Monthly Archives: March 2013


It would appear that on Thursday, I cared enough about this to start writing a blog about it, for I just found this in my phone. I will share it with you now, but I have a feeling that my anger, may have been steroid induced and this blog acts as a good example of my personal and irrational steroid rage rather than a social commentary about bureaucracy within the NHS. You decide. It does seem like a strange thing to get annoyed about, but I can occasionally be ‘hot headed’.

So here it is, a rant, apparently…

I have experienced the NHS in all it’s glory since I was diagnosed. I have received some very expensive drugs, been scanned so that there are now no secrets and had cement put in my back. I love the NHS.

That said, today, I have rocked up for my treatment as I have done 40 times before and I was told that for the time I am in Daycare, all 90 minutes of it, I have to wear a patient tag. Apparently, some review body said that it is compulsory. What an absolute load of Codswallop. Nobody looked at it. I knew they wouldn’t. It’s just an extra thing for me to remove when I get home along with the cotton wool on my veins.


I cannot understand how this is going to improve my care or indeed anybody else’s on the second floor. Does this review body actually contain Medically Trained People? You are wasting my time.

So, that was indeed a rant. I could hide from it, but part of me finds it incredibly funny how angry being temporarily branded by the NHS made me. There must be bigger things for people to care about… Like, faster treatment and better corned beef sandwiches, perhaps?

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.


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Smoking Hot

These hot flushes are becoming outrageous. Actually outrageous. In fact, their ability to interrupt my life is ridiculous. I am currently sleeping, correction, trying to sleep, in a room with an open window when it is 2 degrees outside and there is an electric fan directed at my person and still I awake with moist crevices. And it is literally, every crevice.

I wanted for myself, a 12 hour sleep tonight, but what has actually happened, is that I have just woken up for the seventh time, with a sweaty crown, wondering whether it is possible to fry an egg on my arm. It would appear that I am constantly thinking about whether it is possible to fry an egg on my arm. Hooray for hot flushes. You have come thirty years early. Thanks.

The Medically Trained People do not know why I am having these hot flushes. As they have got progressively worse over the last fortnight, I definitely complained about it this week, despite knowing that complaining about it could have caused a delay in my treatment. It is bothering me that much. They don’t know what it is, whether it is a side effect of my current treatment or the fake menopause or both. They have done tests. Frankly, I do not care, I would just like to go through the night and not wake up in the morning smelling like an Orangina and onion mix.

A girl doesn’t need much.

What I found so great about the hot flush is that in the grand scheme of things, and I know the scheme, it is a relatively minor side effect, that has an amazing ability to disrupt my life with the greatest of ease. The flushes have even started to sneak up on me during the day, which is less than ideal when one is wearing a wig and trying to look attractive. I know I am hot, but really, the rosy cheeks and sweaty sheen is too much. Too much to bear. I can feel the nights of interrupted sleep start to take their toll, I can feel an ever so slight hint of grumpiness… See?

So, anonymous Facebook friend, always complaining (whinging) about minor medical ailments, and again I see this evening. I will take your cough and ‘pulled muscles’ or whatever it is today, and raise you a tenner. Myeloma trumps everything. Even if it is just a hot flush.

Sleep, sleep, I want to go to sleep. I just really, really, really, really, want to sleep, and I guess, wake up dry.


A Smoking Hot, EJB x

Sizzle, sizzle.

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Retail Therapy

Cancer does not make you wise. That’s a secret we don’t like to admit to, but it’s true. Cancer does not mean that you stop making mistakes or the occasional error in judgement. I am fortunate, that I am practically perfect in everyday, but that does still leave some room for, you know, the occasional lapse in judgement.

It would be fair to say that I had a lapse in judgement last week. I knew it was coming. I had shaved off my hair and I was feeling weak. All so very weak. I needed a pick me up. I could feel it clawing away at my psyche, telling me that I needed to look better, but more crucially, that I could easily look better if only I invested a bit of time and money. The problem here however, is that I have no money. I do however have a credit card and my, do I know how it use it. It is also apparent that I have absolutely no self control. The excellent part about whatever came over me last Saturday afternoon, is that I did it all from the comfort of Mamma Jones’ sofa. No walking around shops for me. I can’t do that anyway. I have myeloma.

