Category Archives: Bonemarrow

Something Borrowed

I am often being told that My Myeloma is not all my own. It would be correct to say that my illness is not all about me, the people around me have suffered effects of the illness just as I have; they’ve metaphorically and actually held my hand, they have lost a drinking mate, they put up with me and fained interest in me describing in minute detail what I have cooked on any given day, they have dealt with my mood swings and there are many, many more things that are too long to list here. 

Very soon (with my fingers crossed), somebody is going to be physically affected by My Myeloma. I will be borrowing something quite exceptional from my Big Sister. It’s beyond exceptional. It’s a minor miracle.  Just as this will be a new experience for me and a potential lifeline, it is a brand new experience for her. I’m not even sure if the word ‘experience’ encompasses the enormity of what she is about to do. I really isn’t just about me anymore…

Two weeks ago, Big Sister travelled to London for her pre transplant tests. From this, among other things, we learned that it is not only me who has to wait around a hospital.
And so, without further waffle, for one time only, I give you Big Sister:

I had known for 33 months that I was a match for my sister and that I carried round her magic medicine and possible cure. Just a few days after Emma’s diagnosis, my tissue was tested to see if I was a match. There was only a 25% chance that I would be, so we were all thrilled when it was confirmed I was a 10/10 match. I can still remember everything about the call from the hospital telling me this, and my phone call to Emma to tell her.

It’s been quite a responsibility carrying the stem cells around, if I had had my way they would have been taken as soon as we knew I was a match. I even carry around an ICE card in the event of an accident which states I am a living donor and they meant let me die until my stem cells have been harvested.

A few months ago, we were told I would need a medical before I donated. After months of asking, my medical for stem cell donation was arranged for the 11 June. I was anxious to say the least. What if, after all this time, Emma’s own stem cell transplants and our hopes, I couldn’t donate?
I caught the 7:21 train to London, sat in my reserved seat and tried to revise for my upcoming exams. Instead, all I could do was listen to the moron diagonally opposite me, try desperately hard to make conversation with the barrister next to him. Among the many conversation starters he came up with was ‘we all have cancer you know?’ I sat there wondering if I should say anything about his rather random and insensitive comment; in the end I figured my thoughts would be wasted as he was a proper know all. 
I hopped out the train and grabbed a taxi to St Barts. I was there a few minutes before my appointment. I was weighed and measured and then sent to see a consultant. The consultant was nice and cheery, he told me a load of things I already knew and completed a questionnaire about my health. I signed a consent form, the same one I give women at the hospital I am training at, before they have a caesarean, except this time ‘donate stem cells’ was written in the blank space.
Next, I went to meet my CNS, my very own CNS, how about that? She talked to me about dates, and we agreed that the harvest would start on the 22 July. I assumed this meant I had passed the medical, although no one said. My CNS then sent me for an ECG, and some blood tests.
I wandered round the huge hospital to where I was told I would get my ECG, only to be told the department had recently moved and I now needed to be at the other end of the hospital….so off I went. I was called in immediately, it took about 5 minutes to stick on all the sensor thingies and then just a minute to do the trace. I was handed the trace and told to take it back to the CNS. I was a bit reluctant to hand the ECG trace over before I knew it was ok, so I quickly Googled what a good trace looked like. Mine was similar, what a relief, so I handed it over.
Next it was time to take ‘some’ blood samples. Off I went, back to the main building and up to the 6th floor. I went and sat in a bay where other people were having chemo. A nurse came and started taking out the empty sample bottles. Now I am not going to lie, I hate needles, I always have and always will. Trying desperately hard not to embarrass myself in front of these poorly people that have to under go needles frequently, I let her take my blood…..all 16 bottles.

Finally, I was sent to the pharmacy to get my G-CSF injections. I waited over an hour, but they never appeared. It turns out that the prescription was wrong. As a result, I couldn’t meet Emma for lunch and Emma will now need to collect my injections for me at some point.

A week or so later, I had a text from my CNS to say all my blood tests were ok. The next day, I received a letter in the post from St Barts. My heart pounded a bit as I opened it, luckily it was a confirmation to my GP that I was suitable to donate, requesting they do check up on me following the harvest.

