Lymphoma Week 16

The penultimate push

Hair we go!:

After a quiet weekend – one celebrated by the fact that I could finally taste the richness of the steak pie served to me on Sunday evening – it was time to head back to hospital on Monday.

Having called to check a bed was available, I was greeted like an old friend when I arrived at Ward 4C in the Queen Elizabeth University Hospital for the penultimate courses of chemotherapy treatment.

And I was soon settled into the long chemo routine through to Tuesday morning, this time with meds to stop fluid retention that had been such a problem three weeks ago.

By this point, my pillows and face were covered in hair that was falling out of my head like it was going out of fashion.

The ward staff soon resolved that with smiles – and clippers – as they gave me a shiny new look.

I know that, for many cancer sufferers, hair loss can be traumatising and I understand that.

But I’m afraid my tabloid newspaper sense of humour couldn’t stop me from carrying out a straw poll among friends and ward staff on famous follically challenged characters I might look like.

Contenders included actors Yul Brynner and Telly Savalas, funnyman Harry Hill and TV presenter Gregg Wallace.

Maybe it’s a generational thing – but I found it hard to see past the image of me as 70s crime drama detective Kojak, played by Savalas, sucking on a lollipop and uttering the famous line: “Who loves ya, baby?”

To some extent, my own silly survey reflects the atmosphere to be found on Ward 4C. It’s a really friendly, happy, upbeat environment, just like all the other cancer treatment places I’ve visited.

Don’t get me wrong – the staff are all dedicated, hard-working professionals, whose top priority is to ensure the patients get the best care possible.

But on hospital stays such as mine, there are times when you can have a laugh and a chat – learning about everything from their families to favourite telly shows – just as they find out more about me, too.

This may seem trivial, even irrelevant, to some people. But, to me, it builds the bonds and the trust that I feel I need to have with those looking after me.

A fluid situation:

As if to prove the point that the serious care stuff comes first and foremost, the team worked superbly overnight Tuesday into Wednesday to allow me to snatch a few hours’ more sleep, which is a precious commodity!

The mornings always seem to start with frantic activity – such as changing of drip feeds, bloods and other tests, then breakfast, shower and a doctor’s visit, all done between 6am and 11am.

The attention to patient needs also allowed me to discuss with the experts what I call “the nasal congestion debate”.

Having sworn by a home-prepared saline solution for many, many months to ease an ongoing problem that predates the lymphoma, the consensus was that this now posed a high risk of infection.

So, I am turning to potentially less powerful but far more sterile spray provided by the pharmacist. Here’s hoping the switch works.

The medical monitoring was also constant in other ways – in my case centred on concerns about too much fluid retention, caused by the huge volumes being pumped into me, and too few red blood cells, resulting in anaemia.

So, while the third of the three cycles of chemo was delivered like a well-oiled machine, action on Wednesday into Thursday included further meds to stabilise my fluid levels and two “one pint” red blood cell transfusions.

The latter took three hours on each occasion and doctors had taken the time to talk me through the tiny infection risks involved as well as short-term potential reactions.

Despite the reassurances, I had felt illogically nervous about the first transfusion. Getting something donated from a stranger pumped into my body just struck me as somehow odd.

But, of course, everything went without drama on both occasions and later blood test results showed the two pints had tackled the anaemia.

I have been an occasional blood donor over the years and so was very grateful that someone else’s act of kindness was helping me.

And, as happened three weeks earlier, I was quite happy to stay put in hospital and get the care and attention I needed into Friday.

Timely reminders:

The stark reality that not everybody survives their cancer journeys was made evident this week when my wife travelled south to the funeral of an old university friend.

Despite knowing she only had a short time left to live, Debbie’s friend had graciously taken time to offer me insights into how I might best cope with my own experience when I was first diagnosed.

I will always be grateful for the wisdom she shared that, even now, is helping me.

Then, as I struggled into this weekend to recover from the penultimate three cycles of chemo, came the messages of support and good wishes from those who noticed my “radio silence”.

Many of these reminded me of the key points to hold on to:

It’s the chemotherapy, not the cancer, that is making me ill. I only have one more big round of treatment to complete. My prospects are overwhelmingly bright and I have much to look forward to.

So, for now, I’ll concentrate on getting into the best shape to jump that last treatment hurdle.