Yesterday evening I watched a documentary on iPlayer that had a rather profound effect on me and my attitudes towards a subject that no one ever really talks about: death. The documentary follows Terry Pratchett as he meets various people who suffer from debilitating diseases and who have considered, or are in the process of striving for, assisted suicide. You may have seen it on TV the other day when it was on, but if not you can find the documentary (although for a limited time only I'm guessing, since it is iPlayer) on the following link:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b0120dxp/Terry_Pratchett_Choosing_to_Die/
Now then.
Until recently the idea of dying never phased me all too much. What's the use in engrossing yourself in a fate that ultimately you have no control over? After all, everyone suffers the same end, and I had been 'dead' for billions of years before I was born anyway and that didn't bother me too much. Live life in the present and all that. However, with my diagnosis and the initial stages of uncertainty surrounding my illness, for the briefest of stages I was faced with my own mortality. As you can imagine it was scary to comprehend, but it was luckily a feeling that went as quickly as it came due to the early successes of my treatment. That doesn't change the fact that my complexion over death has changed significantly, but it was only after seeing this program that I've properly attempted to tackle my feelings over it.
I think it's the idea of death, and the uncertainty that surrounds what comes after, that shits me up a bit. Not the dying process itself. I fully believe that the human brain was not wired to comprehend such a concept, yet we as a species have evolved to such an incredible extent that we are forced to face the facts when it comes to our own mortality. I can't speak for everyone else, but I'm sure most people struggle with this as much as I am now. The idea of not existing is genuinely unsettling to me, and although it may be irrational, I can't get past that notion of not being around any more. How does that even work?
Maybe some sort of religious theory of an afterlife can bring solace to such gloomy thoughts? Perhaps, yet I can't get fully on board with such beliefs. I for one believe that religion came about as a way for us homo sapiens to deal with the breaking news of mortality many millennia ago. Whatever the scenario of such an afterlife, it gave people a reason to live, as if living life by a moral conduct will ease the realisation that the life you lead will eventually end. 'Death is just the beginning.' Were it not for such huge scientific advancements that have obviously come about long before my time, then I think I would find that belief a great one to subscribe to. Now I just see it as nothing more than a cold comfort.
Now, onto the documentary and this company Dignatas. Another grey area that I'm not going to offer much of a concrete opinion on I'm afraid, but here are my general musings. First off the bat I was pretty astounded at the general state of health that both men were in - neither were in a condition where they were anywhere near death. I was under the impression that one had to be a bit closer to the end to be considered for the process. After watching the first ten minutes or so the motive for the man suffering from Motor Neurone Disease became quickly apparent - to protect his wife and spare her the agony of watching him deteriorate rapidly over a relatively short space of time.
Fair enough, I initially thought. But the more I think about it the more that attitude unnerves me a bit. Consider this if you will: tomorrow scientists announce that they've only gone and cracked MND and have come up with a viable cure that they can begin distributing immediately. How does the wife feel then? Rather distraught, I would say. I've been conditioned to the school of thought that it's not over 'till it's over, and in many ways I think the same applies here. A man sound of mind manages to walk into a building, have a cup of coffee, share a tender moment with his wife and then drink something that ultimately kills him. Something about that does not sit right with me, even though I want it to.
Of course, there is a flip side. Now I do think that when a human being is suffering, and I mean really going through a lot of pain that has been caused by a terminal illness where there truly is no hope left, then that human being should unquestionably hold the right to end his or her own life. I think it's barbaric that we can put a cat or a dog out of its misery yet when it comes to a human life, we can't see past prolonging the agony. I don't accept that the politicians of this country believe that this is the right thing to do; rather, they do not have the balls to tackle the issue head on, and therefore we proceed in what I believe is a primitive way of dealing with the issue. It will be interesting to see how this matter progresses in the next decade, both in this country and internationally.
The question for me is, where do you draw the line? Should physical pain be the only prerequisite to being allowed to go through with a procedure such as this? Or should mental pain also be taken into account? I mentioned that in the case of John from the Pratchett documentary I felt a slight unease in the circumstances surrounding his decision. That's just me talking, perhaps others see a completely reasoned approach here. But who gives us the right to judge such reasoning? If anything like this is going to come to fruition in a way that it has in Switzerland, then it would seemingly do so under the credence of 'mind your own life.'