So after all that, and after 33 months, on the 18 July, I will start to inject myself with G-CSF, the growth hormone to make more stem cells. I’m not entirely sure how I will do this, but I will cross that bridge at the time. On the 21 July, I will go to St Barts for my pre-op tests. On the 22 July, I will have my stem cells harvested. They will be cleaned up and given straight to Emma. 
It all sounds quite simple. If simple means needles, stem cells and giving your little sister a lifeline. 

Can it really, finally, be happening?


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Best Laid Plans

When I eventually wake up today, the first thought I am going to have, after the one we all have first thing in the morning about emptying our bladders, will be ’16 days’. I know I will have this thought because I have had the same sort of numerically decreasing thought every other morning for the fortnight. It’s a countdown.  All being well, it is going to continue to decrease until I get to ‘zero’ and then I will find myself at what I have just decided will be called ‘Lift Off’.

I have been with this once,  silent countdown since 2 March and I have known of the less time bound specific transplant plans for slightly longer that that, but in the age of uncertainty and limited brain capacity, I have been quite loathe to write them down and explain it all. Since I only have a measly 16 days left to wait now, 16 days in which I imagine that my emotions are going to be here, there, under the stair and quite possibly anywhere else I can imagine, I thought it is high time for me to share this information with you.  The information of course, is also commonly known as a ‘Plan’. The Best Laid Plan. A lot can happen in 16 days. Coughs and sneezes spread diseases and all that, so, do understand my disclaimer. 

It has been quite a while since I did my MS Project training and I wager that I am in a minority of the population who have undertaken MS Project training, so my plan will only be presented to you in the form of words and potentially, the odd bullet point. Anyway, WordPress is not Microsoft Office, so I should just continue.


I am having two transplants, you could say that they are going to be ‘back to back’, but that would depend on your definition of ‘back to back’ now wouldn’t it? Since my visit to St Bart’s on 11 February, during which I was bombarded with so much donor transplant related information that I had to take a 10 hour nap, I have slowly been trying to get my head around the implications of their plans for me. For your information, based on my discussions with the Medically Trained People, ‘back to back’ means a three or four month gap between transplants. Subject to the outcome of the first transplant. 

A month since my appointment at St Bart’s Hospital and I am none the wiser about whether what I was told was expected by me or not. I was told that I was going to suffer from severe fatigue post donor transplant for an undisclosed, but probably a long, period of time. I was also told that they will want me to have a little of something called ‘Graft vs Host Disease’, but not a lot of it, because if I get too much of it, the result could be worse than My Myeloma itself. Read from that sentence what you wish, but I have a full bottle of water next to me, so I am hopeful. To cut a long story short in terms of the graft and my host, they want me to get some rashes. Sexy. 

There are three possible outcomes to the procedure (they negated to mention a negative fourth outcome and so I will do the same). The first outcomeis a quick relapse, the second is a long period of remission and the third is a cure. They do not know which door I will get, and my, my, my, is that like, The Most Exciting Game Ever.

Prior to the appointment, I knew all of this information. That said, there is quite a difference between knowing it by piecing information together from various conversations and leaflets in isolation, to one Medically Trained Person confirm it all to my rash free face. 

What I did not know and what came as surprise to me way back on 11 February, is that I will not behaving a full allogeneic transplant. I will be receiving Big Sister’s stem cells in all their maroon coloured glory, but I will do so without any high doses of chemotherapy and radiotherapy. I will in fact be having what the Medically Trained People at St Bart’s call, ‘a Mini-Allo’.

There is a 50:50 chance that the mini-Allo procedure could be administered to me as an outpatient. News I welcomed with pleasure and a mental image of my television screen. On the downside, I feared this news might confuse my people over the severity of and longevity resulting from the procedure I will be having. I was told that whilst doing it this way removes some of the immediate risk that comes with high dose treatment and a severe lack of neutrophils, everything I will face in recovery is the same as if I were to have had a ‘full’ transplant.

Enough of that. That is my main course, which I will apparently be hungry for at the end of June or beginning of July. Plenty of time in my future to go through the minutiae. Plenty of time. For now,  I have my starter to contend with, which is provisionally booked in for the 1 April. Saying I am concerned about my next transplant would be an understatement. Unlike my previous autograpt, and to extend this  metaphor, I have been continuously snacking for these last eight months on various forms of chemotherapy, and so, I am not particularly hungry for more right now. I fear the overindulgence my adversely impact the proposed high dose course of Melphalan on that Wednesday, 16 days away.

