Tag Archives: Joe

Double Selfie

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I’m not much of one for a selfie, I generally prefer to stay on the other side of the camera lens, although I noticed I have taken more in recent months while going through my cancer treatment (no idea why, just have). I did like this one though – Stephanie and I were enjoying the annual West End Craft Fair, which is in the burial ground of Saint John’s Church (buy some nice, handmade earrings next to the tomb of Ebeneezer McCurdie, died 1838!).

Double Selfie

Stephanie realised she had bought something from this crafter the year before, and they were chatting away. I noticed the oval mirror hanging to the side and just thought we could get a double mirror selfie with that. I couldn’t really see the camera screen properly and look at the mirror at the same time, so the framing is a bit off, but nonetheless, I like this pic.

Emotional rollercoaster (aka Fuck Cancer)

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So, the horrible cancer treatment is ongoing, and ye gods, it is bloody wearing me down; relentless, like waves pounding on the rocky shore. It’s bitterly ironic that as I approach what I hope to god is the final stages of this nightmare treatment, I have struggled more and more to try to be positive than I have since the bloody start of this horrendous fucking year. I have, hopefully, one more of the god-awful, medieval poison torture sessions they call chemotherapy to go. Part of me thinks, thank smeg, only one more, the other part is just recoiling because each session has left me feeling worse than the last and thinking of god, they are going to make me go through this horrific experience again, aren’t they?

And I know it will make me feel sick and awful and wiped out and depressed and miserable. And I know I have to fucking well do it anyway, because life is that bloody cruel and doesn’t care. Since the most recent chemo poisoning, I have felt awful – previously I would start to slowly get better a few days after. This time, more than a week on from the fucking torture (am I using the word “fucking” too much? I don’t care. I have fucking cancer and I feel awful, so fuck you if me swearing upsets you, because there are worse things to be angry about), I still felt awful.

I had no energy, it wasn’t bouncing back, the side effects lingered longer and nastier than before, and between the horrible fatigue and the feeling of not getting anywhere it destroyed my morale and left me miserably depressed, isolated, disconnected from the world. You are in a weird limbo – you’re not dead but you’re not living your life, and the things that give your normal life structure are all undone while you deal with the betrayal of the very cells of your own body.

Today was the first time in ten days that I didn’t feel exhausted since the most recent chemo torture. I went for a walk with a friend, not too far in case the fatigue manifested itself again, then we stopped to do that most ordinary of things, friends going for a drink and a natter. And another drink and more chat. It felt good to do something so normal again. But then on the walk home my emotions went all over the place,

It had started raining, but I didn’t mind – even the rain felt good on my face, like I could feel the breeze, the droplets, I felt alive, for want of a better description, even pausing to take a couple of photographs in the rain, just because I could. And then my emotional dial started tilting all over the bloody place. I went from almost wanting to laugh and scream at the world “I AM ALIVE!!!!”, then suddenly veering towards not being able to stop myself crying buckets. I barely got myself home and the emotional rollecoaster went on, up and down and sideways and every which goddamned way. Laughing, crying, laughing again, crying, then wanting to scream with rage at the entire fucking world for doing this to me.

(rare selfie – I don’t like selfies, franky, but for some reason have taken more during recovery from surgery and chemo than I have in the last ten year – taken during a recuperation walk)

It’s not helped by the fact that this bastard cancer year has swallowed most of the actual year already. I knew there was something wrong with me by the start of the year, the doctor was investigating why my my blood work was so off (I had put down increasing fatigue and the fact trying to walk uphill to work was now suddenly so much more effort to just being older, as I turned 58 on Hogmanay. And it wasn’t that, I was ill, so much more ill than anyone knew).

By February we had the shock of diagnosis – it is not easy or simple thing when your doctor tells you that you have cancer, and that they don’t know how bad it is yet. Then wait for more scans and then… wait for results. Is it treatable? If it is, how treatable, can you cure me, or is this one of those we can save you but you’re going to have to take major changes to your life as we cut out bits and pieces and leave what’s left to try and work out how to live after? Or are you going to tell me it is too late, it is in my organs, and all you can offer is pain relief as my body slowly allows itself to succumb painfully and horribaly?

