Back for the usual pre-chemo appointment with Dr G. You and H sit in the waiting room, with two unusually chatty fellow sufferers. You have been feeling grotty for the last 2 or 3 days, and, even more than usual, don't feel like small talk. But Mr A and Mrs B aren't to be put off, and are keen to share details of their conditions.
Mr A says - I always ate well and I've never been a drinker, looking you in the eye as if daring you to contradict him. You nod noncommittally. As soon as she can get a word in, Mrs B grabs the conch and runs with it - telling you in detail about her nosebleeds, and how badly she feels it was dealt with. Mr A, a little put out not to be the centre of attention, looks at her blankly.
Eventually they run out of steam, and ask what is wrong with you, about your symptoms and side effects. Today, you have no desire to give out personal information to perfect strangers, and it is a relief at that moment to be called by the Dr. As you pass Mr A and Mrs B you say, hypocrite that you are, nice talking to you.
Dr E, Dr D's assistant says - how have you been feeling. You say, tired, then two weeks of feeling really good, then the last three days pretty rough. She looks at you and draws a breath, says, we have the results of the CT. It shows further progression of the disease.
You say - you mean Docetaxel isn't working, and she nods - she says, we won't progress with chemo on Docetaxel. She carries on talking, although right then your head is swimming, and you can't take anything in. You register a few key words like thrombosis, infection, echocardiogram, but not much else. All you know is that this is not good.
Dr E writes out a prescription for a bumper Xmas sack of drugs, and says - we can try another option, another chemo drug, and you talk about it and agree. Again, just like Docetaxel, the odds of this one having a positive effect aren't high. You nod, thank her for her time, and, numbed, float out through the ward to the pharmacy.
Later, outside on the way to the car, the drizzle feels fresh, particularly welcome on your clammy skin. In the evening, it rains as if it will never stop, and your house, just like you, is pummelled and pounded from each direction.
Mr A says - I always ate well and I've never been a drinker, looking you in the eye as if daring you to contradict him. You nod noncommittally. As soon as she can get a word in, Mrs B grabs the conch and runs with it - telling you in detail about her nosebleeds, and how badly she feels it was dealt with. Mr A, a little put out not to be the centre of attention, looks at her blankly.
Eventually they run out of steam, and ask what is wrong with you, about your symptoms and side effects. Today, you have no desire to give out personal information to perfect strangers, and it is a relief at that moment to be called by the Dr. As you pass Mr A and Mrs B you say, hypocrite that you are, nice talking to you.
Dr E, Dr D's assistant says - how have you been feeling. You say, tired, then two weeks of feeling really good, then the last three days pretty rough. She looks at you and draws a breath, says, we have the results of the CT. It shows further progression of the disease.
You say - you mean Docetaxel isn't working, and she nods - she says, we won't progress with chemo on Docetaxel. She carries on talking, although right then your head is swimming, and you can't take anything in. You register a few key words like thrombosis, infection, echocardiogram, but not much else. All you know is that this is not good.
Dr E writes out a prescription for a bumper Xmas sack of drugs, and says - we can try another option, another chemo drug, and you talk about it and agree. Again, just like Docetaxel, the odds of this one having a positive effect aren't high. You nod, thank her for her time, and, numbed, float out through the ward to the pharmacy.
Later, outside on the way to the car, the drizzle feels fresh, particularly welcome on your clammy skin. In the evening, it rains as if it will never stop, and your house, just like you, is pummelled and pounded from each direction.