As with July 2013, I have been told that I will be in hospital between 3-4 weeks.   I will be at the place where everybody knows my name, UCH and I will initially be staying in the hotel again, within the confines of Tottenham Court Road, until I become too unwell at which point I will return to quarantine in the Tower. Unlike in July 2013, I have been told that I cannot come in with painted toenails as the MTP may need to look at them. They did not need to look at them last time, and if memory serves I was sporting a hot red near my bunions, by I best not complain… I have other, more important things to plan for.

Having had a transplant already is a doubled edges sword. It’s both a blessing and a curse and for the life of me, I cannot decide if I am better off knowing what to expect or not… Let me tell you something for nothing, it does not make me any less scared nor emotional about doing it. 

Depending on the outcome of some tests I have tomorrow, in 16 days time I know that I am going to start a course of treatment that is going to have me clasping my stomach in pain, a pain that will last for well over a week and unrelenting.  At the same time, I am more than likely to once again, as an adult go through the embarrassment of soiling myself.  My mouth is going to become so dry due to a lack of fluids that I will have at least a week long film in and around my mouth, with cracked lips and a dagger for a swallow. My hair, my beautiful hair will once again fallout. I am going to need a lot of sleep. I will then get discharged from hospital and become reacquainted with solids and fresh air. And all the while, I will be the only person I know going through it…  Then, just about when I am starting to feel better, the main course will start  and that is something I have not tasted before. In 16 days time I will commence a course of action that leads to a plethora of unknowns.

I have purposely arranged this month, my time now, where I have a reasonable handle on my limitations, so that I can enjoy myself as much as my body will allow. It’s a crucial part of my plan. Fun is a tonic, as is completing things on lists. I suppose that, however, is another story. 

When I officially wake up today and say to myself ’16 Days’, I am telling myself that I have 16 days of freedom left before I become, well, before I become, I do not know what. I am telling myself that I have 16 days of normal left, 16 days to find the strength to get through the x number of days that will come after it, as well as the strength to manage all the other unknowns I, my family  and my friends are going to encounter.  

A Best Laid Plan

  • 11-31 March – Drug free. Attempt fun. Avoid snot.
  • 1 April – Day -1. Temporarily relocate to Tottenham Court Road, stayin in the hotel. Recieve Melphalan.
  • 2 April – Day 0. Recieve stem cells transplant. Spend the next few days waiting to get sick.
  • A Few Days Later – Be very unwell and spend several days shut in a room with little to no privacy. Await the happy news that I can be discharged.
  • Two to Three Weeks Later – Get discharged. Allow Mamma Jones to look after me until I am strong enough to put things in the microwave, which would mean I will be at the point where I am able to eat again.
  • Sometime in May – return to London Town to do some more recovering and more sleeping.
  • June/July – have the next transplant.
  • August, Autumn and December – recover. Avoid germs. Perfect drug cocktail. See signs of weight loss and hair growth. Attempt to keep personality intact, 

So there it is, the big plan. A plan that is probably as clear as it will ever be. A plan that I know all too well from past experience, is subject to change. I hope it does not change, for the simply fact that I am ready to move on now, or at least I will be in 16 days time. 


I will leave you with one final musing. Getting over my last transplant, the months of recovery after it was the hardest thing and I mean the sort of difficulty that is weighted in isolation, lonliness, endless broken sleep and fuzziest of fuzzy brains, hardest thing I have ever done. I am not the same person because of what I experienced in  aftermath of that transplant. And the memory of these consequences is usually my second thought after I wake up and recommence the countdown.


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The Biopsy

12 months ago, at this time of the day, I would have been deploying Operation Teacup. That however, was my former life, and today I find myself having to have a bone marrow biopsy instead.

My logic tells me that in order to escape the pain that is going to come from the sucking and poking, I need to focus on something. By focusing on it so intently, the pain will evaporate. So, this is a live blog of sorts. My Biopsy as it happens. You are just going to love it. I, on the other hand will not. It is a shame that I now live in a world where sucking and poking are predominantly bad things.

I apologise in advance if what follows is a series of ‘it hurts’ and ‘shits’, but if that is indeed what happens, then that my friend is the reality of having cancer and a limited vocabulary.

