Into every life a little merde must fly. My wee parcel jetted in on 7 January 2007 when I was diagnosed with cancer. Actually, I think I took the news rather well, but through naivete rather than stoicism. It was hard to digest in one sitting: Cancer, bowel cancer, metastasised to liver, also hurtling unimpeded through lymph nodes. Inoperable. Incurable. Not a gift-wrapped parcel, then.
During the following months I've embarked on the chemotherapy journey, experiencing most of the side effects: diarrhoea, mouth ulcers, nausea, oral thrush, hair loss, and debilitating fatigue. When the exhaustion wave washes over you, it's best to surrender and take a nap. I've been in a hospice and three different hospitals where I've been treated, amongst other things, for neutropenia (an infection coupled with low white blood cell count - quite dangerous, I'm told), and fed antibiotics which gave me an allergic reaction and anaphylactic shock (can be fatal in minutes if left untreated). Scary stuff.
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1 comment:
Them Three Kings have a lot to answer for, haven't they? I'd love to know which one it was delivered your parcel... I'd show him
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