I had no fucking idea and by the time they met me to talk about the scan results I was literally shaking in fear. It was treatable, but it was bad, worse than they had expected from the first exploration. Surgery followed very soon after (god bless the NHS, they moved fast to take care of me). Then the slow, slow, painful recovery from five hours of being gutted, surgically dismebowled like the man under the pendulum in Poe. Would the cuts and repairs work? They had done all the skilled surgeons could, now we wait. After a few days, rumblings, then, oh my god, actually needing to go to the loo – yes, those insides they pulled apart, stripped of the fucking evil cancerous tumours, then stitched together again, were actually trying to work again.

Weeks of recovering after eight days stuck in hospital, weak, sore, tired, trying to walk somewewhere every day to try and rebuild my broken strength, and not to dwell on the massive trauma dealt to my body. And when I did so slowly get some strength back? Oh goody, not it is time to fuck your poor body over all over again with chemotherapy…

I am several courses through of that evil, brutal, primitive treatment. Yes, I am glad to live in an era where there is at least a treatment, but let’s be fucking honest, this is a horrible, brutal medication. It is, in effect, a chemical fucking blunderbuss compared to a sniper rifle. It may hit the target, but the bastard obliterates everything else around it, and destroys your white blood cells, immune system and your central nervous system too while it is attacking the cancer cells.

It is bloody horrible, leaves you feeling drained, sore, and with various side effects. Then there is the combination therapy of pills that are so nasty they advise you not to touch them when taking them (but you are meant to ingest the bastards?!?!). Basically there is no part of this treatment that doesn’t involve administering toxic poisons to your body. Is it for your own good? Yes, but it will make a mess of you while doing so, because it is a horrible, poorly targeted, awful remedy. We will try to cure you by making you feel awful and destroying even more of your body. Yes, it is that fucking brutal.

On previous treatments I felt awful, but a few days later started to slowly bounce back, I was even going in and doing partial days at the bookshop. This latest one was worse – maybe it is the cumulative effect of them poisoning my body repeatedly, but I took so much longer to get over it, ten days of being constantly sick and tired and having to stop after the slightest thing. I walked more to recover after the bloody surgery, for god’s sake, than I could manage after this fucking chemo. And as well as making me feel physically bad, it left my morale in the drainage pit. I had struggled to try to stay positive through all of this (with a huge amount of help), but now I felt miserable, useless, exhausted and that I wasn’t getting anywhere, as well as feeling isolated and disconnected from everything.

It’s a strange place to be – you’re not dead but you aren’t living your life. You are in-between, not at normal work or other regular things, everything is broken and disconnected and leaves you feeling isolated and adrift from the world. None of which helps your mental health when facing this kind of crisis. And this has been going on since 2026 first showed its evil fucking face . And here it was clicking over into July – July, seven months and I was still dealing with this relentless, horrible situation.

Cancer had swallowed two thirds of the year, and I felt like I had hardly touched or lived that year, it was all subsumed into this nightmare, days and weeks merging, no real sense of time. And that just made me more miserable. There is only so long you can fight this nightmare with postiive thoughts befor it wears you down, more and more and more, like the evil, rentless bastard that it is. With only (hopefully) one more treatment scheduled I hit the lowest fucking point in this whole utter horror of a fucking year.

Then today, feeling a bit better for the first time in ten days, had a decent day for the first time since the last treatment… and then that emotional crash, high, crash, high. Jesus, this is me on a GOOD day??? But it is the cumulative effect of months of enduring this nightmare, and knowing I am not out of it yet, and even if they say in a few weeks it is done, I know it isn’t bloody done, because the shadow of it will always hang over me. They will check me regularly in case it manifests again – good they are looking after me, but it also means the rest of my life is marked by worrying each time they check me, has it come back and oh, god, what do we do if it does come back, because yes, it may be okay, but we all know people who have gone through this, gotten better, then it bloody well comes back again, worse, because, well cancer is an evil fucking bastard. So even when this is hopefully over, it really isn’t ever quite over. And that just all overflowed tonight like a river bursting its banks.

I have no idea how I feel tonight. I have laughed and cried and screamed and laughed again then cried more and asked “why me?” and there is no answer. I’m very, very tired of it all and trying to get through these last weeks of horrible chemotherapy without falling apart emotionally and physically, and I am managing both only partially at best.

