An Amazing Bunch

Hi there, 

well my intention was to blog each week, but life and laziness and a small crisis of what am I doing this for, has got in the way. Apologies for that. That means I’m about a month behind my original schedule now, but providing you’ve got the time, if it takes a little longer, I’m ok with that. I had one of those moments this week where you question whether you’re good enough, whether what you’re doing is worth it, because my lovely friend who’s blogging in real time through her cancer journey absolutely nailed the description of

"the furry mouth thing". As I read the description, it all came flooding back, and I thought to myself, I’d forgotten that. One of the amazing and wonderful things about humans, I think, is our power to forget. It’s been 4 years now since my diagnosis, and there are many details that I have forgotten. Usually they’re the unpleasant ones, I don’t seem to be forgetting the kindness people showed me, the cakes they baked, chocolates they sent. I also haven’t forgotten the chemotherapy nurses, and this post is for them. I did wonder whether that distance made my posts relevant, or useful. I’ve put it down to the typical daft artist brain which says what you create is pointless, and I’m here again though.

They’re an amazing bunch the chemo nurses, different to the Macmillan nurse whose name I know, and I see almost every time I attend a clinic or hospital. She is my constant, helping me through the full journey, dealing with the mundane and minor as well as the earth shattering and disastrous. She also saw me get better and when I go for check ups, she’s often there at the clinic, smiling, saying hi, asking about me as a person, in between making cups of tea for people whose world is falling apart. Actually, I had a few Macmillan nurses, especially earlier in my treatment, but I seem to have settled on one now. I wondered at one point if they were being carouselled round to have the experience of working with someone teflon, who seems to shrug off each round of terrible news with a silver lining find. I was ok with that, just curious. I sort of understand the job satisfaction you might get from being a Macmillan nurse. It seems similar to teaching where yes there are tough days; both figuratively and literally, you can’t save them all. Ultimately, however, you hope that you’re doing something good and you see the end result work out well. That’s how I imagine it is anyway. 

Being a chemotherapy nurse is different, as it means that you see a very distinct part of a person’s journey and that makes you a very distinct type of nurse, in my experience. The experience that your patients have is unpleasant, every time, and you won’t see them when it gets better. What to do? It seems to me that they become more human, more caring, (if it’s possible for a nurse to be more caring). Nothing is too much trouble. These are talented and specialised professionals, with vein finding ability like nobody I’ve ever seen, even the phlebotomists. They also wield a mighty biscuit tin, and make a brew exactly how you ask for it. 

Going for my chemotherapy was always awful, my veins were, shall we say, hard work. No amount of leaning on a heat pad could bring them up, eating jelly babies before I got there (it works for body builders so worth a try, hey?) dangling my arm, pumping my fist, hydration would make it easier. In fact, it reached the point where I used to go in, put loud rock music on youtube and my big headphones on, close my eyes and tell them, just do it till you get there. They gave me stacks of biscuits, and found veins that I didn’t even know existed (between your middle two fingers anyone?) and they always made me feel as comfortable as they could. It always felt welcoming, which was odd because whilst it was awful, I didn't dread turning up. I was lucky that I gained a chemo buddy who I don’t catch up with as much as we keep promising, and they made sure that I was always sat with her at each session I had. The camaraderie of the nurses, the fun they had together meant they understood how much it helped me to have my new, closer in age to me, buddy sat on the other chair. 

One of my chemo sessions was on New Years Eve (yeah, I know) and when I arrived at the hospital there was cake, party snacks, and an air of “this treatment is for a better new year” which whilst it could have flopped, did made it a bit less awful. Why? Because the nurses made it so. What might have been a pathos scene in a Victoria Wood sketch, with limp innuendos about sausage rolls and older women lamenting about whether they’d ever get well enough to finish the cardigan they were knitting, instead was a medical procedure, with people who understood that I needed to acknowledge that it’s bobbins going for chemo on New Years Eve; they no doubt would have preferred to be at home, not at work too. That we could make something good out of that situation and share a laugh. We were encouraged to humanise the experience, they asked me to take in my instruments when they learned I played music, and play some tunes while I was waiting for my treatment. It all helped. They fed me biscuits and coffee, I’m not sure I mentioned it?

I ate a lot of biscuits and coffee at Oldham Royal, the supply never ran out. Patients, me included, took in a jar of coffee, chocolates, some biscuits, teabags, sometimes I saw them telling the nurses that they were posh ones, for them, not patients. But they always opened them and handed them round. An amazing bunch.