When 6 months seems like 6 years

Chemotherapy is getting harder. Last week was the toughest yet and when things feel tough my whole world is dominated by how I feel physically. On these days, I stay in bed, unable to hold my book and too fed up to listen to mindless drivel of daytime radio, or seek out something worthwhile.

• I feel extremely tired, yet relaxation is nearly impossible; I feel wired
• It feels like my body is flooded with unnatural chemistry; I feel desolate
• Sickness is all-pervading and I lose my appetite; I refuel rather than eat
• Diarrhoea is constant and it saps my strength; I take more medicine
• My mouth is sore and my tongue snuggles beneath it's thick yellow blanket; I only taste metal
• Enough of pipes, bags, scars, lumps and bumps that weren't there before; I just want to be me
• Slow down early-ageing skin, hair and nails; I feel like someone else

The physical side effects are amplified by the dark veil of depression, masochistically welcomed like an old friend. I know him - he can help to slow me down and enforce rest which helps the fading immune system, but he also colludes with the mind making things appear worse than they really are. Here there be dragons.

And I lose that positive edge: how can I manage to do another 8 sessions if they just keep coming harder and harder?  The path gets steeper with each dose. Maybe I'm not strong enough to complete this impossibly long journey? Maybe it won't work?

She knows when I lose my grip, but she doesn't let on. Her fear and concern is disguised by short temper and quick anger and complaints about little things - she doesn't know how to cope; none of us know how to cope. She hates to see me suffer whilst feeling helpless.

But all this unpleasantness unmasks itself: the fizzy diarrhoea; the day-glo piss; the clanking mental headache; the acid reflux and the burnt-out exhaustion. It feels very artificial and unnatural, electro-chemical, metallic and it isn't me. Somewhere, deep inside, my spirit spots this and corrects the mental course away from oblivion. Even though I still feel yeuch, over the next few days I make a conscious effort to get up, get out and deeply breath the life-giving air and expose myself to the elements. I yearn space, air, beauty, nature and I tolerate loperimide and domperidom to keep the side effects at bay. I get some phone calls and text messages from neglected blog-followers and two visits from two good friends who become my gurus for the week.

On Saturday morning I wrap up warm and watch Henry play football on Victory Fields. I warm my tingly hands on a bacon roll (my own chicken soup for the soul) and a piping hot cup of coffee. This is the first match I have watched this season and they mark up a 5-0 victory (just for me!) One of the gurus magically appears on the side line and bullies Sarah and I into a party this evening which we have definitely decided we can't attend. But, we do, just for an hour and a half and it is great to feel like a normal couple; especially good to see Sarah smiling, relaxed, care-free, happy. So good, in fact that she requires a substantial lie-in on Sunday - much to the amusement of her non-drinking family! This is the first time we have been out together since July - and I can see how much she needs this.

Yesterday, I took Sarah Christmas shopping. We didn't do much shopping but we had coffee and lunch together, alone and unencumbered by I want and drugs. I bought some jeans (none of my clothes fit any more) - and Sarah said I look better than ever. Crap to A1 in just a few days - this must be a good sign of my immune system recovering.

Today - I feel great, on top of the world. Even the bad taste which has been colouring everything I have eaten and drunk for the past 12 days has gone. I am so elated to feel this good again, the ills I have written about above seem like a distant memory. I had a swine flu jab this morning and a serious haircut. I am ready....

... bring on chemo session 5 - I can take it (just don't ask me how I am on Friday!)