I feel I've covered a lot here. You might wonder how the documentary made me wonder about the intricacies of my own life, but you'll be relieved to hear I have no such desires to look into the process of ending my time here on Earth. Yet the program brought a resurgence of feelings that I've been dwelling on here and there for the past five months or so, and it feels good to express them through the medium of this blog. Ultimately the good old 'live for the now' expression certainly rings true for me over anything. I have a lot of good things to live for, and whilst it's daunting trying to understand what we will never know, there's little point sulking over it in the long run. Enjoy what you have.
Thanks for reading, and I'm sorry if this has been a bit too morbid as far as light reads go. But I do hope this inspires some kind of debate in the comment section.
Big love,
Ryan.
Wednesday, 15 June 2011
Wednesday, 8 June 2011
Good night, sweet prince.
Old Whitey officially retires today. New macbook comes in, old one gets thrown into the second drawer down never to be seen again and the wheel keeps turning. The circle of life I'm afraid. And although I'm beyond excited to be getting my chubby little hands on a brand spanking new laptop that's gonna kick some serious backside, I ask you spare a thought if you would for my ridiculously reliable macbook that has served me so well for five years now. Five years! They don't make laptops like they used to anymore. Well, Windows don't at least. They never did.
Now all I have to do is come up with a name for my latest acquisition. New metal? 'Cause it's new. And made of metal. TOO CLEVER. I'll add it to the 'maybe' list.
Not much else to talk about really. I've been spending the last two weeks going back and forth to London and I've had an awesome time of it. A couple of weekends ago was spent having barbeques in the rain and drinking in gypsy bars and glorified cesspits. We all loved it mind you. Then last weekend we took our custom to the slightly-more-but-not-by-much civilised Big Red in Holloway and had one almighty piss up. First time I've been drunk in months and I sure paid for it the next day, but it was worth it. It kinda reminded me of how things were before all this nonsense started. Not that we were all massive alcoholics, like. Everyone was just relaxed and having a bloody great time. It'll be a lifestyle I'll be returning to full time soon enough.
But before that comes THE TREATMENT CYCLE OF EVIL AND DOOM, which alarmingly starts in just one week's time. Oh snap. Next Thursday I'll be having both a bone marrow AND a lumbar puncture so obviously I can't wait for that to come around. I'll BYOB to that slammin' party, believe. Urgh. But oh well, what must be done will be done. Seven weeks from then I'll be all Ash Williams with the chainsaw, giving it large as I ride out of the hospital doors screaming WHO'S LAUGHING NOW.
At least for the next month I get to have a relatively normal set of hair. It's back, save for a little soul patch on the back of my head, and give it another week or two I reckon I could even style it. Ambitious, yes, and I'm even open to suggestions on how to make my baby hair as totally bodacious as possible. A fellow blogger with leukemia had hers styled in a sweet mohawk and it caught my admiration, so perhaps I'll do the same? Oh gosh it's exciting.
I'll leave it there. Off to collect the new laptop, so the next post... will look exactly the same. But if the hype is to be believed, come next time I'll have become a complete boss in video editing.
Big love,
Ryan.
Now all I have to do is come up with a name for my latest acquisition. New metal? 'Cause it's new. And made of metal. TOO CLEVER. I'll add it to the 'maybe' list.
Not much else to talk about really. I've been spending the last two weeks going back and forth to London and I've had an awesome time of it. A couple of weekends ago was spent having barbeques in the rain and drinking in gypsy bars and glorified cesspits. We all loved it mind you. Then last weekend we took our custom to the slightly-more-but-not-by-much civilised Big Red in Holloway and had one almighty piss up. First time I've been drunk in months and I sure paid for it the next day, but it was worth it. It kinda reminded me of how things were before all this nonsense started. Not that we were all massive alcoholics, like. Everyone was just relaxed and having a bloody great time. It'll be a lifestyle I'll be returning to full time soon enough.
But before that comes THE TREATMENT CYCLE OF EVIL AND DOOM, which alarmingly starts in just one week's time. Oh snap. Next Thursday I'll be having both a bone marrow AND a lumbar puncture so obviously I can't wait for that to come around. I'll BYOB to that slammin' party, believe. Urgh. But oh well, what must be done will be done. Seven weeks from then I'll be all Ash Williams with the chainsaw, giving it large as I ride out of the hospital doors screaming WHO'S LAUGHING NOW.
