Convalescence is a Bitch

It’s much better than being dead from cancer, of course, but it’s a slow and frustrating process all the same.

I can’t do anything.

I can’t lift anything over two kilos in weight. That’s your average jug/kettle filled with water.

I can’t drive. I’m not supposed to squat or bend over. A thirty-minute walk leaves me sweating and buggered. When I stand up after sitting or lying for any length of time, I get very light-headed and am forced to grab at the nearest object for support. (Where, I ask myself, is my Vin Diesel ornament when I need it? Actually, it doesn’t matter. I’ve gone off him.)

There are still plenty of things I can and do do, like reading. And knitting. And watching DVDs: the first and only season of Firefly; 90s yuppie Brit drama This Life; season six of Scrubs; comic Bill Bailey’s Part Troll show; movies The Fountain and The Prestige.

Then there are the things I could do but don’t because I’m milking this convalescence thing for all it’s worth … like cooking.

And finally there are the things you bet your ass I do but about which I’m not going to write.

Speaking of writing, you might notice that nowhere on any of those lists was mention made of “blogging” (or “emailing”, if I owe you one). That’s because there are three laptops in this house and of those three, two habitually crash without warning and the third is so slow I fight the urge to cut my wrists every time I use it. I’m working on one of the crashers at the moment. Let’s see how many times I have to re-boot it before this post is done (the score currently sits at one).

So here’s what’s happened since last time:

I had the second op on Monday 9 July. The lymph node dissection was clear (i.e. they didn’t find any cancer cells), so the doctors felt fairly safe in assuring me they’d got it all. I still have to have radiotherapy, just in case.

I was discharged from hospital three days later but not before my doctor teased me about how remarkably balloon-like my legs were not. The nurse was scandalised that he’d made a joke out of something I’d been so worried about but I was thrilled. He did have a sense of humour after all! His pale cohort, I discovered, did as well. They were both bloody nice guys.

We weren’t due to fly home until the following Tuesday, which turned out to be just as well. On the Saturday night I started to bleed and we spent all of Sunday morning and most of Monday in the hospital’s Emergency department. One urine test, one blood test, one internal examination and one ultrasound later, it was pronounced safe for me to travel home, with strict instructions to get to my GP pronto if anything got worse.

I’ve been home three weeks. The first week was all about physical discomfort and feeling like crap. The second week focused more on bursting into tears at odd times for no reason, such as halfway through a conversation with the Dreamboat about his day at work. The third signified my triumphant launch back into Karratha society (I had visitors).

And now I spend my time ripping off my clothes … partly because I’ve been hurled into the wonderful world of menopause and menopause can make one feel somewhat warm; and partly because the tissue around and under my scar has become so sensitive I can’t stand anything touching it.

In a little under two weeks time, we fly back to Perth for Phase Two on the list of cancer treatment goodies: radiotherapy. I’ll be having brachytherapy, where the radioactive yumminess is delivered internally … deflowered with surgical precision by a complete stranger in the health profession yet again. Yay. It’s lucky that the Dreamboat is not a jealous man.

Sooooooo … two sessions a week, five sessions in all. And then, hopefully, back to work, back to the real world and back to normal. Until the next check-up, that is … but I’ll mark the calendar to worry about that one a bit closer to the actual date.

I don’t think there are words enough or skill enough on my part to describe how incredible the Dreamboat has been, and continues to be, through all this.

I always knew he was a keeper.

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