Posted in Life

The final countdown …

I’ve had fifteen radiotherapy treatments so far and fatigue has hit me hard.

It’s a feeling of total energy loss and of heaviness in my body. Apparently, fatigue is one of the most common side effects of cancer and cancer treatment and can stick around for weeks and months after treatment. 

It doesn’t affect me all the time – at the moment, for instance, I have some energy (mind you, I just ate dinner) – but at other times of the day it hits and I’m left feeling empty and almost unable to move.

It’s weird though because resting doesn’t always help, so it’s not like I should quit doing exercise or should start laying around all day watching Netflix – as enticing as that sometimes sounds. In fact, that might make it worse. In the spirit of not resting too much, I walked the 1km to the local shops yesterday morning and found it very difficult to walk the 1km home. It was a very slow trip back.

Fatigue hasn’t only affected me physically. I’ve found it’s taken its toll on me emotionally and mentally as well. I’m exhausted after an hour and a half at work, I can’t concentrate on tasks that would normally be unproblematic, I’m more short-tempered than usual, and I’ve been having trouble sleeping. So much so that my GP prescribed sleeping tablets. I’m so desperate for a good night’s sleep I’m even taking them.

Fatigue isn’t the only side effect of my radiotherapy treatment but it’s certainly the one having the most impact on me at the moment.

Information the Cancer Council’s published on coping with fatigue tells me to exercise if I can, and if I’m already used to exercise, to take it easier than normal.

My GP told me on Thursday to only go to the gym if I find it enjoyable, to not push myself, and only ‘do nurturing things’ there. I made sure to tell Tom, my trainer, that that’s what my GP had said, and on Friday I had a very nurturing workout. No deadlifts, all weights reduced, and I didn’t have to go as fast on the bike or cross-trainer as usual. I have to say, I did feel better afterwards.

The Cancer Council information also advises to ‘do the things you need and want to do. If you have people around you who are able and willing, let them take on some of your usual activities’. As I have no family in Melbourne (apart from Alison), this seemed to be an impossibility. That’s not to say Tim isn’t fantastic, but I can’t rely on him for everything.

Fortunately for me, Emma, my youngest daughter, John, her husband, and Lincoln, their 3 year old son were prepared to come to Melbourne to help us out. Emma has driven around Melbourne like she’s done it all her life – driving me to work, to treatment, to the class I’m taking two nights a week in the city and wherever else I’ve needed to go. Between her and John they’ve made endless cups of tea, packed and unpacked the dishwasher countless times, vacuumed, put washing on the line and taken it in, replaced the battery in Tim’s scooter, gardened, been on bin and recycling duty: in general, been a huge support.

I have to admit to being worried about having an energetic 3 year old  around, but Lincoln has been a true delight. He’s such a sweet boy and loves stories, telling them and reading them. His new favourite is Pete the Cat, but he’s also partial to Russell the Sheep and Giraffes can’t Dance. We read stories in my bed the other evening before dinner and he fell asleep to the soothing sound of my voice.

John and Lincoln went home to Tassie yesterday, while Emma decided to stay for another week to continuing supporting me in my final week of treatment.

Yes, only one week to go and then I’m done with radiotherapy!

It’s been a confronting, challenging journey but I’m blessed to have so much support.

Let the final countdown begin!

Love spending time with this gorgeous boy!

 

Posted in Life

It’s my birthday …

… and I’ll deadlift if I want to!

Here’s me in action at the gym this morning*.

About to deadlift 40kgs

 

I reckon Tom will make this heavier next time!

I don’t usually get this visually visible on my blog, but I saw a post by my cousin Jen this morning on Facebook where she told her friends that I was ‘awesome’. It made me stop and think why someone would say that about me. Seeing yourself through someone else’s eyes can be a useful exercise and I suddenly felt proud of myself for continuing with my personal training sessions while going through radiotherapy treatment. And so I asked Tom (my personal trainer) to take a photo of me this morning because I wanted a record of this.

Plus it’s an interesting looking contraption!

Apart from being my birthday, it’s also International Women’s Day today and as I celebrate I feel blessed to have so many awesome women in my life. They continually inspire me and support me and I know my life would be less rich without them.

*****

Thanks to Tom, my trainer, for taking the photos.