At least for the next month I get to have a relatively normal set of hair. It's back, save for a little soul patch on the back of my head, and give it another week or two I reckon I could even style it. Ambitious, yes, and I'm even open to suggestions on how to make my baby hair as totally bodacious as possible. A fellow blogger with leukemia had hers styled in a sweet mohawk and it caught my admiration, so perhaps I'll do the same? Oh gosh it's exciting.
I'll leave it there. Off to collect the new laptop, so the next post... will look exactly the same. But if the hype is to be believed, come next time I'll have become a complete boss in video editing.
Big love,
Ryan.
Thursday, 26 May 2011
Remission.
Hello world.
Sometimes when I'm low on inspiration I mash my hands against the keyboard in hope that something will pop out at me and I can then build on it from there. Unfortunately this has an approximate success rate of 0% because who can really draw inspiration from phrases such as 'vwiubvw kfj ;wj wk wjkw k'l' s jl qKPA lk'L LKKLKL'? Today's a bit different though because I can't seem to find the right flow for other reasons. In what can only described as a pathetically tragic cliche, I'm a bit lost for words. Here's why:
COMPLETE REMISSION. It's a term that every cancer patient wants to hear, and I got an ear full of it today. Big news, oh yes. So what does that mean? Well, alas, it does not necessarily mean that I am cured... yet. The word cured has a funny meaning in the wacky world of haematology, and generally most folk stay well clear of using it for years after their diagnosis. The reason for that being is that fundamentally it's difficult to cure you of cancer in just say, six months or perhaps even a year of asking. Relapses can be very common and the idea of routine chemotherapy is to keep the cancer at bay, not to continue eliminating it. It's all very well that the cancerous cells are taken down early, but think to yourself, how easy was it for those cells to develop in the first place? And what's to stop them from just coming back and doing more damage once you turn you back? That's why cancer treatment can be such an arduous process, taking years and years to be fully effective.
So here's the deal with me. I am in complete remission. There are no leukemia cells in my bone marrow and my body is producing normal blood cells at a satisfactory rate. Next month I will carry on as planned to the fourth cycle of chemotherapy treatment, delightfully named 'delayed intensive.' This will make me feel like absolute horse shit, and it's likely that I'll spend some time in hospital due to complications that come part and parcel with any intense cycle of chemotherapy. After that's over I'll be into maintenance, which I believe most of you know the jist of. For about three years I'll be receiving varying forms of treatment to ensure that my body continues doing what it's supposed to do. So I'm not out the woods yet. But the outlook is looking superb.
I'm in quite a reflective mood today. At no point have I punched the air in delight or broken into song or danced a merry jig or anything to similar effect. I've mostly thought of today as just another step of the way. It's been only four months or so since I was first diagnosed, but the distance I've come since then has been quite astonishing. Yet the journey continues, and it will for a long while yet.
And you know, so far it's not been such a bad ride.
Sometimes when I'm low on inspiration I mash my hands against the keyboard in hope that something will pop out at me and I can then build on it from there. Unfortunately this has an approximate success rate of 0% because who can really draw inspiration from phrases such as 'vwiubvw kfj ;wj wk wjkw k'l' s jl qKPA lk'L LKKLKL'? Today's a bit different though because I can't seem to find the right flow for other reasons. In what can only described as a pathetically tragic cliche, I'm a bit lost for words. Here's why:
COMPLETE REMISSION. It's a term that every cancer patient wants to hear, and I got an ear full of it today. Big news, oh yes. So what does that mean? Well, alas, it does not necessarily mean that I am cured... yet. The word cured has a funny meaning in the wacky world of haematology, and generally most folk stay well clear of using it for years after their diagnosis. The reason for that being is that fundamentally it's difficult to cure you of cancer in just say, six months or perhaps even a year of asking. Relapses can be very common and the idea of routine chemotherapy is to keep the cancer at bay, not to continue eliminating it. It's all very well that the cancerous cells are taken down early, but think to yourself, how easy was it for those cells to develop in the first place? And what's to stop them from just coming back and doing more damage once you turn you back? That's why cancer treatment can be such an arduous process, taking years and years to be fully effective.