To be clear, ‘all’ means quite a lot of purchases with fake money. It is people like me who make this economy work. Cancer patients. Well, maybe not, I think there is a hole in my logic. We buy on credit and then have no hope of ever paying it back. In your face Barclays. In your face. Hello new stuff.

This week, there has been a steady flow of parcels coming to my front door. It has been lovely. Fake money and immense guilt aside, I have received, two pairs of shoes, two dresses, two skirts, a top, four pairs of earrings, two necklaces and a wig. There may well be the odd thing that is still outstanding, but only time will tell. Or Royal Mail.

Just look how pretty it all is.

I know it is wrong, but I feel so much better. I know that all this stuff will vastly improve my quality of life. It makes me hotter than I was before, and I know that I have the ability to be hot, even with my current, generous display of scalp. This new stuff, is going to make you tell me that you are in love with me, because you are. I can sense it.

In short, the retail therapy worked. It worked in Pretty Woman didn’t it? She may have been a prostitute, but I have myeloma. I deserved it more than she did, but I only had a credit card to hand. The spree made me stronger. I have new stuff. And as my six year old niece told me today, I am so ‘fash-ON’. She is wise, all so very wise. Probably wiser than me, but I can be forgiven. I have cancer don’t you know.

And that is my cancer card played for the week. Or maybe month, if something else does not come along to upset me.


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An Altruistic Act Of Friendship

Attention, Attention, Attention!

It has finally happened.

I am not talking about me losing my hair, that was a week ago, but finally, after months of careful planning and fundraising, the dear sweet, Iana Peppiatt has finally shaved off his hair. His long, hippy like locks are no more. They have been deposited in a plastic bag in my kitchen bin. I believe what started out as the ramblings of a drunken man upset that his friend had been diagnosed with cancer, has ended with him losing his hair safety net and I believe he is far more attractive as a result. As one of the many spectators, privy to Wednesday night’s events commented, Ian is now going to get ‘so much fanny’. Not my words obviously, I would never be so crude.

So, the Big Head Shave was on Wednesday night. All the dignity I unexpectedly saved with how I did my deed was, rightly lost on Ian’s experience. Well, it was for charity after all. As noted, we had spectators, there was a live video feed, some awesome banter, alcohol and I made nibbles. I bloody love nibbles.

I hope Ian does not mind me saying this, but in the hour or so prior to the Big Head Shave, he was nervous. Probably the most nervous I have ever seen him, and I have known him for a good few years. At this time, I will admit, that I could have been nicer to him, but it was just too much fun winding him up…

He started the evening looking like this:


And ended up looking like this:


I was given the honours of firstly cutting the mane and then shaving it. I did not relish the prospect of doing this, but my when I started, my, did I enjoy myself. Housemate had to assist a little because I was probably being a little too delicate around the ears. Sure, I also got a little sweaty. The wool dress was probably a bad outfit choice for such a high pressure role involving a number of stray hairs, but I will remember that for the next time I am put in the position where I am responsible for removing one of my friend’s defining features. If you want to see just how much I enjoyed myself, take a peak at this…


If you are tempted to see more, then the video footage is still available… One viewer commented that it was “The best TV ever”. Praise indeed. It is recommended viewing for anybody who thinks that shaving off your hair is not a big deal. It is. And the beauty of what happened on Wednesday, is that Ian did not need to do it. Ian did it to raise money, but also to make me feel better about what has happened to me. Way back when in October when we first started talking about it as I was losing those first few strands of hair and I was terrified, it gave me the strength to get on with it. Watching us reach our target on the Just Giving page, seemed somehow to make some sense of the madness that was happening around me, a madness that I had no control over. On Wednesday, when I watched Ian lose his hair, well, when I personally cut off that surprisingly soft ponytail, it did make me feel better. I do not know whether my feelings were selfish, but it did. Sod the charity, seeing somebody I know go through what I have had to go through, made me feel better and that includes being a witness to his fear beforehand. I found an inexplicably amount of comfort in his kindness and I will never be able to properly express to Ian what his sacrifice means to me. I do not think I would have been strong enough to do that for another person. I constantly think about a conversation I had with some friends in July, when my pain had started and I did not know why, and for some reason I said that I would never lose my hair for anything less than £20,000. How circumstances change.