Just one note Tom. Josh gave me flowers on my birthday last year. Just sayin’ …

Posted in Life

A new daily routine

Arrive. Hand over your patient card with a smile. Fine thanks, you reply to the smiling friendly receptionist who asks, somewhat unnecessarily you think, how you are. You take a seat as directed and wait for your name to be called by one of the radiotherapists.

Through the glass sliding door into the change room. Dress/top off. Bra off. Gown on. Stuff clothes into the green bag.

Carry it into the treatment room and put it on the chair. Hi. Good thanks. Name, date of birth, address.

On to the hard cold bed of the machine. Whoops, forgot to take your arms out of the gown again. Off the bed. Arms out, clutching the gown around you as you try to retain some control over exposing your body to strangers. Give that up and climb back on the cold hard bed of the machine with the gown unwrapped underneath you.

Whoops, forgot to take your glasses off. Off the bed, drop glasses into the green bag while clutching at your gown to hold it up. Back onto the bed.

Goggles on. Arms above your head and hold the bar. Legs up as they put the red cushion beneath your knees. Feeling thankful to have been doing abdominal exercises with Tom lately.

Lying there unable to see what’s going on, listening to the numbers flying between the two radiotherapists, feeling them mark your body, the cold of the tracing making you feel more exposed. Lie heavy as we move you Sharon. Left arm lifted into position, left hip shifted, ribs moved.

The cube is taped to your stomach – although you only know it’s a cube because you’ve heard them mention it. You can’t see anything because of the goggles.

The bed goes up and up – to shoulder height. You can’t see it because of the goggles but you can feel it from the way they make their final adjustments.

Sleeves of the gown are draped over your breasts.

All good Sharon. We’re out now.

A pause and you lie there watching the white square in the goggles.

A voice over the intercom. When you’re ready, a slow breath in for a short one. The yellow bar floats into the blue box and turns green. And breathe normally.

Silence.

When you’re ready, another slow breath in for a short one.

In

Hold

Great. Breathe normally.

The machine whirs and clicks like a cicada, the bed jolts into position and you see your spine and ribs on the screen in the goggles. The word pug seems to be repeated down your spine and you wonder what that’s about.

Okay Sharon. When you’re ready, a slow breath in for a long one.

The yellow bar turns green and you concentrate on keeping it there, only barely aware of the machine’s high pitched squeal.

Holding

Holding

Wondering if you can hold any longer. The green bar wobbles, bounces up and down gently within the blue box, and you clench your jaw with the effort of holding your breath.

Just when you think you can’t hold anymore, ‘And breathe normally’.

You can tell you’re struggling to bring your breathing under control by the way the yellow bar bounces around. You breathe out, all the way out, and hold. Your breath swoops into your body and the yellow bar flies up the screen. Hold. Breathe out. Just as you get your breathing under control ‘when you’re ready Sharon, a slow breath in for a long one’.

The machine whirs and spins, or at least that’s what you imagine is happening from the noises you can hear. You can’t see anything because of the goggles.

Holding

Holding

The green bar wobbles. You concentrate hard to keep it there.

Holding

You want to close your eyes but you can’t because the green bar might turn yellow. You think about how good you are at breathing. You remind yourself of your years of practice. That makes you want to laugh and the green bar wobbles and you get the giggles and it wobbles some more. You clench your jaw even tighter but some giggles escape along with some breath. Luckily the blue box is just wide enough to contain it. You tell yourself this is no time for jokes but then your other self tells you that if now isn’t a time for jokes then when is? And you argue with yourself while the machine squeals its high pitched squeal and your arms tingle from holding the bar above your head and the green bar bounces gently and ‘breathe normally Sharon’.

The screen in the goggles turns back into a white square. You lower your arms gently because they’re really hurting now and remove the goggles. I’ll take those says the radiotherapist as he comes back into the room. He lowers the bed and you sit up, lifting your legs over the red knee cushions, clutching your gown around you as you stand, stuffing your arms into the sleeves and covering your body to counteract the feeling of exposure. A too-late gesture that nevertheless makes you feel somewhat in control.

You put your glasses back on, pick up your bag, yes see you tomorrow and smile as you head to the change room. You rub MooGoo udder cream into your left breast, dress, unlock the change room door, push the green button to open the sliding glass door, wave at the receptionist, go through one more glass sliding door into the hospital corridor, turn left and make your way to the car for the 32 minute drive to work in peak hour traffic.