So here's the deal with me. I am in complete remission. There are no leukemia cells in my bone marrow and my body is producing normal blood cells at a satisfactory rate. Next month I will carry on as planned to the fourth cycle of chemotherapy treatment, delightfully named 'delayed intensive.' This will make me feel like absolute horse shit, and it's likely that I'll spend some time in hospital due to complications that come part and parcel with any intense cycle of chemotherapy. After that's over I'll be into maintenance, which I believe most of you know the jist of. For about three years I'll be receiving varying forms of treatment to ensure that my body continues doing what it's supposed to do. So I'm not out the woods yet. But the outlook is looking superb.
I'm in quite a reflective mood today. At no point have I punched the air in delight or broken into song or danced a merry jig or anything to similar effect. I've mostly thought of today as just another step of the way. It's been only four months or so since I was first diagnosed, but the distance I've come since then has been quite astonishing. Yet the journey continues, and it will for a long while yet.
And you know, so far it's not been such a bad ride.
Tuesday, 3 May 2011
High five to the normal life.
It's nice feeling like you're in good health. I actually ran up the stairs today and didn't feel like I needed an oxygen mask and a power nap straight afterwards. It's funny because lacking any stamina and having to contend with aches and pains does become the norm after a while, so realising that actually, I'm not made of glass and I can walk up the road without buckling at the knees is fantastic.
That's not to say I'm ready to go on ant expeditions up Kilimanjaro or anything. I'm horrendously out of shape, owing to the fact that I've hardly moved over the last few months. My weight's fluctuated between underweight to doughy, currently sitting somewhere on the high end of the spectrum. And nil would aptly describe the level of motivation I have to do anything about it. Why? Well, it'd all be a bit pointless. Y'see, being involved in a regimen that has more cycles than a game of Monopoly, any efforts to regain a respectable level of fitness would only be for nothing once I get pumped full of drugs again. I do like being on this interim maintenance (or whatever it's called) but the reality of chemo induced madness is only just around the corner. I can't wait for it to finish.
I'm not sure where this whole post is going. Don't take normality for granted, perhaps? Learn from me, for I am wise. Yeah, cool story bro.
Also I feel like getting drunk. It's been a while. It'd be cheap as chips as well, seeing as I'm now a total lightweight. The other day I had two pints and I'm sure the room starting spinning.
Big love,
Ryan.
That's not to say I'm ready to go on ant expeditions up Kilimanjaro or anything. I'm horrendously out of shape, owing to the fact that I've hardly moved over the last few months. My weight's fluctuated between underweight to doughy, currently sitting somewhere on the high end of the spectrum. And nil would aptly describe the level of motivation I have to do anything about it. Why? Well, it'd all be a bit pointless. Y'see, being involved in a regimen that has more cycles than a game of Monopoly, any efforts to regain a respectable level of fitness would only be for nothing once I get pumped full of drugs again. I do like being on this interim maintenance (or whatever it's called) but the reality of chemo induced madness is only just around the corner. I can't wait for it to finish.
I'm not sure where this whole post is going. Don't take normality for granted, perhaps? Learn from me, for I am wise. Yeah, cool story bro.
Also I feel like getting drunk. It's been a while. It'd be cheap as chips as well, seeing as I'm now a total lightweight. The other day I had two pints and I'm sure the room starting spinning.
Big love,
Ryan.
Wednesday, 27 April 2011
Technobabble.
The time has finally come for me to invest in a new laptop. Oooooh my days.
See it's been five years (more or less) since the purchase of my current machine, and the battered macbook that has affectionately become known as 'Old Whitey' can truly take no more. I almost feel sorry for the poor old bastard as he trundles along, moaning like a capsized whale as I load up a puny word document, as if the world's gone full circle and it's the end of days. The thing can't even operate without being hooked up to a power socket. It's one dynamic trait as a laptop ripped away, like a violent circumcision. The shame of it all.
Oh it's ever so dramatic. BUT THAT'S LIFE OLD WHITEY. You came in, did your duty, made me look like the pretentious prick with my skinny jeans and thick rimmed glasses and Macintosh laptop. Ooh la la. And I'll always love you for it, but it's time to go. You've turned into the one thing that has gone and made you obsolete. Rubbish.
