Half Life - 63 - brutal truth

Half Life – 63 – brutal truth

January 14th, 2022

Taking down the Christmas decorations gave a better view when sitting in the garden room, the unobstructed windows allowing a new perspective on the life out there. Artificial optimism generated by the Christmas tree lights gave way to the real light of winter, with its greys and dark whites of the clouds. Sun breaks in every now and again, filling the room with its yellow glow. It lingers a while, adding to the warmth from the heated floor which makes the room such a deeply comfortable place to sit, look out from, and think about the world. The birds at the back of the house are busier, and a lot prettier, that the grubby pigeons that have taken over the front. Splashes of colour as the blue and great tits flit about from tree to tree, with our resident great spotted woodpecker bashing away near them providing a sense of energy and life.

As winter’s dim glow took over the garden, the brutal light of medical reality joined in. Driving in the gloom to the afternoon clinic the expected, but not wanted, news forced a shift in perspective. The final confirmation came that the trial drugs were not working. Stark in black and white on the screen, the bones scan revealed Nobby had continued to grow in the marrow and this flavour of chemo has failed to kick him in the balls as had been intended. He had side-stepped it, again. Other blood tests came in either too high or too low, depending on the worst state they could be in. No point continuing pumping in nasty chemicals for no reason, so it’s been stopped. The medics are moving me to a brand of chemo Nobby, and I, have not had before with the hope he will not be able to counteract it, at least for a while.

The brutal truth is this is pretty much the last of the treatments offered on the menu and requires a re-start of the entire chemo cycle process. Looking ahead to ten cycles, each one the usual three weeks adventure, if we kick off soon and do all of them, will see me fly through the summer and come to an end July or early August. There was always going to be a last step, a final roll of the dice, and a need to accept that this one may not work either. From the moment of diagnosis this moment has been there, waiting in the wings for its turn to come. It prompts revision of all the preparations made a couple of years ago and carefully filed away. Decisions, once postponed, return to the table covering changes needed to the house as my mobility reduces and the cancer, deep in the bones, stops me doing things. Stairs already take time and watching me get up them scares The Wife so much she refuses to look. It has led to a discussion about stair lifts and, as is typical of our house, the stairs are the wrong shape and a standard one won’t fit.

Gently re-opening the conversation about treatments with The Boys over dinner brought sad eyes and silence. The trial had offered hope and they were intrigued by the whole mystery of the process. Its failure and the sense of urgency to get me into a different treatment was not possible to hide. Trying to focus on the opportunity of the new medicine, as well as the proximity of the clinic I’ll be sent to, did little to reduce their anxiety.  Even JJ the dog sensed the transformation in house mood and became very cuddly. She renders it impossible to have a private hug with the Wife as a little wet nose inserts itself between us the minute we get close. It’s gorgeous until the tongue starts flicking out, forcing us to pull back to avoid a full, fish smelling, face wash.

Tiny silver linings emerge at the edges of the winter clouds. A short break in treatment allows foods into the diet which need to be avoided when immunosuppressed. Simple things like runny eggs or a rare steak. A bottle of red wine, if the furry mouth reduces to where it no longer makes it taste of metal, might even be possible. Just a fraction of the taste and experience would do wonders to stimulate distant memories. Add in some prawns and pâté and things would really be looking up.

The morning after talking The Boys through the change in plan, the anchoring of a normal school day helps. Waking up at the same time as them, staying in bed listening to their routine take over, brings vitality into the house. The clatter of the bathroom, lights going on, breakfast shouting, and frantic searching for whatever they have just remembered they’ll need for school, pulls me into their world. The coffee I get to drink sitting up in bed, listening to the radio, as the house springs to life around me is a daily treat; a gentle route into the day which combines with my love of seeing the dawn rise through open curtains.

Ignoring the grim reality of what this final pathway means is impossible, dealing with it will be harder. The cancer journey drives onwards relentlessly, with its surprises, disappointments, shifts and changes. Its combination of fear and optimism is similar to other re-starts but linked to the knowledge that it is final.  The question comes down to, is it going to be worth it? The ride will be rough, the result unknown. The birds in the garden are still busy, filling the trees with bustle and movement. The freedom they have, flitting and scurrying from branch to branch, reminds me to get up and move around. Sitting in a chair all day is tempting but should be avoided for as long as physically possible.