So: the surgeons cast me forth back into the hurley-burley. The after-effects of the op were not too bad: little discomfort except that the bowel seemed to have become two: not surprising, really, as, in fact, it had. The main bit still merrily churned away with its peristalsis, but the signal telling the next bit to do something with it were missing. Result: confusion. Still, it sorted itself out after a few weeks and I was getting quite relaxed when I received a letter from the Oncology department, inviting me in for a ‘chat’.
I’ve always been a bit chary about medical ‘chats’: they normally presage bad news… This one was no exception. The lovely lady oncologist told me that the cancer had penetrated the colon wall and spread to several lymph nodes, and that I needed to undergo a course of chemotherapy.
‘OK’, I thought ‘a few doses of nasty drugs to zap any little spreaders nestling elsewhere in my bloodstream: not a problem.’ Yep: TWELVE cycles of 2 weeks each, being dosed up with masses of nasty drugs. Great. Another six months out of my life…
The first cycle was remarkably unthreatening: No sickness, minimal tiredness, no other bad effects other than mild constipation. The major issues was the dichotomy between what the oncology team said was available for support and what the District Nurses could actually provide. Still: we sorted it out in the end…
The second cycle was rather more traumatic: mad (and painful) constipation, mild feelings of sickness, changes in taste and constant tiredness. I hope that future cycles don’t get worse by a similar increment…