Regardless of how it made me feel, it was for charity and Ian has smashed his target of £1000 and he is currently sitting on a total of £1345 all for Macmillan Cancer Support, who, I must say have supported me so wonderfully, as part of my Support Network during this hair raising experience. Even on Thursday, when I rocked up to the clinic in one of my wigs, their comments made me feel a little bit more confident in my synthetic hair. So, for the last time, even though our hair is gone, you can still donate. He shaved off his hair for goodness sake! And I do, truly thank those who have donated already. Your generosity has been the dogs bollocks.

I will finish this blog, again with a massive thank you to Ian. Ian who for so many years I have associated with his long hair. Defined sometimes. I have only known him with long hair, but the thing is, ten minutes after it happened, I felt like he had always had short hair. His altruistic good deed, showed me that hair is just hair and that his being and his personally remained in spite of him not having that moulting mane. I guess that this also applies to me, and boy, did that made me feel better. As big of a deal as it is for us personally, it, the hair, did not define us. And that is nice to know.

Ian Peppiatt, you are such a good egg. And for old time’s sake, here is a picture of us in our former glory.



P.S. Donate.

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The Six Year Old Boy

For the last few days, my new hair cut has reminded me of something. Something familiar, but I hadn’t quite been able to put my finger on the cause of this recognition. And then, this morning, as I was trying to motivate myself to function, it came to me. It was in my room the whole time… My new hair cut reminds me of me, aged six, when Mamma Jones chose to have her two daughters looking like sons. See?

Not much has changed to be sure.


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Learning To Cycle

I have now been on VDT or in fact VTD, I just don’t know which, for just over a week. In other words, I have been on my new treatment cycle for just over a week.

There is so much to learn.

New drugs means new side effects, which means new good days and new bad days. Maybe it means more good days or more bad days. We just don’t know that yet. All I know thus far is that I am on some drugs, and they come with new side effects. I will put my hands up in the air and admit I am impatient to discover all the side effects, at this very moment, so I can plan my life and rule out the days that whilst I am on VDT/VTD, no longer exist.

I am aware that whatever I have experienced thus far is likely to be the tip of an iceberg. A bringing down of the Titanic sought of iceberg, but the tip of an iceberg all the same. PADIMAC started off easy and then progressively became more and more difficult until I was crying into my pillow on Christmas Day. I hope that does not happen with VDT/VTD, but I would be a fool to think that this was not a possibility. Drugs designed to make you feel better, do in fact make you feel worse. That is the law.

Back to the Now, however, for the future I will deal with, if in fact I have to deal with it. My current side effects are not that bad. Sure, they are omnipresent, and unpleasant, but I am still functioning, so, score!

On a daily basis I have an unknown quantity of shit hanging out in my bowel, but that warranted it’s own blog. By the way, we have got this sorted to every other day. Hopefully. At night time, I experience an interrupted sleep, during which I drink at least one litre of water, which means regular visits to the toilet throughout the night. This is not my favourite thing about life in the dark, oh no. The best thing about the night is the hot flushes. Or at least I think they are hot flushes. Are hot flushes normally accompanied by the sweaty crevice? Well if the answer is yes, I am getting multiple hot flushes every night and I am waking up wet. Well, moist. It depends on the crevice.

I am trying to get myself into a routine, so the thalidomide is taken anywhere within a three to four hour window. Within an hour of taking it, I am usually asleep, if only for a few hours. The time I take it, seems to have no bearing on the hangover I experience in the morning. I describe this feeling as ‘groggy’. I have never been a morning person; I am definitely not one now. I slur until about 13:00hrs, but the key thing my friends, is that I function.

What else is there?

Ah yes, Tin Mouth has returned. It turns out that the taste of metal I blamed on the chemotherapy during PADIMAC is actually caused by the steroids. So, for three days a week, my mouth tastes like a vampire’s wet dream.

I also think the steroids are to blame for ‘extreme’ fatigue, I experienced last Monday and yesterday. There is something so familiar about this feeling. The headache, the bruise like pain in my neck and shoulders, and the total removal of energy from my being. Cosy.

I haven’t mentioned the Velcade… My love of the Cilet Bang is well documented. For the time being at least, it is behaving. I have occasional pins and needles and a tasteful red mark on my stomach. I definitely did not scream ‘fuck off pins and needles’ at my right foot last Friday night, and I am not imagining pains whenever my limbs are resting in my bed. It is fine. Everything is fine.