11:04 – I am waiting. I was supposed to have a clinic appointment before my biopsy at 10:00hrs. That has not happened. There is nothing like waiting to build anticipation. This is like waiting in the queue for Nemesis… Have I peed enough? What happens if I pee myself? Yep, just like the queue for Nemesis.

11:15 – ten more minutes to wait, the room is not free. I’m having a Dip Dab.

11:31 – I am now on a bed, in the foetal position, lying on my left. My doctor is from Spalding. Or his parents live in Spalding. His shoes are from Springfields. True story. I am being made comfortable.

11:33 – There is wet stuff is on my back.

11:35 – I am flinching, but the local anaesthetic has just gone in. The bad stuff starts soon, but I am quite at ease. I still think I may fart. Thank goodness for the baggy trousers.

11:38 – I have now had the third dose of anaesthetic, this one made my body shake a great deal.

11:41 – there is classical music playing, it’s like having a massage. Or at least that is what I am imagining.

11:42 – pushing is happening. There is lots of hand movement going on. It’s like he is making a cocktail for James Bond. Apparently, by bones are tough. I was told this before.

11:43 – the juices are coming out. A pain down the leg, a short, sharp pain. It’s fine. I am hardcore.

11:44 – three samples have now been taken. Just to confirm, there is a big needle sticking out if my back. I would take a picture, but I don’t want to put him off.

11:46 – more pushing and pulling. I just said ‘ouch’. The fluid has been taken. It is now time for the bone. I get more anaesthetic for this. Great.

11:48 – I can feel the pushing in my toes. I think it is apple corer time.
Fuck a duck. Thank god for the drugs. There is vigorous movement happening behind me. The bone is now coming out. It is out.

11:50 – so yep, that didn’t work. He is going back in. Come on bones. Come out. My knees are now as high as I can get them, I am sure I look foul. Vigorous shaking. Very vigorous shaking and pushing. Damn, it hurts. Oh God. My right foot feels like it is on fire. Why is it burning? Fire. Actual fire. I was smoking hot for 15 seconds. Finally.

Hurray. It has worked.

11:53 – right, all done. The fire has gone. Apparently, it’s because of a nerve thing. That’s medical talk from the Medically Trained People.

11:54 – it may hurt in a few hours time, like a bruise. There is a plaster on my back.

12:02 – I have just had to lie down for 10 minutes to prevent bleeding. During this time, my doctor kindly explained my samples to me. They looked something like this:

Juicy. If you ever wondered what my bodily fluids looked like, they look like this.

The drops indicate that this is bone marrow cells and not your bog standard blood. Fact.

All of that for the teensiest bit of blurry bone.

During this time I was also able to look at the size of the needles. They were something else. Actually something else. They were also covered in a healthy dose of my juice.

12:23 – I already feel like I have been punched in the hip.

And then it is done.


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Way back on the 20 August 2012, I do not recall being nervous about my first bone marrow biopsy. At that time, my world had just exploded and I was in so much pain I needed assistance going to the toilet. I considered the biopsy to be the least of my worries and to be honest, it wasn’t that bad. It was unpleasant, but not bad. I didn’t even bruise. I think the Doctor found it more stressful than I did for I did not need to mop my brow during. I just, for some unknown reason, said on repeat the names of all high security prisons in alphabetical order split by function. It came to me in a dream.

Now, on the 7 March 2013, I am nervous about my next bone marrow biopsy. The reason I know I am nervous is that it is 05:30hrs and I have been awake for 90 minutes desperately trying not to think about the bizarre sucking sensation I am going to experience in approximately six hours time. I am also preoccupied with the thought that my nerves might make me audibly pass wind during the procedure. Of course, that is if I were capable of passing wind, which I am not. Everybody knows I am an elegant lady and us Elegant Ladies do not do that sort of thing.

I am annoyed with myself for being nervous. My thinking around this procedure akin to being kicked by a horse, is that it is a necessity, and thus any apprehension needs to be pushed aside and thrown away in my newly emptied kitchen bin, because it is a reality of having myeloma. I remember my Doctor on the 20 August apologising for having to do my biopsy and my response was simple, it was “well, you have to don’t you?”.

So, somewhere in the next few hours, I will relocate my can-do attitude and just let them get on with it. I was adamant that I did not need sedation for this, because I want to experience it, so, I really must just crack on.

I am a Hardcore Mofo.

