Two weeks ago chemotherapy laid me out; it made me sick (although some of that was a bit of medication adjustment needed), my bones and muscles ached and I was completely exhasuted. The weekend of chemotherapy was basically meant a lost one. And not in any sort of fun way.
The second weekend of chemotherapy has been far more managable. In fact, I've pretty much sailed through it. Yes I've been tired, and the steroids are a disaster sleep wise but we also completed a successful (and obscenely expensive) trip to Waitrose (I'm much too ill for Sainsburys), had a lovely long dog walk and I've made brownies, cheese scones and a cherry cake, oh and squeezed a sharp new bob into the mix (haircut). All good.
To back-track to Friday night...
On Friday night I attempted to exorcise my steroid demon through a relaxation app, Tibetan monk chants, and yogic breathing - did I mention the resurggence of my inner-hippy? I managed to avoid whacking Al in the face but by 2am the gentle and holistic techniques were out the window and some sleeping pills were required. A blunter tool but pretty essential. I could feel my limbs twitching and buzzing and thoughts were racing through my head randomly and annoyingly.
|Not relaxing enough for me.|
However this didn't destroy Saturday. Al managed to keep Rosie under-control (this is a major achievement) and I went back to sleep for an hour. So the day was recovered and had a lovely walk with the dog, and the chemotherapy.
|Al says this is a hand grenade. I say it goes in the washing machine. Men are from Mars...|