Nurses, doctors, support staff, catering staff, cleaners, reiki specialists; there's all kinds of awesome people who work here and I thought it'd be quite fitting to do a blog dedicated to some of the people who go to such lengths to ensure that I make the fullest recovery.

I introduced Greybeard a few entries back. The man is wise beyond his years, because in spite of being the top dog consultant, he's actually quite young. This doesn't concern me in the slightest however, as you can tell he knows his stuff. ALL seems to be his expertise, and since the day he gave me my diagnosis the sheer amount I've learnt from him has been quite frankly astronomical. But I suppose the thing I respect most about my consultant is his frankness. Greybeard does not sugarcoat anything. Right from the off, he's made me aware of the severity of my illness and the struggles that I face over the next 9 months or so. Yet he's invested such an emotional interest in my recovery to the extent that you feel that he's truly rooting for you. Whenever there's good news he's got a great smile on his face, and if I'm doing well with my treatment he sure let's me know about it. Support like this from a consultant is hugely encouraging, and I feel that a lot of my positive attitude can be attributed by the outlook of my doctor. What a dude.

Of course there are other doctors who are doing a stellar job, all working under Greybeard (I like to call the team The Avengers). Dr. Tini is a senior house officer who I'm guessing hails from a Vietnamese background. He talks like Mr Miyagi and often speaks in proverbs. I'm not even kidding. A truly wise man who also dresses impeccably, his role is mostly to make sure my general health is in check and to provide me with news on how my recovery is going. A real pleasure hearing him speak, and always great when he brings the good news. He once bowed after doing a check up. I think he's possibly my favourite.

Dr. Scottish is a lovely pharmaceutical doctor who prescribes me all my lovely medicine. Her job is to make sure my cocktail of drugs doesn't combine to do more harm than good. Very important job indeed. Dr. Giggles is the first registrar who saw me. Though he was tasked with the difficult job of breaking the news that I might have Leukemia, he goes about his business with a combined sense of professionalism and lightheartedness which actually puts you at great ease. And he giggles like a bloody schoolgirl. Another favourite of mine.

Now obviously the doctors are insanely important to my well being. They need to be on their game to ensure I get better, that's a given. But where would I be without the nurses? Constantly looking after me twenty-four/seven, I cannot express enough how much love I have for the nurses who work here. When I was going through the various pains and feelings of general anguish, they were tirelessly there for me making sure I was getting the right relief and ensuring that I was as comfortable as I could possibly be. If things got too much there would always be a nurse there to make sure I was at least being seen to. I would love to name and honour them individually, but there are so many great nurses here it would literally take me weeks. So when I get out of hospital and have my first beer or SoCo and lemonade or whatever, it's being raised to them. I seriously cannot stress how fantastic they are.

Big shout out to Bertha, member of the catering staff. Her shouts of "WANT A DRINK, DUCK?" three times a day will stay with me forever. Also Sharon, who cleans my bed every morning. Though she hasn't cleaned it since Sunday. Words are gonna be had, methinks.

That's all for now. I'll leave you with details of the Dominos pizza I had last night. A large pepperoni, sausage, ground beef and green peppers with mozzarella sticks and chicken kickers. I nearly fainted it was so good.

Big love.

Ryan.

Being Human.

I was woken up this morning to the question of “GOT ANY WEE BOTTLES?” I assure you this is standard procedure at a hospital for all patients on a fluid chart, but I wasn’t quite so prepared for the ferocity of the enquiry as I stirred from my deep slumber. My response was a nonchalant ‘nah’ and I made some Cheerios. They were yummy.

Today has been the first day in a while that I’ve actually felt like a human being. Call it one of those ‘good days.’ I don’t mean to portray that with any brush of cynicism; rather on the contrary, as I’m over the moon that I feel a bit like my old self again. Funny how you can have the absolute crap kicked out of you relentlessly for days on end and then all of a sudden you wake up and you feel… normal. It’s a huge encouragement to the mental side of things, and it really does instill you with the belief that you can do this. Not that I had any doubts at all, guys. ;)

It’s not all been plain sailing though. I’ve been picking up infections through my toils and thus complications have arisen. Firstly I was moved to my own room (which isn’t a bad thing at all, I get my own en suite, shower, sink and other cool utilities) to ensure that other illnesses weren’t picked up, but as my temperature kept going up they concluded that isolationism and plenty of antibiotic drips are the only things that are gonna put a stop to infections fast. These have their inevitable drawbacks. First of all, one of the infections might be swine flu, and that’s just embarrassing. Second, all my visitors must come clad head to toe in aprons, face masks and head pieces, which kinda makes me feel a further sense of isolation than the one I’m feeling at the moment. Gutting, but on the plus side, seeing my mate Shyam in a yellow apron and upside down mask was probably the biggest highlight of my hospital stay so far.