Oh gosh, it is definitely a day for lipstick and unfortunately, a day for the baggy trouser.


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Boney Joney

I discovered today that I have been labouring under a misapprehension. Myeloma UK’s guidance was correct. I should not have doubted it.

Since I was diagnosed, I have believed that my weakened bones would be fixed after the first few cycles of my treatment. My consultant told me today that this is not the case. I misunderstood the Doctor’s meaning when he said back on The Penthouse that I would notice an improvement in my mobility after a few treatment cycles to mean that the lesions would start to mend and those lesions, which have weakened my skeleton would disappear as my treatment progressed. I learnt today that this is not the case. What will happen is an improvement in the pain. What will happen, all being well, is that the disease will not spread further and that no more lesions will appear. What will not happen under my trial, is that the existing lesions in my skeleton, localised to my back and spine, will heal, at least not yet.

Time wise, it is likely to take 1-2 years for my brittle bones to become strong again, and that may only be after further treatments. The operation three weeks ago, was one such procedure. Knowing what I know now, thank the gods they went ahead with it and I am now walking around with a slab of concrete in my back. There are somethings to be thankful for. This extended healing process means no snowboarding, which is unfortunate, because I have been fanaticising about doing an awesome 360 on a half pike for quite while now. That is going to have to be a pipe dream. I probably can’t even go on Nemesis. Maybe I can just have a nice bit of slicey and imagine I am on a theme park ride.

In the meantime, I hope and believe that despite what is happening under my skin, the pain is going to improve within the next two cycles. The Doctor said today that he thinks in this time, I will be able to rely less on the stick. Take less drugs. I should be able to bend over. Hell, I may even be able to lie flat. Flat! In time, I plan to deceive you all, walk tall, bend over and thrust my hips. It just means that unlike Shakira, my hips will lie.

It is not all doom and gloom, I promise, in the last three days, I have already seen a noticeable difference in my mobility. Tomorrow I even intend to walk, escorted of course, to Sainsbury’s.

I just wish I had not got this one wrong. I had thought that once the mobility and skeleton was sorted, all my attention could be focused on the cancer treatment. Now I have to focus on both things. Why is this disease so multifaceted? Why are the goalposts constantly changing?

Must not be defeated.

Trying to see the positive… Hello Freedom Pass. Hello.

Live Odds

Last week, I said that I had some good news that I was waiting to share with you. I think I can share it with you now, on the condition that once it is out there, that it is not discussed again for at least three months. This rule is for me. As it turns out, the good news is once again bittersweet. Maybe bittersweet is the wrong word. Scary and surreal. The news is scary and will involve me making a decision, that in my 28 years, I never thought I would have to make.

The reason for my delay in sharing it, is that I had to discuss the consequences with my doctors, and I had my first trial appointment today. The news is amazing and is against some significant odds… Last Thursday, my sister received a call from UCH to inform her that she was a match to my stem cell. There was a 25% chance of this being the case. I had not allowed myself to even think this was possible because the odds were so low, and I really have been suffering in the luck department of late, and when Big Sister told me last Thursday morning, I cried with relief and I cried tears of hope. It seems that my life now rests on a careful balance of odds and statistics. It is not fair, and I am allowing myself to dwell on it today, but when I wake up tomorrow, I know that I would have moved on. It is imperative to my well being and thus my recovery that I do.

A match to my stem cell means that I, hopefully, will be eligible for a donor stem cell transplant. I also discovered today that Big Sister, who is quite simply amazing, I may have mentioned this before, is not only a match, but the best sort of match for me. A negative and a negative. There are more medical terms involved, but I did not write them down, and as I said yesterday, my short term memory is somewhat lacking because I am a walking pharmacy.

So that is the good news.

The bad news, or the less good news, is that we cannot even consider this stem cell transplant until at least 90% of my MM has gone. The crux therefore, is that I have to continue with my current treatment and hope that it works. There is approximately a 50% chance of the trial working. These odds cannot be more definitive because it is still in trial. If it works, I would then be eligible for the stem cell transplant. If it does not work, then I will have to undergo another treatment programme before it can be considered. Yet more odds. I am not even considering the odds involved smashing this MM into hibernation, I daren’t.

My energy now then, as it was yesterday, is successfully getting through my trial. It has to work.

