As I emerge from yet another broken night’s sleep, I think it is high time I revealed a little secret in the hope that I can have a full night’s sleep tonight…
Dum. Dum. Dum.
In no way, whatsoever, am I coping with my transplant plans. You can exhale now. I do not feel ‘okay’, which if you did not know is my default, do not alarm people adjective for my health and my feelings. I find anything below the Okay Line, all rather embarrassing and not very English. I do not think I can hold my stiff upper lip anymore, and in admitting that, I suspect I am letting some people down.
I might me as big as one, but I am currently, not as strong as an ox.
If you are fortunate enough to be the handful of people I have felt well enough to talk to over the last week, I may have mentioned the subject and smiled. My voice may have even broken as I succeeded to hold back the weight of conflicting emotion. You may have left the conversation thinking that some of my fears had been listened to and that as a consequence I felt a better. I may have felt a little better, but then we have only really scraped surface. I do not know how to present the truth to people, to my Network.
The truth is, at this moment in time, as I am due to spend the next x weeks preparing for y months of illness and the unknown, all I can think is ‘can I do this?’ Then, when I am done considering that and everything than encompasses, I ask myself ‘is it going to be worth it?’ If I have allowed the brain to truly spiral into self pity, the latter question is accompanied by the sub question, ‘what are you even going to be left with?’
Reading my questions, I would like to think that your answers would be ‘yes, yes and a lot’. I keep telling myself that these should be my answers. There is something else in my head however, on repeat, with a persistent beat, saying ‘this is all too much, Emma‘. Too, too much.
On a practical level, I can discuss the x and y. By that, I can talk to somebody about how I have purchased new pyjamas, when I am going to shave my head, my concerns about where my PICC line is going to be in relation to the toilet door in my hospital rooms and whether it is possible to magically speed up my iPad so I can have meaningful entertainment in the hospitals. That’s the limit though, because everything else is a black hole of uncertainties of terrifying gargantuan proportions.*
In a much needed counselling session last week, in answer to my first question, I almost satisfied myself with the answer, ‘I’m just going to have to pull something really big out of my arse’. Even in the most emotional of circumstances, I still manage to find a way with words. My reasoning was that I have managed to hold myself together for over two years of near constant treatment, by flying, very slowly, by the seat of my pants.
My ability to create magic from my bottom, I believe will be greatly aided if I can use my x weeks productively, to see my Support Network, do things that I will not be able to enjoy for the rest of 2015 and complete my annual Oscar’s Challenge.
There is a problem with this plan in addition to my financial constraints, and it is a problem that is adding to my current woes. The problem is called fatigue. After 28 weeks of ongoing treatment, my body is coping less well with the thing they call energy. Not only that, but my new treatment regime, which involves the return of Cilit Bang and coordinated weekly doses of steroids, means that I have even less energy to do the things I would like to do. I have become most flaky in my social planning, for, I am finding there is just a lot of things I cannot do. On Saturday for example, I was out of my flat for a total of 5 hours, which included lunch, the cinema and a trip around Dalston. At the end of that, the only place I was going was to my bed to feel sorry for myself.
My head does not need the additional hurdle of fatigue at this stage. Last night, as I sat on my bed for 20 minutes working up the energy to put on my pyjamas, brush my teeth and give myself my G-CSF injection, I thought that the year of fatigue had already started. I am already struggling and it will go down before it goes up. It is an extremely scary thought.
Scarier still is what is to come when I head into my transplants. As I am one to blow my own trumpet, last week I summed it up well when I said that the best case scenario is that I am incredibly ill for a year. I might have even put that in my last blog, I cannot remember, in which case I said it a fortnight ago. I am going to stop, lie and watch whilst everybody around me continues to live. I obviously want them all to live, but that does make me feel behind. Immature. I try not to think about how much of my life has been put on pause with my treatment, but I would be naive to not realise how magnified I am going to find this reality when I am bed bound for such a long period of time.
Fingers crossed I will emerge well from my procedures, but that will come at a cost. I will have no money, I probably will not have a job and I will still be single and not so ready to mingle. I know myself well enough to realise at some (many) point(s) over the year I’ll be jealous and angry that others will be experiencing what I wanted for myself. I do not know how I will deal with this and I that is a concern. I am scared of driving people away. Mamma Jones recently described me during my first transplant as a ‘brat’. That was a revelation because I thought I was an angel.
When I ponder whether it’ll all be worth it in the end, my fear is that My Myeloma would have left me a shell of a human being with little relation to who I was up to 17 August 2012. I do not know what I will have to offer. This is a shocker, but myeloma has most certainly dented my self esteem. Even now, I am haunted by the words a friend said to me post my first transplant in October 2013. ‘Everybody is bored of your myeloma. You need to understand they need a break from it and thus you’.
Imagine that, huh? I know for a fact I am not going to be an easy person as things get going (seeing quote from Mamma Jones), and I fear that those kind words will become truer and truer as the year progresses. How far with loyalty get me? I have already seen some of this specific concern reflected in my relapse. I cannot do many a thing these days and thus less people feature in my life as a consequence of that. When I am high as a kite on morphine or after spending a third day without speaking to anybody but my mum, imagine how those thoughts will play. Actually, you do not have to imagine, I have imagined it for you and I am trying my hardest to find a way for me to not let it happen.
Of course, I have my fears about the worst case scenario too. I am still superstitious, trying to be brave and limit what can be perceived as complaint, so you’ll just have to read between the lines on what I do not want to happen.
I was surprised earlier in the week that somebody else was surprised when I told them that I have recently become reacquainted with the uncontrollable tears. They asked me why I was upset… I really hope the cat is out of the bag now.
Now, if people can make me feel loved without making me feel awkward or like you are taking pity on me, it would be much appreciated. Don’t worry, I can talk about things that are not about myeloma, in case you were on the cusp of getting bored. I think.
* In case you were wondering, I am working on increasing my limits. I’m searching for some metaphorical tools. Do you know where I can find them?