Cancer in a time of Covid

We're all living in a shrinking world. My world seems to have shrunk faster than most. A few months ago, even in lockdown, I could go for long walks, and I was still working full time from home - so that even if my body didn't leave the sofa, my mind did.

Now, in the middle of chemo, I'm stuck inside, with not much to do, and even less energy to do it. I try to get out for a walk each day but the most I've managed in the last week is around the meadow across the road, and I haven't felt up to it every day. (One of the side effects of the drugs I'm taking is sensitivity to cold, so the weather hasn't helped.)

I've been trying to do a few small things each day - a phone call or a little bit of cooking - but then I have to rest up. I've always been active - someone who keeps going - and it's frustrating to say the least. I'm so envious of friends whose photos of long winter walks fill my Facebook feed.

I keep wondering what it would be like if there wasn't Covid, or I didn't have cancer. 

I know that I've been lucky not to have had any delays to tests or treatment because of Covid. And no-one close to me has had to be hospitalised because of Covid. And my mother, who is 90, is still in her own home and so we've been able to go on seeing her and providing care. And I get regular outings to the hospital - yay!

But I'm still longing for the day when I can go for a walk, or wander round the shops, or sit in a cafe, or just spend time with people.

On the plus side, it's now two weeks since I had my first dose of the vaccine which means my immunity should be on the up - though not taking any chances yet!

Last week was chemo treatment 3. For the first time, I managed to have all three drugs, although only half the normal dose of irinotecan, the one I reacted to previously.

Everything went OK this time, which was a relief, and after a couple of weeks with no chemo, it was good to get going again. 

I'm beginning to see the pattern in how I react and recover and know what to expect.

On the day of treatment, I come home with a pump attached to the line in my arm. This stays on for 48 hours and delivers the final drug (fluorouracil) at a very slow rate. It looks bizarrely like a baby's bottle with a filled condom inside which very slowly deflates...

So sleeping the first night is always a bit tricky - the pump has to be tucked behind my pillow and I need to remember not to roll over and strangle myself with the line. To be honest that first night, I think my body is just dealing with too many chemicals to let me have any sleep.

The other main sympton at this stage is the 'pins and needles' from oxaliplatin. I also get numbness in my face which the oncologist thinks is due to the same drug. Both are made worse by the cold - so I have to remember to run a tap until it's warm, and not to drink water that's too cold.

They give me extra anti-sickness meds and steroids to take for the first three days post-chemo, and these seem to give me enough of a buzz to tide me over the worst of the tiredness to begin with. The pump comes off on day 3, hurrah!

But then, just when I think I should be starting to feel better, things get harder. Tiredness, nausea, and generally just feeling crap. I've been trying to keep some kind of routine to give my days some structure but it's hard, physically and mentally. Roll on the spring, when I might be able to sit outside.

Around this time my sense of taste disappears for anything at all subtle, and instead my mouth feels like it's been rinsed out with chemicals. Curry and marmite are the order of the day.

By a week after treatment day, I begin to feel a tiny bit more energy. Physically, the nausea begins to fade and symptoms move further down the digestive tract. (Thank goodness I'm always sent home with plenty of immodium...)

And just as I'm beginning to feel a bit more 'normal' again, it's back to the clinic for a blood test, a Covid swab and then the whole thing starts again.

All being well, chemo 4 is due next week. And as the plan is to do around 12 treatments, that means I should be a third of the way there. That feels good.

This blog is dedicated to everyone struggling with a shrinking world.