All we hear is... Radiotherapy (wait, that's not right is it?)
It has now been six and a half weeks since my last chemotherapy session and boy-oh-boy has it been a bit crazy here. Some very lovely things have happened; I went to a friend's abso-ma-lutely beautiful wedding where I may have had a bit too much fun (shout out to my saviours Laura and Fi, you know what you did and I am still eternally grateful) and I managed to attend Belmont and Carey Youth Camp (an annual camp that I have been attending since the age of ten) - a massive thank you to everyone at camp this year for putting up with my constant need to nap and pretending not to see any tearful/tired dramatic episodes that I had, I genuinely love you all.I'm sorry to report, however, that it hasn't all been rainbows and sunshine since chemotherapy ended all those weeks ago; my main issue has been that the side effects still don't know when to quit. Naively I thought that they would be gone within a few weeks and me and my stubbly head would be skipping off into the sunset. Nope. What actually happened was my eyes remained sore, I remained incredibly tired, and my hair (and nails!) stubbornly refused to grow back. Things stayed that way until about two weeks ago, when I started to see a light at the end of the incredibly long chemotherapy tunnel. And you know what? Two weeks ago I started radiotherapy, which comes along with its own side effects. So basically big shout out to my body: you suck.
One other not so great thing that has come out of this is that I am currently experiencing terrible symptoms pertaining to the menopause. If you are male and would rather not hear about 'lady things' then please feel free to skip this paragraph; to be honest I would if I could too, it is incredibly depressing. Basically I am hot flushing/night sweating all over the place and as a lady that already wears a wig it is an incredibly sweaty experience. The main issue with this is that I don't know if it is a temporary menopause (which is common with the chemotherapy that I received) or if it is permanent - permanent obviously means I can kiss goodbye to my dreams of getting pregnant without medical intervention. I don't want to dwell on it as it makes me cry A LOT and I can only wait and see. My fingers are crossed so bloody hard right now. The reason I'm telling you lovely people this (which some may consider TMI - apologies to those people) is for those that have me on Facebook or Instagram: please don't roll your eyes when I share a photo of any of my nieces and nephews doing something incredibly mundane and rave about how cute they are, I can tell you it will happen a lot more. You have been warned.
So that's all for the rubbish news, folks! Who wants to read some mildly hilarious stories about my radiotherapy adventure? All of you? Well read on!
On Monday 11th September I rocked up to Mount Vernon for the first of my eighteen radiotherapy sessions. Eighteen! I know, right? Pretty intense! I already had my little tattooed dots on my chest so I was good to go. It's not a particularly interesting experience - I lay on a little movable table with my arms up above my head and then two radiographers adjust my top half so that I'm in the exact place that I need to be (they fire little laser beams at me so that they can work this out, it's incredibly high tech!). After that they leave the room, shut me in, and then the machine rotates around me firing the radiotherapy rays from above and below. Ta dah! In total I'm in there for about ten minutes, it's all incredibly speedy. But do you want to know the one catch in it all is? I'm topless throughout. Completely. Those poor radiographers have the unenviable task of not only seeing big boob and little boob (like those? I named them all by myself) they also have to touch me to move me into the exact place that they need me to be. They are incredibly lovely about it and I know they do it all day everyday but when it's you laying there I have to admit you do feel incredibly self conscious. I like to stare at the ceiling and pretend I'm on a topless beach somewhere hot, it doesn't work at all but I keep trying.
The one moment that makes me chuckle to myself when I think about it was last week: the machine stopped midway through my radiotherapy so they had to bring a little man in (who I hope was a mechanic, they never actually told me? Eeesh). I was laying there, topless as usual, but they obviously forgot about that (and so did I to be honest) until one of them ran at me and covered me over with the world's tiniest paper towel. It did the job but I'm now worried that I have scarred that poor man for life - if you're reading this, little man who may or may not be a mechanic, then please accept my deepest apologies. Radiotherapy, eh? Whoever said it wasn't the most fun you'll ever have is clearly a liar.
There you have it blog fans, that brings you up to speed with my life. All I have left to tell you is that my boob hurts and I'm incredibly tired, but I'm also waiting to turn into Spiderman - that's how it works, right? I am living the dream!
Love, Meg xx
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