Another one down. Only eleven to go.

Yellow … this time unconnected from my breath
Posted in Life

Two down, 17 to go

I cried in the shower this morning.

Not because I was hurting from falling over this morning playing scarecrows and face planting into the oval.

Not because my face hurts from my glasses bashing into my cheekbone during said face plant.

Not because my hands hurt from trying to stop my face plowing into the ground, or my hip or my knee.

I cried because I was dwelling on a couple of conversations I’ve had recently and the hurt they’ve caused me.

But I want to backtrack a little first.

On Thursday morning we made it to the oncology centre with minutes to spare before my first treatment. The traffic had been worse than we’d thought it was going to be at that time of the day.

I handed over my patient card to the receptionist who kindly acknowledged that it was my first time, then asked if I could move the time of my second treatment to later in the afternoon. That suited me better so I had no hesitation saying yes, that’s fine.

It wasn’t long before one of the radiotherapists called my name, took me on a tour of the, admittedly not huge, facility. Here’s the change room, there’s the loo, here’s the control room, and here’s the room you’ll be in to have treatment. There were red lines from the lasers all over the walls. I changed, put the blue gown on, put my clothes in the green bag that I was to bring to each treatment (along with the gown), and went back into the room with the big machine in it.

I lay on the bed, took off my glasses, put on the goggles, put my arms above my head and held onto the handlebars and then was instructed to ‘lie heavy. I need to move your arm, but let me do it’ said the radio therapist. My arm in position, my hip moved slightly to the right, numbers and positions flying between the two radio therapists, more marks on my body, a cube to measure my breathing taped to my stomach, the sleeves of the gown crossed over my breasts and it was time to start.

They left the room and I was instructed to take a long slow breath in, hold it for a moment, then out again. On the screen in my goggles appeared an x-ray of my spine and ribs. I wish I knew how to read it so I could assure myself that all was in order.

The x-ray disappeared and the yellow line and blue box reappeared. Take a long slow breath in for me Sharon and hold it. It’ll be a long one this time.

I moved the yellow line into the blue box, turning the line green, then concentrated really hard to keep it there for what felt like a really (really) long time.

And breathe normally again Sharon.

The line became yellow again as I exhaled, then ‘one more long slow deep breath Sharon and hold’.

I began to feel a little panicky the second time. It felt quite claustrophobic to be honest. What if I couldn’t hold my breath for as long as I was required to? The now green line bobbed up and down slightly as I concentrated on holding the green line within the box.

And breathe normally again Sharon. That’s it, we’re all done.

Goggles off, arms down, off the table, shoes on, glasses on, head off to the change room. The radio therapists’ friendly ‘see you tomorrow Sharon’ stopped me as I went through the curtain. Oh yes, I’ll be doing this again tomorrow … and for another 17 weekdays after that. It feels different knowing that it’s not a once off scan. This is real. This is really happening.

Friday … second treatment. Any questions? What happens if I can’t hold my breath for as long as I need to? That’s okay. The machine is clever enough to turn off and then we just pick it up where we left off when you’re ready.

Knowing that certainly eased my mind.

See you on Monday!

*****

And now back to the real issue for me this morning: at least you’re not dying. At least you’re assured of a good outcome. At least you’re not 70 and having to hold your breath for that long. At least you don’t have to drive 200kms each day to have treatment.

I have a suggestion, perhaps even some advice.

If you have a friend or relative who’s going through cancer treatment, comparing their experience to your aunt’s cousin’s brother-in-law’s mother and starting a sentence with ‘at least’ negates the fact that your friend is going through an experience of their own. And while it might not be ‘as bad’ as someone else they know who’s going through cancer treatment, or has already gone through cancer treatment, they’re still experiencing something.

They’re still dealing with emotions and what ifs and potential side effects and uncertainty and not knowing and I know uncertainty is similar to not knowing but it’s kind of different too.

Don’t compare.

Don’t start a sentence with ‘at least …’.

Don’t tell them stories about their best friend who’s just died age 30 from bowel cancer.

Don’t tell them they’re lucky.

Don’t make out that their experience is any less than someone else’s.

It’s hurtful …

So much so that I cried in the shower this morning.

A burst of orange to cheer me up