Finding Chemo.

What. A. Week.

I've just had a coffee and sugary cereal and now I am jumping on that caffeine/sugar high to write this post; once it wears off I'm pretty sure I'll be plunged back into the fiery pit of chemo side-effects so time is of the essence! This is my first post-chemo update and I promise I'll do my best to not be a martyr, but oh-my-word it has been a fully terrible week. So let's start where I left off, on the eve of my PICC line/chemo extravaganza...

I don't really have all that much to tell you about the PICC line insertion part and to be honest it's one of those experiences that you kind of have to go through yourself (which I genuinely hope you never have to) but for those of you who are staring blankly at that phrase, Macmillan have a brilliant summary for you:

"PICC lines (peripherally inserted central catheters) are used to give someone chemotherapy treatment or other medicines. A PICC line is a long, thin, flexible tube known as a catheter. It’s put into one of the large veins of the arm, above the bend of the elbow. It’s then threaded into the vein until the tip sits in a large vein just above the heart."

So yeah, I now have that beauty in my arm for the next eighteen weeks. It is currently covered with a pair of tights that I expertly cut to make sleeve-like; Warren says it makes me look like The Rock (google 'the rock elbow pads' and you'll see) so I guess every cloud, right? Once a week I have to trundle myself back to Mount Vernon hospital to get the line flushed and dressing changed, but other than that I can't say the PICC line has had much impact on my day-to-day life. Well, except for the fact that I have to wear an adult equivalent of a swimming armband over it when I want to wash - something for which I am grateful that only Warren has witnessed. Always wear your armbands when having a shower, kids.

Now onto the main event: the wonder that is chemotherapy.  At 09.30am last Wednesday Warren and I rocked up to Mount Vernon for my first dose. Joy. My chemotherapy medication is a mix of four different types (sometimes one is just not enough, you know?) and is collectively called FEC-T. This is pronounced 'feck tea' which is quite fitting as, due to the insane amount of nausea it caused, it is actually how I feel most evenings. The fact that it is four medications meant that it took a long old time to be given, in total I had two large syringes and two separate bags of medication all given veeery sloowwwly. On top of that I also opted to try their 'cold cap'; because there's some thought out there that if you cool the hair follicles during the treatment then you are less likely to go bald - to be honest I'll give anything a go that promises me I might keep my hair. And I'm talking anything. This had to be put on thirty minutes before treatment and then left on for an hour and a half afterwards. In total we were there for five and a half hours - a whole five and a half hours of my life that I'll never get back, amirite? So it was long, it was cold, and it was extremely boring. One plus is that they gave me coffee and sandwiches for free, nothing is bad when there's free food around. Also, big kudos to Warren for keeping me company throughout the whole process; he wasn't entitled to free sandwiches (that's clearly a cancer perk right there) but he did get free coffee.

Going back to the cold cap, Warren very nicely took a photo of me wearing that beaut for you all to see. If you ever thought I was in any way attractive before then please prepare yourself for something truly sensational - ladies and gents, I give you the cold cap:

I know, I know, but I promise you that is me. You're probably thinking that no one could ever look that attractive whilst receiving chemotherapy but I believe I have achieved just that. I'm pretty proud of myself I can tell you. As a side note though, that thing is bloody cold; I'm talking -3 degrees cold. So cold, in fact, that it affected my ability to concentrate until my head went spectacularly numb, this chemotherapy thing is super fun guys!

So chemotherapy finished and we went home, armed with two types of anti-sickness tablets, steroid tablets and injections I have to give myself to boost my immune system - the fun never ends! Very naive and non-experienced me felt absolutely fine that day and even went as far as to congratulate myself that I had this chemotherapy thing in the bag. I was so very wrong. When I look back now I could actually laugh at my naivety, I had no clue what I was getting into and how reliant on those tablets I would be. The day after treatment the chemotherapy fairies visited and gave me lovely gifts which included (but were not limited to): I-can't-get-off-the-sofa-to-pee fatigue, oh-my-gosh-I-can't-even-think-about-a-kitchen nausea, my-problems-are-the-worst-contest-winning tearful episodes, and my-brain-is-waking-me-up-at-night-to-tell-me-I-have-a-headache headaches. Put those all together and you have a delightful recipe for the worst week of your life - just trust me on that one, OK?

