Monday 9 March 2015

Spring will heal me

Bleuch.  The lurgy has arrived.  It's no great surprise: my husband was home all last week with fever in the high thirties and this weekend I've been nursing my daughter with the same symptoms.  I guess I was kidding myself when I thought I could hold it at bay.

Even so, it is ironic to fall sick now after my body's marvelous resilience during the chemo days when my white blood cell count hit an impressive low of 200 and yet I didn't get so much as a cold.  Now I am starting to run a temperature, my chest hurts and I am coughing.

The good news: I don't have to race to casualty as I would have in the chemo days.  I checked today and I can go ahead with radiotherapy even with a low grade fever and if I have to miss a day, it isn't a problem.

The not so good news: I somehow have to not cough and remain motionless for twenty minutes of therapy every day.  And even though my limbs are crying out for a long soak in a hot bath...baths are forbidden during radiotherapy and a shower just isn't going to have the same therapeutic effect.

I have faith that my incredible body will see this wretched virus off though.  Okay, my body did let me down a bit by letting the cancer fester in the first place but an immune system that still operates with a white blood cell count of 200 is something to be proud of.  And there are signs of returning vitality everywhere: two months after my last chemo and my hair is a good centimetre long and as soft as ducks' down.  A five o'clock shadow marks my returning eyebrows and (at last!) my embarrassing itch is a thing of the past.  Hot flushes and the occasional night sweat remain but I wait to see if this is my hormones recovering or signs of them heading off the next journey a bit ahead of schedule, is this an early menopause?


As the snowdrops bloom and daffs push up through last year's fallen leaves - it feels as if my body is responding to springtime and will surely ward off a winter virus as surely as the morning sunshine banishes the last frosts.

Saturday 7 March 2015

I can no longer wear my parrot

Seven weeks since my last Taxol and my hair is visibly growing.  Last weekend I had invisible white fuzz, this weekend the top of my head looks as if someone has coloured it in with a soft graphite pencil.  My wig is now itchy and uncomfortable so I wear a headscarf all the time. 

This week a kindly nurse at hospital complemented me on my headscarf, at least, I think that's what she said.  The problem with dealing with cancer in Brussels is that I'm always feeling my way through a fog of French, only half following the plot.

Taking the chance that I understood correctly, I thanked her and explained that I can no longer wear my wig comfortably.  Later I had a horrible thought.  You see, I always confuse the French words for 'wig' (peruque) and 'parrot' (perruche) in my head and I wasn't sure which one I'd used.  Had I told the kindly nurse that I can no longer wear my parrot?  I'm not sure how I will face her at radiotherapy now...

Doing cancer in school-girl level French has certainly been an interesting journey.

I have a bit of a block when it comes to numbers so being asked for my birthdate or phone number sends me into a blind panic.  (I send up prayers of thanks for the Belgian septante for seventy and nonante for ninety - what language comes up with 'four twenties and fifteen' as a convenient way to say ninety five?).

I have sat anxiously in hospital corridors waiting to be collected having followed the directions of the receptionist, wondering if I am, in fact, in the right place at all.  (Did she say turn right or go straight ahead?  Are they currently searching for me in a completely different corridor?  How will I ever know?? )

I have given up trying to understand WHY I need to take medications and instead obsessively repeated everything in basic words to be sure that I definitely understand WHAT I need to take.  (Er, was that twice or twelve times?  What's the French for  "Will I die if I overdose on this?").

And as for my hospital exercise class - my heart rate alarm goes off if anyone speaks to me while I am on the treadmill because I am concentrating so hard on understanding that I forget to breathe. 

The worst is, however, when you have to go into that little cubical to prepare for tests and examinations.  Did she say take off everything except knickers?  Everything above the waist?  Or was it just "Wait here to be collected"?  Will I walk through the other door, stark naked, into a waiting room of clothed people because I misunderstood??  Scary stuff.

I guess there is always scope for misunderstandings in any language.  This week, after my first radiotherapy,  I sent out an update email to family and friends entitled 'Starting Radio'.  The replies made me laugh: I'd forgotten that the world out there does not add a silent therapy to everything.  Various friends thought I was make a guest appearance on a hospital radio station.  Even more charmingly, one thought I might be starting as a DJ.  As I am no-where near cool enough to be a DJ in any language, I was secretly delighted that he jumped to that conclusion.


In any case, if I end up on the radio I won't have to wear my parrot...