A Piece of Cake

On a rainy Monday morning, many years ago, I was introduced to what was about to become my daly life at the Beatrix Potter school in London. I remember thinking that because of its name, it was going to be fairy story book beautiful with squirrels and rabbits skittering about everywhere, and I was nervous but excited at the same time, at the prospect of being big.



On the morning of the first visit, my mother dutifully wet my curly hair with gobfuls of spit and with a sharp comb attempted to plaster the disobedient floss to my little head, knowing that as soon as it dried, the mop would spring back up like uncorked bubbles. I was dressed in a grey skirt and jumper and new brown shoes I didn't know how to lace up, and I didn't eat my breakfast.



We were taken, mother and I, into my new classroom, me clinging to her hand for dear life, and there, introduced to an elderly looking lady whose grey hair was drawn back into a Red Riding-hood's granny style bun, and who announced with a twinkling smile, that she would be my teacher when I started school the next term, and told me her name was Mrs. Jiggins. I didn't like her. 



But I liked the tiny toilets and sinks with the hard, stinky soap and paper towels, the concrete playground surrounded by mildew scented sycamore trees whose seeds would soon spiral helicopters down around our scuffed toes while we waited in line to be shown to our classrooms in the morning and after dinner break - I liked that, too.



I was sat at a little desk where I drew a quick picture that looked like a pig - it was my mother, but I wasn't good at noses back then and she had to make do with a circle with two dots in, and then we went home; a vow in my heart to never return to such a place again. 





It was raining this Monday just gone, as I dressed in a clean pair of trackie bottoms, flip flops, a vest and Cardie, and I tied up my curly hair in a ponytail, wondering if the cooling cap really would preserve enough hair to justify the discomfort of a frozen scalp. And then I waited with butterflies in my tummy for John to drive me the short journey to where I was about to be shown round the chemo unit where I will be receiving my treatment every three weeks for the next just under six months. 



A nice nurse called Abby showed us into a large airy room of cubicles with comfy chairs, and told me to have a go in one of them, and while John got to sit next to me on an uncomfy one, she asked me if I had any concerns. When I didn't, she explained about all possible side effects from the drugs I will be receiving, and it turns out I had some concerns after all. I freaked a bit when after having last week been told I'd be having my first treatment on Thursday, it was announced that I'd be starting instead, on Wednesday. The three drugs I will be having as a single dose next session and beyond, will be given this week on three separate days in order to check for adverse reactions, and where any occur, measures will be taken to ensure that no matter what, you still get the drugs. Lovely. I didn't want them. 



But I am in considerable pain these days, which helps me to realize the necessity of what I'm about to go through, so yesterday I turned up at the centre as planned and a nice nurse called Catherine tried to stick a cannula in my hand, but it didn't work, so another nurse, equally nice, took a turn with an equal lack of luck. An orderly queue was then formed and in the end the last nice nurse - Abby, was able to find a vein in my wrist, and business was resumed. In went a bag of saline - not too bad, then an antihistamine - Piriton, and after short break to allow it to work, the main drug was given for that day - Pertuzumab. Apart from being totally zonked out on the antihistamine, there were no serious side effects. So it's onwards and hopefully upwards. Came home like a zombi and slept it off.





Today is Thursday. I think it's raining again, but it's hard to tell as it's so bright in this white painted cheerful room where normal looking people are sitting mostly in twos, one in a treatment chair receiving their own individual cocktail of poison - the other, a mate to keep the poisoned one company - and eat their share of sandwiches. The antihistamine made me a bit tired, but not crashed like yesterday, and today's drug is Herceptin, which I am tolerating quite well, so far... It takes two hours to go in, and afterwards I will have to stay another four hours to check for reactions. I've been talking to a lovely lady called Margaret who is on her penultimate session. She has done so well throughout her treatment, and I found talking to her a great encouragement. Not looking forward to chemo tomorrow, but a packet of crisps later and a gorgeous slice of carrot cake made and brought in by another comfy chair user, whose name I didn't catch on account of being asleep when she left me the cake, so far, so good. They say you can expect to put weight on during chemo. I'm beginning to suspect this has less to do with the drugs than I'd previously thought.



I spoke to my mother when I got home from yesterday's session. She called me her brave girl, but I'm not brave, and when this phase of my life is over, I will leave here for the last time with a vow in my heart never (nice though it may be) to set foot in this place again.



Chemo tomorrow!