So there are ups and downs. I’ve turned back to music and started acquiring new things again. Grizzly Bear, Wild Beasts, Shoes and Socks Off, You Slut! and Earl Sweatshirt have been keeping me busy. Got any suggestions? Whack them in the comment box! Music is my absolute love and I adore hearing new bands and sounds, so if you want to recommend then don’t hesitate. Also check out my last.fm. And if you don’t have last.fm, get one! I cannot endorse it enough.

Big love my peeps!

Ryan.

February Stars Bring February Scars

This week has seen a new month veer its head, and to be honest I've not had the best of starts to February. Treatment has been utterly brutal these past few days, and even though I am cycling through a notoriously bad stage of the chemotherapy gauntlet, it's been very hard to keep on with a positive attitude through all the hardships and drastic changes that my body has had to endure. Now of course I never expected treatment to be akin to elementary bread making, but nothing can fully prepare you for what can only described as the horror. THE HORROR. But being that as it may, I am still fighting. I will win. I will get better. The road just looks long as hell from here.

Not the most uplifting first paragraph to this post. For that I'm sorry. I'll try and lighten the mood a bit with a gleeful run down of all the super chemicals that they give me and their wonderful side effects. First on the bill is Vincristine. Ooooh Vincristine. You and me buddy. We've been through much already have the pair of us. This lovely stuff is a drip that only lasts for 5 minutes, once a week, but my God, its the worst of the bloody lot. What's its main side effect? Constipation. THAT'S WHAT. And my God don't you know about it. Stomach cramps, sensations of being stabbed by a samurai over and over again and a general lack of motivation to even acknowledge existence makes Vincrisitine the big bad man of chemotherapy. Three more doses of this bastard coming up. I can hardly wait.

Next on the list, Daunorubicin, commonly known as Captain destroyer of all things hairstyles. Now even though I'm yet to actually lose any hair from my head (you may recall I shaved it off myself), it is worth pointing out that Daunorubicin is a patient player. Much like the careful Warlord, or the perfectionist painter, he'll pick his moment only when he feels it's time to do so, therefore completely bamboozling you and leaving you feeling cheated and enraged to the point that you can only fall to your knees and bellow to the Gods WHHHHYYYYYY. So naturally I don't look forward to this. I'm actually growing to like my short hair, and as it's growing so fast I'm pleased to see that in perhaps two weeks time I could actually style the bloody thing. Two weeks seems just about the right time for Senor Dauno to cast his killing curse on these brown locks and commit them to their foregone end. Devastation shall sweep the lands. And I will be sullen.

Oh yeah, Daunorubicin also makes you tired as hell, so I won't even have the energy to shave my hair again. That's just nice.

Peg L-asparaginase. Not so much a monster one this. Just the process. Injections, in the buttocks. Both buttocks. Flanked my two nurses, pants pulled down, my dignity is vanquished. Gotta laugh I suppose.

And finally, the steriods. No, not the steroids that give you roid rage, rather the ones that make you hungry and long for food that you once could enjoy but now can't because of the limitations of the hospital menu. Over the last two or so weeks I have dreamed or thought about: steak, curry, Sunday roast, Nandos, McDonald's, fish and chips w/ saveloy, TGI Fridays, Pizza Hut, more streak, sorbet, roast pork baguettes, Thai food, KFC, shepherd's pie and Northern Sole, plus more. This appetite I've created is driving me mental, all because of little steroids. How does that work? All I know is, after leaving hospital, me and Ellise are going out eating for one week armed to the teeth in discount codes and tip money and eating the most food that I have ever consumed. That's only fair.

Next time I'll fill you in on some other awesome characters that I've encountered in the ward. Some are Doctors, some are Nurses, others I really couldn't tell you. I'll try and make the aliases good.

Love,

Ryan.