And that is my new cycle. It could be better, it could be worse. It just, is I guess and the sooner I can get into a predictable routine the better. If only so I can exist around its limitations.

VDT/VTD will not be the boss of me.

Only 15 more weeks to go.


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The day has come. The day I always knew was going to come has come. The day I never wanted has come. I have shaved off my hair.

I should probably be clear and say that my head shaved looks better than what I have been sporting for the last ten days, and that is in public. One can only imagine what Housemate was greeted with every morning (yes, if I got up before he left for work) after I had slept on the balding mess. The pragmatic side of me knows I had to take this step, if only to save my kitchen floor from becoming a carpet. I am thankful to the person who did it, finally. I will no longer wonder what I will look like with a shaved head, because I have seen it. I will no longer wonder, at least not for the foreseeable future, how long my hair has left because it is gone.

I have prepared and prepared for this moment, and I have tried to put it off for as long as possible, but the sad truth was, that today, it was too far gone. The cyclophosphamide, that I did not need, had done its job, well at least some of it, and the only way for me to regain control was to shave it.

The act of doing it was fine. I was with Big Sister. I was brave and I knew it had to be done. I do not feel brave now. I do not want to be brave. I will deal with my new look because I have to, my circumstances and my dogged determination to make the best of My Myeloma dictate that. I do not want to look like this. I have listened to and been appreciative of other cancer patients tell me that the experience is not that bad and they have felt liberated by it, but I do not want to feel liberated. Sure, I am going to save some time in the morning and save a bit of cash on hair products, but I do not want to look like this. My name is Emma Jane Jones and I have luscious long locks, that is what I recognise. When they went, I had a bob and that was fine. I don’t recognise myself today in the mirror. I have tried to not look in the mirror. My thoughts and my mind are the same, but the packaging is different and today, I cannot reconcile the two. I don’t want to look like this.

The evolution of my mane.

What is left

I don’t want people to tell me that I look good or that I can pull it off, because I know that I would look better if I did not have a shaved head. I would also be upset if people did’t say these things by the way. There is no escaping that fact. If I am perfectly honest with myself, at certain angles, let’s say 80%, I have a double chin. Said double chin cannot be hidden when one has no hair. The hair itself is quite thin, so for extra vanity points, there are clear areas of scalp. Hmmmm, scalp. If I was a blondie, this would not be an issue, but alas, I am far from blonde. I also have masculine features. It’s a true story and unfortunately, they cannot be hidden without locks either. I fear I look like Haemo Dad, but he has more hair. I am going to need to be on the ball with my makeup; runny mascara and lipstick crud at the end of the day will no longer be permitted. I am angry with myself for thinking it, but I know for sure now that I will have to win any boy over with my wit and my wit alone and that evidently does not go far. I don’t want people to feel relief that they do not have to be seen with me on their arm. In my life, I have been fortunate to have run my hand through some very soft short hair before, and I expected my hair to feel like that. It doesn’t. It feels like a mass of ingrowing hairs. Maybe it needs to be longer. The icing on the cake was the family dog’s reaction to my new ‘do. She just kept licking my ears and the area behind my ears. I think a Bischon Frishe my have a limited IQ.

With no make up, no filter, after a dose of thalidomide, I look like this:


I repeat that I know why I have a shaved head and I know that I had very little choice in the matter. I also know that it will get better. I know my reaction to it will get better. It’s just one of those cancer related things that sucks.

I am vain, and my feelings about my hair are influenced by how I want people to see me. Despite my double chin and my masculine features, I liked the way I looked. I will have to learn to like this and I dread to think just how obsessed I will be about finding my new comfort zone over the coming weeks. New clothes are bound to be involved. Jewellery too. Perhaps some make up. As with everything else, I will not let it defeat me and I will find a way. I will find a way because I have to, just like everything else. I am just giving myself a moment to dwell. Dwell on the things it has changed and the things about me I will miss. Everybody will know I have cancer now. Well, everybody outside the London Borough of Hackney. Maybe it will make it easier to get a seat on the bus.