Being the mac fan boy, I'm looking into a macbook pro, of course. Mightily expensive though, but those good folks at DLA have for some reason decided that I deserve crunk loads of money so what the hey? Providing I can swindle it tax free, I think I'll go for the 15-inch, 2.0 GHz quad-core i7, 4GB 1333MHz 5400 RPM Intel... OH BALLS TO THAT I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT ALL THAT MEANS. IT'LL BE BITCHIN' THOUGH.
I think I'll even take up photo editing, seeing as one of the main selling points in reviews is 'look how many photos I can edit! Wow!' And seriously, how the hell can a laptop be 'aerodynamic'? What does that even mean? Does it fly? For the money I'll be paying it better do.
This has all been a welcome distraction from feeling a bit rough lately though. Vincristine is so evil. In fact, if I ever get a dog I think I'll call it vincristine. Keep your enemies close and all that. The pain it's caused to my muscles, bones and organs has been unprecedented, yet all they can say at the hospital is 'man up', because it's the only option I have. I hate the stuff. Oh well, it's not like I have to have shots of it for the next two and a half years or anything HAHA. Oh wait...
I do.
This weekend I'm going to watch Thor I think. You know what the most exciting thing about the cinema is? ICE BLASTS. And when you mix the two colours so it's blue AND red? Magical.
Much love,
Ryan.
See it's been five years (more or less) since the purchase of my current machine, and the battered macbook that has affectionately become known as 'Old Whitey' can truly take no more. I almost feel sorry for the poor old bastard as he trundles along, moaning like a capsized whale as I load up a puny word document, as if the world's gone full circle and it's the end of days. The thing can't even operate without being hooked up to a power socket. It's one dynamic trait as a laptop ripped away, like a violent circumcision. The shame of it all.
Oh it's ever so dramatic. BUT THAT'S LIFE OLD WHITEY. You came in, did your duty, made me look like the pretentious prick with my skinny jeans and thick rimmed glasses and Macintosh laptop. Ooh la la. And I'll always love you for it, but it's time to go. You've turned into the one thing that has gone and made you obsolete. Rubbish.
Being the mac fan boy, I'm looking into a macbook pro, of course. Mightily expensive though, but those good folks at DLA have for some reason decided that I deserve crunk loads of money so what the hey? Providing I can swindle it tax free, I think I'll go for the 15-inch, 2.0 GHz quad-core i7, 4GB 1333MHz 5400 RPM Intel... OH BALLS TO THAT I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT ALL THAT MEANS. IT'LL BE BITCHIN' THOUGH.
I think I'll even take up photo editing, seeing as one of the main selling points in reviews is 'look how many photos I can edit! Wow!' And seriously, how the hell can a laptop be 'aerodynamic'? What does that even mean? Does it fly? For the money I'll be paying it better do.
This has all been a welcome distraction from feeling a bit rough lately though. Vincristine is so evil. In fact, if I ever get a dog I think I'll call it vincristine. Keep your enemies close and all that. The pain it's caused to my muscles, bones and organs has been unprecedented, yet all they can say at the hospital is 'man up', because it's the only option I have. I hate the stuff. Oh well, it's not like I have to have shots of it for the next two and a half years or anything HAHA. Oh wait...
I do.
This weekend I'm going to watch Thor I think. You know what the most exciting thing about the cinema is? ICE BLASTS. And when you mix the two colours so it's blue AND red? Magical.
Much love,
Ryan.
Wednesday, 20 April 2011
Miracle hair growth needed!
This weather's been absolute top drawer. I love a bit of sunshine, I do. Hot sunshine, light breeze, cool evenings, no humidity. Perfect. However, the twist in the tale comes with my unfortunate hair situation, in that a) it's growing back so slow I'll actually develop chest hair before I have anything to work with on top, b) it's growing back much lighter than before, blonde in some places and c) there's not a lot of it really. So in the line of blazing sunshine this basically makes me look completely bald, and coupling this with my general sullen disposition, it makes me the most obvious cancer patient ever. So if anyone has any crazy hair growth solutions that might not be COMPLETELY legal, then drop me a comment down below and I'll consider all suggestions.
