Up Schitt's Creek (but with a paddle)

Two days ago I had my first cycle of chemotherapy.

The good news is that a) I am still here – no massive, instant allergic reactions to the drugs which was, perhaps inevitably, one dark scenario that played out in my mind in the quietest hours of the night b) so far, I am feeling ok. That is largely thanks to the massive doses of steroids that I am on to hold the side effects back, but frankly, I’ll take each good hour as a win for now, thank you very much.

There is no denying it – I felt super nervous before my first chemotherapy session, as shared in my last blog. So many unknowns, so much uncertainty – both how I might react, but also what to expect on the day. Although some parts of this journey feel strangely familiar from seeing my mum through breast cancer, she didn’t have chemotherapy. This was unchartered water.

But in the end, it was in many ways easier than I was expecting.

I had a picc line fitted the day before – and long soft tube that is inserted into a vein in my upper arm, and is fed down to just above my heart. This makes the giving of chemo and taking of bloods easier over the coming months and all being well, will help me to avoid collapsed veins and other complications that could interfere with my chemo schedule.

I won’t lie, I was really nervous before having it inserted and it was not a procedure that I found comfortable, psychologically or physically. But in so many ways it made my first chemotherapy session much easier. By the time I showed up on Tuesday morning, I had crossed the start line. I was already on my way. Plus having a picc line makes the whole process of administering the drugs so much more straightforward and I felt grateful for having one.

My first day of chemo was long and draining – 9.5 hours in total. Four drugs, one at a time, with a gap between to observe for possible reactions…

Think long haul flight but with a slightly more comfortable seat (certainly than I am used to flying with). Instead of being offered a gin and tonic and a limp cheese sandwich at 10.30am, you are being given an intravenous cancer-beating (fingers crossed) toxic drug cocktail. And, rather than your destination being some tropical beach paradise your short-term destination is more likely to be a number of days in your crumpled bed accompanied by a vomit bowl. But what carries you through is the deep understanding that your longed for ultimate destination is far more beguiling than any paradise beach could ever be – the possibility of some sort of a life resumed, hell no – let’s aim for a life even better lived, out of the shadow of cancer. Slightly like buying a mystery holiday package, you have no idea where your treatment journey is headed – will you get the tropical paradise beach villa or be the mug allocated a half built flea-pit on the Costa del Tack? There are simply no guarantees, but the treatment is my best chance, and I am pleased to at least be on the flight.

The staff were excellent – attentive, efficient and gentle - and you realise very quickly that while an extraordinary day for you, this is just another very ordinary day in the life of a chemotherapy unit. In many ways this was deeply reassuring. It felt somehow 'normal'.

But in other ways, there is simply nothing like entering a chemo suite, a room where everyone is ill, to really drive it home - right between the eyes - that you have cancer. If there was any bit of me that was still clinging to denial (and there clearly was), then round one of chemotherapy cleared that out, quite brutally. I had expected to feel extremely nervous (in the end I wasn’t), I had expected to feel ill (I didn’t much – just during one drug), but for some strange reason I had not expected to feel sad.

On this, I was wrong. I felt quite suddenly desperately sad that this is my new reality. But as with the multitude of emotions experienced on this journey, in my book it is important to feel, acknowledge and sit with them all as they bubble up. Only by doing so can I really move through this consciously – something I am absolutely committed to doing.

And I also knew that while good to acknowledge its presence, I did not want to settle in with sadness. To get through such a gruelling day I needed light-hearted entertainment to take me to another place. I had solicited ideas for podcasts before my session, and several of these stood me in great stead through the hours, but, my absolute life-saver was my new secret lockdown pleasure - Schitt’s Creek. Endless episodes of light laughs, just 20 minutes long (which gave me an ‘episode-yard stick’ by which to countdown each drug), and most importantly, which made me chuckle out loud – possibly much to the irritation of my next-door neighbour.

Thank you Schitt’s Creek, you were truly my paddle through the initial chemotherapy waters.

By the end of the day, although wrung out and exhausted, I felt a deep sense of relief – relief that it was finished (one down, five to go), relief that things had gone ok and relief that we have started the treatment. We have successfully taken the first step on next stage of this odyssey. I take none of those steps for granted and so feel thankful.

Since then I have so far not felt too bad, but am aware I am currently dosed up on steroids to protect me from the worst of the side effects – making me feel a heady combination of, yes, desperately fatigued but also super wired. I have been warned that although everyone is different, when I come off the steroids tomorrow I am likely to dip and to enter what is known in the trade as the ‘nadir’ for around 5 days...

I guess that will be hitting the rapids bit of this particular river trip…and so I am ready to hold on tight. But for now, I am at least grateful that the ride has started and the dreadful chemo-anticipation is over. We are on our way.