Now I just want to take a break from wallowing in self-pity to say a few thank yous. Basically thank you to everyone that sent me support after my last "woe is me" blog post; you all got me out of my slump and I love you all for that, keep being awesome OK? The second is another big thank you for each and every one of you who has sent me lovely, supportive messages this week. Human beings are amazing, caring things and I cannot thank you all enough. I will never ever be fed up of receiving messages from you all, so thanks team. If you ever need me then I hope I can repay the favour back to you, just try not to make it anytime in this eighteen weeks, alright? I'm a bit busy making a big deal out of my own issues at the minute.

This is a pretty long update, I'm very sorry about that and I am coming to an end soon; I kind of have to end soon anyway, the nausea monster is looming and he wants to play our favourite game of 'how sick do you have to feel before you live in the toilet'. It's a brilliant game, I thoroughly recommend it to all. From speaking to my mum the other day she likened my symptoms to that of particularly nasty morning sickness; except my baby is chemo obviously (not a very common choice of name for a baby I have to admit). To all you ladies who went/are going through that: I salute you. You got this, morning sickness experiencing pregnant women. If a whiny person like me can get through it then so can you! Roll on the next two weeks until I have to cycle through it all again, I cannot wait!

So now I will say goodbye; me and my aforementioned monster are off to nap.
He's also a brilliant big spoon.

Love, Meg xx

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Let's talk about eggs (a bit more), baby... Oh and feelings.

Surprise blog post!

Now, I am fully aware that in my last post I told you all that you would next hear from me after my first chemotherapy treatment on Wednesday. But fear not blog team - I haven't gone mad or got addicted to posting (just yet), there is a point to this extra edition I promise. This post is a two part-er: the first part is an important addition that I forgot to mention last time, the second part is me using you all as my counselling method. Apologies in advance about that, just a warning that there may be a discussion around 'feelings'. Yuck. I won't be upset if you just read the first part, OK?

Part One

Following the last post my very supportive and lovely fiance, Warren, informed me that I had not mentioned his side of the whole egg harvesting day. He would like you all to know about his experience of being the other half of our awesome embryo-creating duo. So here goes. Don't worry though, I'm not going to go into a lot of detail - unless you want me to? In that case please message me, you total weirdo.

So after I had returned from my brilliant nap in theatre, Warren was then taken off to what the staff actually called the "little boys' room". I'm not making it up, they actually referred to it as that. Weird right? He was then given a pot and told to "do his thang" (they didn't say that, although I really wish they had). He did just that, gave them the pot back and now here we are.

Right now, I can imagine you all thinking that you really wish you could see what the "little boys' room" looked like. Am I right? Well, lucky for you people, Warren actually took it upon himself to take a photo to show you all. Prepare yourselves for something truly epic:

Yes! That is it! Please make sure you have fully admired the pad on the chair (just in case of spillage) and the who-knows-how-old magazines. Unfortunately I can't post the photo of the TV that he sent me as some options on it were a bit rudey and graphic, but please believe me that they cater for everyone - does Eastenders turn you on? Or maybe Neighbours? Well that's good because they've given you BBC iPlayer and Demand5 (along with a vast array of X-rated content I might add), what a truly weird world. Warren, when you read this, I hope you think that I did your experience justice; I tried to be super serious but it's hard when you send me photos like that!

So that concludes part one and both our experiences of the fertility clinic; I hope that all the men out there never have to sit in a glorified cupboard and produce a sample, but if you have to then I hope that you also have the joy of BBC iPlayer. It's the least I can do.

Part Two

Switch off now if you don't like feelings! You have been warned!

This evening I felt compelled to write a blog post as a way of getting my head straight; it feels like I'm standing on a ledge right now and when I step off I'll never be able to go back. That sounds overly dramatic and not like me at all, but it's how I'm feeling this evening. By starting chemotherapy (not that I have a choice) I feel like I am saying goodbye to many things; there's the replaceable things like my hair and my social life of course, but then there's also the possibility of losing irreplaceable things like my fertility which is very important to me. Long term there's also the fact that I'm fully aware that having cancer at the age of 27 means that there's the possibility it could come back at any point in my life and I have to go through all this again. Which at the moment is something I can't even think about.

So there you have it, that is my mood this evening. I have to say that when I write it all down I'm aware that it makes me sound incredibly whiny and needy, so I'm sorry about that. Reading it back has also made me decide to stop feeling sorry for myself so there will be no more discussions of feelings. It also helps that I'm watching The Little Mermaid as I write this; I've never watched that movie and felt sad, I highly recommend it as a pick me up.