Everything will make sense again, and it will get off to a good start this coming Wednesday when my good friend Iana, who likes his hair more than I liked mine will be shaving his hair off for Macmillan. We were supposed to do it together and this had been planned since October, but I was a wuss and kept putting it off until I could no longer put it off. So, in short, to support me, he has decided to Bic his head. I personally cannot wait. The link to his Just Giving page is below, please dig deep. He’s had long hair, cut by his Mum since he was 13. Do not think this is a token exercise just because he is a boy. It is his armour too. Neither of us are celebrities doing this for publicity. We found our own inspiration. I should add that all previous donations have already gone to Macmillan. I swear.

Oh, and if you are still in two minds about donating. He made a video about us. It will win you over. It won me over.

Apologies if I have previously posted this, I have tried and tried to remember whether I have, but I just cannot recall. Bloody drugs.

And finally, due to IT issues, I wrote this blog yesterday. I fear that the self loving through retail therapy will start today. I want to feel pampered.


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The 07:35 to Leeds

There are some things from my former life that I identify so acutely with my former life that their weight and meaning now is infinite. These things represent my independence and freedom from a time before My Myeloma, and thus they are a symbol for something that I have, in the worst case scenario, lost, best case, miss.

One such symbol, is the 07:35 train to Leeds, calling at Wakefield Westgate from Kings Cross. I know this train. I dread to think how many times I have caught that train, taking my ability to do so for granted. I dread to think about the number of times, I rocked up at Kings Cross Station, tired and make up free, purchased an overpriced breakfast and then raced across the concourse in competition with the other commuters, to the train, spilling my tea, because I did not like my seat reservation. For your information, I like a forward facing window seat in coach H. It doesn’t matter that that carriage doesn’t have power sockets, because I’m travelling in the morning and all my electrical goods are fully charged. On the train, I was a creature of habit. Preferably, I would obtain a seat on the lefthand side of the train, for no other reason than liking it. I would whip out my travel pillow and get comfortable. First though, I would eat my breakfast and have a cup of tea whilst listening to a pop anthem to get me in the mood. Somewhere around Peterborough, I would fall asleep, by which time I would have given up trying to be cool and I would be listening to The Phantom of the Opera Soundtrack. If I happened to still be awake at Peterborough, I would force myself to stay awake until the Tallington level crossing, to remind myself that I was a grown up and no longer the teenager who used to work at Tallington Lakes. I like to romanticise things with meaning; can you tell? At Doncaster, where one is greeted by a series of metal carriages, Work Mum would call me to make sure I was awake. Waking up at Doncaster gave me sufficient time to do my make up before reaching my final destination of Wakefield. I wouldn’t need the announcement at Wakefield, I knew when to stand up and I would know where I would alight, making allowances for carriage differentials. I would then allow nature to happen when I was on firm ground, before making my way to the exit and hailing a cab.

It is a ritual and it was mine, well, until it wasn’t.

I miss everything I connect to that train. I miss being able to get up early, even though I have always been really bad at it. I miss working. I miss feeling like I am doing something.
I miss Hofman’s Butchers in Wakefield, especially their pork pie. I miss a life where my biggest responsibility and worry is making an early morning train.

It does amaze me how I can get gooey eye over a train, but that’s just me I guess.

My point this morning, is that sometimes it is possible for me to breakdown these barriers. It’s also necessary. It is possible, with much planning and thought, for me to confront my pre myeloma symbols, which I have managed to turn into hurdles. It’s also necessary. It is possible for me to show My Myeloma that it does not rule me. That is most definitely necessary.

So, as I type this, I am sticking two firm fingers up at My Myeloma, whilst sitting on the 07:35hrs train to Leeds with my travel pillow and iPod and I am crying.

I am crying because I could do it and for so long, I thought I couldn’t. It wasn’t lost, it was just missing. Just think, for how many other things does this apply?


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The Charity Drive

Once upon a time, I was the sort of person who was immune to the charity drive. Sorry, Charity Drive. You might have got my money if you cornered me before I was a functioning human being with my fair trade cup of tea. Okay, you may have also been fortunate if you had cornered me at my desk. Maybe. It would have very much dependent on the level of my hangover and my own induced vulnerability.

These days however, I am a sucker for charity. My circumstances make it so. Macmillan, Myeloma UK, Cancer Research UK. They are all getting my cash, I do not have a lot, but I figure they offer the minute possibility of making my life better, so, where is the price tag on that? I have the credit card for shoes.

