Sometimes I wonder if I my decision to have chemotherapy was the right one. After all, I don’t have cancer. Mr Hadjiminas got it all out, yes?
It seems to me that the principle behind chemotherapy is this: They shoot one with a machine gun and hope to hit the correct targets, if there are any targets to hit.
The side effects I’m experiencing are niggly, but taken as a whole, rather debilitating. I’m fatigued beyond reason. Some days I struggle to get out of bed before the afternoon. Everyday tasks seem insurmountable. The thought of emptying the dishwasher floors me. I have persistent ulcers in my mouth and under my tongue. They make it painful to eat or talk. My fingers tingle and my toes hurt. My nose bleeds a little, but often. I have spots on my face. Worst of all, my fingernails have started to go yellow and lift away from my fingertips. They’re turning manky.
Meg calls me on the telephone. “I just want you to know that you’re doing the right thing,” she informs me. “Why is that?” I query. “I have a friend who was diagnosed three months ago with early stage cancer like you. It wasn’t aggressive. He declined the chemotherapy. Yesterday, he died.”
I would be eternally cross with myself if I declined the chemotherapy and then died. So I think I will spend more time in bed, eat more Manuka honey, carry packets of tissues and bottles of water everywhere with me, slap on the concealer and obsessively rub Jason Vitamin E Hand Lotion into my fingernails.
Only three more chemos to go.