It's been a good week so far. Treatment is done with and all I have to drop in for next week is a blood test, so I'm trying to come up with ideas of things to pass my time with. Exercise is practically out the window, my blood count is still a bit too low for all that intense nonsense and I'm still left knackered after taking on a set of stairs. Perhaps a hobby of sorts? Get back into music? Try and master the yo-yo? Go clay pigeon shooting? Again, hit me up with some suggestions so I can actually do something productive with my time!
Times like this I really wish we had a garden. Though this village properly stinks of manure today, so perhaps it's not such a bad thing. I'm starting to get majorly envious in regards to everyone but ME already enjoying some tasty looking BBQs this year whilst I'm settling for cheese sandwiches and jacket potatoes. Again, the drawbacks of not having a garden. Need to draw up a pros and cons list really.
That'll do for now. I just noticed I went a bit mental on the caps key on my last blog. THAT'S BECAUSE THE CAPS KEY IS AWESOME. Right.
Much love,
Ryan.
It's been a good week so far. Treatment is done with and all I have to drop in for next week is a blood test, so I'm trying to come up with ideas of things to pass my time with. Exercise is practically out the window, my blood count is still a bit too low for all that intense nonsense and I'm still left knackered after taking on a set of stairs. Perhaps a hobby of sorts? Get back into music? Try and master the yo-yo? Go clay pigeon shooting? Again, hit me up with some suggestions so I can actually do something productive with my time!
Times like this I really wish we had a garden. Though this village properly stinks of manure today, so perhaps it's not such a bad thing. I'm starting to get majorly envious in regards to everyone but ME already enjoying some tasty looking BBQs this year whilst I'm settling for cheese sandwiches and jacket potatoes. Again, the drawbacks of not having a garden. Need to draw up a pros and cons list really.
That'll do for now. I just noticed I went a bit mental on the caps key on my last blog. THAT'S BECAUSE THE CAPS KEY IS AWESOME. Right.
Much love,
Ryan.
Monday, 18 April 2011
I'm back off the wagon!
That's right, without so much as a whimper I'm back on the hard stuff again. Get it in me man, I live for these cell killing, mood tampering, fatigue inducing drugs they call CHEMOTHERAPY. "Did you enjoy your lumbar puncture?" How about I puncture your lumbar you sick FREAK.
It's been a month to the day when I had that last dose of cytarabine and left Sheffield never to return there for treatment. Since then things have been a little awkward, you might say, culminating in today's events when we FINALLY got underway with the third phase of my treatment at my new home, the Radcliffe hospital in Oxford. Well, technically it's the Churchill, but they have so many damn 'centres of excellence' or whatever the hell that means that I can't distinguish between any of the individual wings of this clusterfuck of a network, so for now we'll just stick with the Radcliffe yeah? And as you can probably tell my first impressions of the place haven't been too glowing.
OH WHERE TO BEGIN. I might like to throw in an apology at this point for not posting in nearly a month but for all of you this is free so WHY SHOULD I? But in seriousness, the last few weeks have been a right bloody struggle and I'm trying not to go on a massive spiel so I don't completely undermine my last blog entry. I did make a chronological list earlier of what to say, crudely handwritten on the back of a tescos receipt, but that's somehow disappeared in the vortex of my own wallet so I'm gonna have to rely on my anything-but-flawless memory for this one. Here goes.
First, my induction goes absolutely tits up and I end up spending nearly two weeks in hospital for reasons that could have been easily avoided. Am I bitter? Gosh no, don't be silly. But what kind of place takes your blood, discovers the Hb is meandering around 6.9 and elects not to tell you? This follows with me nearly collapsing at home, having to rush in, being kept in overnight for a bag or two of blood, then picking up two infections of the bacterial and fungal variety and being remanded as hospital bound indefinitely. LAME.
To be fair, my family and Ellise did a great job in keeping my spirits up, and the nurses were rather sound (the more jaunty the character the better the nurse, I tend to find). And two weeks is nothing compared to say, I don't know, five weeks. But it properly puts a damper on the attitude, you know?
