Sunday 11 November 2018

Pushing it


Be kind to yourself. Don’t do too much. Don’t be lazy. Do what you feel you can manage. Try and do something every day. Don’t push it. Accept a pyjama day but don’t make a habit of it. In the contradictory world of chemotherapy, I heard all of these things, from health professional, friends, and family. What makes it worse, is that they were all right. So, not only do you not know quite how you feel, but also it’s not clear what pushing it will be, on that day, in that chemo cycle. So I want to take you back to the day I pushed it, come and walk with me… 


I’d just tipped over halfway through my chemotherapy sessions, four out of six down, and I’d just changed drugs for the last three. I’d worked out a system, I was over two months through the experience, and my system had developed as follows. Day one: Have the chemo, get home, have food, and wait to feel rough. I had acknowledged by this point that the rest of the day was really for pottering around the house, gradually moving less until I was sat on the sofa, under a blanket. An episode or two of a crime series later, I’d accept the day was done, I would take all the various “drugs to help with side effects” and head to bed. 
Day two: feel rough. This day would be a day of not knowing what I wanted to eat or drink, or want to do, or could do. So, conveniently, I live around a three minute walk from a reasonably priced supermarket. I would get dressed, have a  bit of something to eat and drink, take more helpful drugs, then walk to the supermarket. This would get me outside, I can walk through the small park behind my house to get some fresh air. I could also wander round the supermarket, looking at things, buying whatever I wanted to eat and drink, and then walk home. What a good plan, I hear you say. Indeed, it had been so, thus far. 
The day after session four, the first of the other chemo drug, began as the rest had. I felt a bit ropey and generally “not right”. I had a wash, got dressed into something comfortable and headed downstairs. A brief chat with a good friend, confirmed a visitor that morning, which was always welcome, especially when they knew I might chat lay under the blanket. A small amount of breakfast later, I felt a bit green round the gills, so I wrapped up (it was January) and headed out to the shop. The walk there went pretty well. The cold air was refreshing and reminded me that I was definitely alive, and that this was a good thing to feel. I reached the shop, and wandered around. While I was there, something happened. I grew indecisive, and retraced my steps around aisles, replacing things that I had thought I wanted, but now wasn’t sure. By the time I’d reached the till, I was feeling a bit hot. The woolly hat was still on, to avoid baldy induced scared or pitying looks, but I’d ditched my scarf. My jacket came off next, and it was so very heavy to carry. I focused on the till. On paying. On being able to head home. 
As I loaded my nice food and drinks into my shopping bag, and tried to orchestrate replacing the layers that I had stripped off a few moments ago, my home, less than half a mile away, seemed a frightening distance. But I’d set off to get food and drinks and I had my mate coming round, they’d already texted me to say they had set off, so I had to get back. What else could I do? I set off walking. I tried to play the mantra in my head, I would not be beaten by this bleedin’ stupid chemotherapy. I no longer had cancer, and I was getting my life back to normal as fast as I could, because I was the boss. That was that. This wasn’t a long walk. I could do it. The car park seemed a mile long, my hands ached, I was tired, swapping the bag every ten paces or so from hand to hand. I was sweating again. The extra walking in the shop, and choosing some lovely, but heavy, fizzy pop, the different drugs, with their own set of side effects. I had misread this morning after, in my feisty pigheadedness. 
I reached the road, and set off walking. At this point I had resorted to focusing on each step. Each one I managed brought me closer to home, and when I got there, then I could lie down. Then I couldn’t take any more steps. I started thinking about what I could do now that this challenge had beaten me. If I abandoned the heavy drinks that I’d just bought, left them by the road, might that make it possible that I could walk the last 400 yards home? What I wanted, so very much, more than all the chocolate in the world, was to lie down down and sleep. Right there, on the January pavement. 
I called my friend, they were just round the corner on their way. I stopped walking and waited, a cold film of sweat covering my puffy face. As they pulled up in their car, I hauled the shopping bag into the car and sat down, a pile of clothes, slumped on the seat. I apologised for the ridiculousness of getting them to drive me this last few yards, of course it was no problem. I tried not to cry with the relief that I was going to make it back home. We reached my house in the respectful quiet that comes from putting someone in an uncomfortable position. Because it’s uncomfortable for us all, we don’t know what to do, or not to do. I fumbled with my keys, trying to remember which one would open the door. I walked in and headed to the sofa. You’ll have to make your own brew I said. Then I slept. 

I pushed it. I shouldn’t have. But then I thought it would be ok, I felt similar to the other chemo day twos. I refined my system to just walk to the park, less than half the distance, sit on the first bench for a rest then head home on the next two day twos. That worked much better. And I still believe that it is better to push a little and see what’s possible, than to accept that there’s nothing that can be done. Just be careful, ok?

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