Fuck cancer.

Chemo

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So, after several weeks of walking and exercising a bit more each day since I was released from hospital, after the cancer surgery, I have been feeling stronger, appetite back (what a relief to not just be able to eat again without pain, but actually want to enjoy food, something I couldn’t do increasingly before the surgery, the tumours had blocked so much of my digestive system). I was starting to think maybe I could do a few hours back at work, cover some busy spells, ease myself back into things…

… But then it was time to start the chemotherapy, which, of course, knocks me back a bit physically. The irony of getting myself stronger and fitter after the heavy surgery, only to then get knocked back again by more treatment. Of course they had to wait for me to recover a bit before starting this, as the medication is, basically, toxic, and damaging to healthy cells, blood and nerves as well as any cancerous ones, I understand it, but it still feels bitterly ironic to get healthier to then undergo more that makes me feel worse.

Who Was That Masked Man?
(since the toxic meds of chemo can bugger up the immune response, it is time to mask up again on public transport, just to be safe)

It’s been a week now since the first full treatment, plugged in as the drugs are fed into you for a few hours, and then started the daily, very heavy pill regime too (also coming with its own list of side effects, from common and minor to terrifying, but fortunately rare). So far I have felt several side effects, but thankfully not the worst, and have still been able to continue to get out each day, although I tire more quickly (again – sigh, was just over that!). Has to be done, and will be months of this now, although fortunately only a few of the hours long version where I am plugged in, but the sad thing is it simply has to be done and endured.

To go through all the scariness, pain and trauma of major surgery than not take the chemo, well, would be basically gambling that it was all gone and never coming back. And you can’t take that risk, not with bloody cancer. So it’s this for the next few months. What a bloody awful year it has been so far. If it wasn’t for my family and friends being so damned supportive and protective I wouldn’t be able to cope with it, I’d just retreat into myself. I don’t know how anyone could get through this sort of thing without that vital support, it’s as important as the actual medical care.

On the other side…

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So, that was quite the experience: towards the end of March I went in for major cancer surgery. It was thought if it all went to plan I would have a night in high dependency after the surgery, then several days in the ward being monitored to make sure everything was starting to work again after being taken apart and put back together (complete with very large scar across my body).

Hospital Sunset
(view of the older part of the hospital, surrounded by modern extensions, taken on one of my recuperation exercise walks around the hospital corridors)

With some wrinkles it ended up being 8 days in hospital before finally going home. The staff were wonderful, supportive, friendly, we were well looked after, but you still yearn to go home.

Rather than return to my own flat by myself, my family picked me up and we drove back through to Glasgow so I could stay at the parental mansion with dad. It just felt like the more sensible thing to do, being very weak and tired and sore (and scarred and bruised), no bad thing to have someone there to keep an eye on me, just in case. It was good to be out though after 8 days, even though first day out it was windy, cold and raining, but dammit, it was outside and it felt good.

Dad and I took short excursions and walks each day, pacing ourselves (at the moment I don’t have to slow my walk to match dad, because I am so bloody slow). After a week staying back home, slowly getting better, I decided it was time to move back to Edinburgh, so last night was my first sleep in my own flat in my own bed in about 16 days. It felt a bit odd to be back, although also good. Out for another short walk today to try and build myself back up, slow walk to Harrison Park to the old boathouse, where I met up with a chum, and also, crucially, where I could sit down for a while to get my strength back for the walk home.

Shadow Patterns
(early morning light casting shadows and light beams across a hospital corridor, taken during my hospital stay during an exercise walk)

I’m not out of the woods yet, and there is more than likely more treatment to come, most likely some form of chemo, which of course I am less than happy about – feels like my poor body has been violated enough already, frankly. But if it needs done, it needs done, and at least the major surgery part is now in my rear view mirror. It’s still going to be weeks of getting my strength back though, but taking it one day at a time. And still taking photos, of course. Even managed a couple of pics while walking around the hospital for exercise.

Freedom
(I rarely do selfies, but this was my first, full day out of hospital after 8 days, and the relief of standing outside, even in rain and wind, was just wonderful)