I get released at last and the following week I go in for my bone marrow (which actually turned out to be a SURPRISE bone marrow I was in no way prepared for, leaving me slightly disturbed mentally). Horrific pain aside, this goes rather smoothly. That is until the registrar hits us with a bit of a bombshell that my treatment is being changed, from what is called Regimen B to Regimen C, a much more savage and stronger course of treatment that might as well be described as intensive. The main issue with this was that they couldn't explain to us WHY they had decided to do this; the trials nurse had trotted off home by this point and my consultant was off in clinics so couldn't go through any of it with me. Cue a weekend of me and the family shitting it a bit until TODAY we find out we're going BACK to Regimen B because there was a BIT of a COCK UP with the communication between doctors. No big deal really, happens all the time. Made the heart skip a beat or two though! At least we get a happy ending... for now.
So there it is. A rather difficult period that I believe has come to an end. From here I'm hoping to properly regroup and get back to roughing up Luke if he things he's gonna be bringing the ruckus. I promise I'll update on a more regular basis, though I'll have to find more things to write about as it'll be kinda quiet on the chemo front. My own actual life? God forbid.
Now I'm off to watch the Game of Thrones pilot episode. I'm a bit wet for fantasy drama. Sometimes I think to myself that the LOTR trilogy is better than Star Wars. Then I promptly punch myself in the balls for even entertaining such an idea.
Big love.
Ryan.
It's been a month to the day when I had that last dose of cytarabine and left Sheffield never to return there for treatment. Since then things have been a little awkward, you might say, culminating in today's events when we FINALLY got underway with the third phase of my treatment at my new home, the Radcliffe hospital in Oxford. Well, technically it's the Churchill, but they have so many damn 'centres of excellence' or whatever the hell that means that I can't distinguish between any of the individual wings of this clusterfuck of a network, so for now we'll just stick with the Radcliffe yeah? And as you can probably tell my first impressions of the place haven't been too glowing.
OH WHERE TO BEGIN. I might like to throw in an apology at this point for not posting in nearly a month but for all of you this is free so WHY SHOULD I? But in seriousness, the last few weeks have been a right bloody struggle and I'm trying not to go on a massive spiel so I don't completely undermine my last blog entry. I did make a chronological list earlier of what to say, crudely handwritten on the back of a tescos receipt, but that's somehow disappeared in the vortex of my own wallet so I'm gonna have to rely on my anything-but-flawless memory for this one. Here goes.
First, my induction goes absolutely tits up and I end up spending nearly two weeks in hospital for reasons that could have been easily avoided. Am I bitter? Gosh no, don't be silly. But what kind of place takes your blood, discovers the Hb is meandering around 6.9 and elects not to tell you? This follows with me nearly collapsing at home, having to rush in, being kept in overnight for a bag or two of blood, then picking up two infections of the bacterial and fungal variety and being remanded as hospital bound indefinitely. LAME.
To be fair, my family and Ellise did a great job in keeping my spirits up, and the nurses were rather sound (the more jaunty the character the better the nurse, I tend to find). And two weeks is nothing compared to say, I don't know, five weeks. But it properly puts a damper on the attitude, you know?
I get released at last and the following week I go in for my bone marrow (which actually turned out to be a SURPRISE bone marrow I was in no way prepared for, leaving me slightly disturbed mentally). Horrific pain aside, this goes rather smoothly. That is until the registrar hits us with a bit of a bombshell that my treatment is being changed, from what is called Regimen B to Regimen C, a much more savage and stronger course of treatment that might as well be described as intensive. The main issue with this was that they couldn't explain to us WHY they had decided to do this; the trials nurse had trotted off home by this point and my consultant was off in clinics so couldn't go through any of it with me. Cue a weekend of me and the family shitting it a bit until TODAY we find out we're going BACK to Regimen B because there was a BIT of a COCK UP with the communication between doctors. No big deal really, happens all the time. Made the heart skip a beat or two though! At least we get a happy ending... for now.
So there it is. A rather difficult period that I believe has come to an end. From here I'm hoping to properly regroup and get back to roughing up Luke if he things he's gonna be bringing the ruckus. I promise I'll update on a more regular basis, though I'll have to find more things to write about as it'll be kinda quiet on the chemo front. My own actual life? God forbid.
Now I'm off to watch the Game of Thrones pilot episode. I'm a bit wet for fantasy drama. Sometimes I think to myself that the LOTR trilogy is better than Star Wars. Then I promptly punch myself in the balls for even entertaining such an idea.
Big love.
Ryan.
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