Tomorrow is my PICC line insertion day and then Wednesday is chemotherapy day; I don't want to go into too much detail about those here as a) I don't really want to think about them right now and b) if I tell you now then I won't have anything to write about later, will I? So tune in next time for a summary of those epic appointments. I promise I will have cheered up by then; I bloody hope so anyway, if not I will be having a Disney movie marathon and a stern talk with myself.

Love Meg xx

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Let's talk about eggs, baby...

Welcome back!

Now I know you've all been anxiously checking my blog to see if I have posted another thrilling update on the medical journal that is my life - well congratulations! Today is that day! Make yourselves comfy (and maybe pour yourselves a drink) because you're in for a pretty long tale...

Last time I posted I was midway through my injections and scans, which feels like a hundred years ago now, this post is to tell you all that we have now gone through the whole fertility journey and out the other side. Phew! It has been an extremely long and emotional ride, one which I will try to summarise for you on a day-by-day basis, here goes:

Monday
This was the big, long-awaited 'egg collection' day. At 8.45am we rocked up to the fertility clinic in St Paul's (London, if anyone reading this isn't from the UK - in which case a big hello to you wherever you are, I hope the weather's lovely). Now, I really don't want to tell you in detail how eggs are harvested; it is a particularly 'intimate' procedure and I don't really want you to have to picture it. You're welcome. If you desperately want to know then here's a copy and pasted version from the 'Egg Donor Information Project' website (https://web.stanford.edu/class/siw198q/websites/eggdonor/procedures.html):

"Eggs are retrieved from the donor through transvaginal ultrasound aspiration, a surgical procedure performed under conscious sedation. (See figure below). Using a tube attached to an ultrasound probe, a physician guides a suctioning needle into each ovary and removes mature oocytes from the follicles."

There you go, I couldn't have put it better myself. From my perspective all I know is that I went to the operating theatre, had a truly awesome nap and when I woke up I was missing some eggs. Eight eggs to be exact. I don't know if that is a good number and to be honest I don't care if it wasn't, that was just how many they harvested. Then we went home. 
And that concludes Monday's adventure.

Tuesday
On this day I received a phone-call to tell me how the fertilisation of my eggs was coming along. I'm warning you now, this was a bad day.
Apparently my eggs had already started to show cells dividing; I'm sure that you think, as I also thought - "Well that's great news, right?" Wrong. It was then explained to me that this doesn't normally happen until day 2, if it happens on day 1 then often it means that they are abnormal or unlikely to get to the stage where they are able to be frozen. So in summary, I potentially would have zero embryos in their giant freezer. Needless to say, many tears were shed that day. The clinic said they would 'sit' on my embryos for a few days before discarding them, just in case. That's nice of them, isn't it?

Thursday
Another phone-call today, for someone who hates talking on the phone this week has been particularly taxing! During this particular call I was informed that four of my eight embryos actually appeared to be doing what they were meant to (finally!) and two of them looked very likely to be able to be frozen on day 5. Now I know that doesn't sound like many but as I was expecting to be told that they'd all have to be disposed of this was good news. No tears were shed this day, which was pretty good as the crying stuff was starting to make me a bit dehydrated if I'm honest.

Today 
Apologies for the long story, it's coming to an end I promise! Today I received a final phone-call letting me know that out of the four promising-ish embryos, they were able to freeze two. I feel like I should be highly disappointed about this outcome but weirdly I feel super relieved that it's over and I have anything in the freezer at all. That's enough embryos for one transfer cycle, so for now that's enough. I may not need them at all (which would be amazing) but they are there just in case. If it's meant to be it will happen, right?

There ends my fertility clinic journey (hopefully forever, but who knows?) next step - chemotherapy. It just keeps getting better and better! My first dose is scheduled for the 19th April, so a week on Wednesday. Again, instead of being worried I've surprised myself by just being relieved that's it's starting. The quicker it starts then the quicker it ends and I for one cannot wait to see what I look like with a shiny, bald head. That's a joke, I'm currently having daily pep talks with my hair and begging it not to leave me!

So in summary, I would make a terrible chicken. In fact, I probably would be the kind of chicken that graces your dinner table rather than sits there laying eggs. Lucky old me!

Tune in next time for the not depressing at all update about chemotherapy. I promise to be cheerful if you promise to read it. Deal?

Love, Meg xx

P.S. Liking my story? Why not follow or subscribe by email below? I promise I won't bombard you with lots of blog posts, I'm strictly a every few weeks kinda gal.