I have always given money to charity, homeless and addiction ones specifically (and still), because I felt guilty walking through St James’ Park everyday enjoying the scenery whilst people were ruining my view by sleeping on the park benches with their bottles of White Lightening. My reason for donations to charity have always been selfish, always based on making myself feel like I was doing something without really having to do something. I am sure most of those donating last week to our BBC telethon would emphasise. Begrudgingly. Your donation came not because primarily you wanted the world to be a better place, but because you felt guilty because your life was better than what you were looking at on your TV screen.

Until My Myeloma happened, I would not have given my money readily to a cancer charity, even though I had lost people to cancer including my beloved Grandpa. Many Christmases ago, I saw the Macmillan nurses come into my house and I did not care. They were not changing anything. At the time, all I thought was that my Grandpa was dying and the ladies who were coming in to change his dressings were mere window dressing. They did not change the end result, so why did they matter? People die from cancer. I associated cancer with old people, old people like the beautifully stubborn Scottish man I was lucky enough to call my Grandpa.

These days, unfortunately, I have to pay attention. I bet if you know me, you probably pay more attention now too.

The adverts on the television, the adverts on the tube, the adverts in the paper. They are designed so that people cannot forget about cancer. Cancer, cancer, cancer, cancer. Cancer. People get it. Apparently one in three do, but I guess not many of them are 28 years old. Do you want to feel sorry for us? Well, tough luck if you don’t, because the advert on ITV3 tells you that there are many people who drew the shit stick and apparently a cure is coming. It’s only coming if you give us your money. Do it quickly though, for the next ad break is in 15 minutes.

If print could be white noise, the cancer charity advert, in all it’s guises cannot now be blanked out. At least I cannot blank it out. It is everywhere. I have cancer, so I am bound to see it, Until I got cancer, I never heard it. I definitely didn’t see it. I never heard ‘cancer’. I saw the words and my association with it was, well, distant. We all know cancer is bad, but if it is not in your life, then one does not need to worry about. It won’t effect you. We know it happens, we hear the stories, but if you can carry on going to work everyday, see your family, then the connection, the empathy, is distant.


That’s right, until it happens… Until you are lying in a hospital bed and a doctor changes your life.

I hate the adverts.

I want all the cancer charities to have all the money they need. If they need a never ending pit of dosh, then they should have it, whether it is a charity supporting those with cancer or one trying to find the cures. I just wish that you did not need the reminder. Your reminders, remind me that I am not normal. That I have cancer, and that there is no cure. Your reminders tell me that not only do I need this special support and that there is no cure, but the people I love because they love me, need support. Your reminders tell me that I cause pain.

Today, I got the tube for the first time by myself since my diagnosis and my enjoyment of that was taken away by the fact that people needed to be reminded. I saw the advert. I just wanted to rejoice in my independence, but all I got instead was a reminder that people get cancer. Including me.


Maybe one day, such a crude interruption into one’s life will be superfluous.

Please let it be in my lifetime.


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If one were to rewind three months to the last days of PADIMAC, I believe I would have said that there was one thing I would never take for granted again. It’s something every able bodied person can do, even babies. At the time however, I was not able bodied. I was stuffed.

Fast forward to last Friday, after nearly three months of being treatment free, and I can honestly say that I had once again started to take my natural right to deposit, for granted. Then this VTD came along, a rude reawakening for those of us unfortunate enough to have to go through cancer treatment. Gone is the morning routine. Gone is the morning reprieve. Gone is the not thinking. In their place is an indescribable feeling of discomfort that makes you want to rip out your innards. Approximately 5lbs of discomfort… I would imagine.

Everything about having myeloma is difficult, but this side effect is my worst, because let’s face it, pooing should be simple. Every toilet based joke hinges on this assumption.

One day, the Medically Trained People may design a chemotherapy drug that does not make one feel the need to gentle coerce their waste out by talking to it, whispering sweet nothings, insisting that there is no need to be shy and that it is better out than in. I imagine some people would do this, I am not saying that is what I did this morning.

It is strange to think that I am now back in the position where a nice bit of splash back is worthy of celebration, but unfortunately I am. After Housemate left this morning, I celebrated. I celebrated for the first time in four days. That’s right, four days. In case you were wondering, that is 16 meals including a curry, a tin of baked beans (half cold, half heated), a mug full of linseed, prunes, a banana and three birds eye chillies.

Sometimes, shit just is not fair.

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