The donor stem cell transplant is called an allogenic transplant, which was described to me today as a ‘high risk procedure’. The details are sketchy, because we need to wait for the Myeloma to go before I meet with the transplant team and find out more, which will be in at least three months time. It is for this same logic, that I only discovered today what the transplant involves, the doctors did not want to get my hopes up when I was in hospital. What I did find out, and this is the scary, scary part, is that there is a 10-20% chance of mortality with this procedure. Put it another way, this procedure, historically, can result in a 10-20% chance of death. Equals my death. The risks lie in what happens to my immune system in the 6 weeks I would have to be in hospital undergoing the treatment, and the three months afterwards as my body takes to the transplant, and the odds of me rejecting the donor stem cell. Alternatively, there is a 80-90% success rate. Perversely, if successful, the transplant will give me the highest odds of a long remission before my next relapse. This means it will give me the best odds of leading a normal life. A life where I can carry on where I left off 4 weeks ago. I can meet a nice man and get married. Or live in sin. I am not fussy. The man could be a farmer and we can have special cuddles in the morning in the pantry after he has milked the cows and the kids, I may have (yet more decreased odds) have gone to school.

Understandably, I have thought about this all day and I have discussed it with my nearest and dearest. All have said, rightly, that everyday there is a chance of people dying. Every time somebody leaves their house. Or even in their house. As Big Sister said today, there is a chance of me completing the trial successfully, without the stem cell transplant, crossing the road and being hit by a car. Odds and chance. Odds and chance. Odds and chance. If I think about it this way, the odds I was given today seem less daunting.

I do not intend on thinking about all of this again for a while. Two days ago, I thought my life would return to normal by Christmas; this is likely not to be the case now. I will be going on half pay, I really am ever the pragmatist. So I have set myself a new milestone for success. My 29th birthday in May. That’s the new goal and by hook or by crook, I am going to see that birthday and I am going to have one fucking awesome party. I promise you that. I am promising myself that. For sure.

Bloody mortality. Bloody odds. Bloody chance.

I don’t want my life to rest on odds, but for the time being at least, they are going to feature. I am just going to have to try my damnedest to improve these odds, by any means. That is the way this goes. That is where my positivity comes in. Rest assured though, when I wake up tomorrow, my focus will return. My glass will be half full. My immediate focus will return to getting rid of this myeloma, as it was yesterday, and as it has been since I was diagnosed 27 days ago.

All of this, so that in three or four months time, my Big Sister can give me the best chance of living and these are the odds I like.


Am I ill because I have Multiple Myeloma?


Am I ill because I know I have Multiple Myeloma?

Either way, this is the pits.

The Fun Never Stops

Well then… It would be fair to say that I am furious. My head is hot and my eyes are evil. Having prepared myself for a discharge home today, I was informed early in the morning that I may be transferred to another hospital for a consultation on my back. This was confirmed at 13:30hrs. At 18:30hrs I was transferred from UCH to the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery in a very bumpy ambulance. The perfect transportation for any modern gal with a fractured vertebra. Upon arrival, I asked for some pain relief. I am not allowed any meds until I have seen the doctor. I have not seen the doctor yet. It is 21:00hrs.

I do not like this hospital.

I do not know why I am here. Is it for pain relief? Do I need an operation? What colour socks is my doctor wearing? Why can’t I go home and get my head around my diagnosis before I start my treatment? Why has a doctor not told me? What is a doctor? Why am I drinking lukewarm tap water? When am I going to get my drugs? Why did a man with a nappy rash just walk by my bed in his boxers? Why? Why? Why?

All I know is that they are not concerned about an imminent collapse of the bone. I guess that is a good thing.

In other news, Mamma and Middlesborough were good eggs in the ambulance.


What Has The Myeloma Done To Me?

From being admitted just over a week ago, I have seen the quick deterioration of my body.

I have in previous blogs mentioned my back pain. Today I found out why I am
prescribed a controlled substance, why I am hobbling around on a Zimmer frame, why I cannot roll onto my side and although i have not tested this, why I cannot put my big toe in my mouth. The disease has made my bones weak. Very weak indeed and as the consultant explained it to me today, and let’s
face it, I could be wrong (I am
on a lot of drugs) the lesions on my bones, initially identified on my X-rays, are where my bones are weakest and this where my pain is strongest.

The consultant on Monday said I needed to be careful because my bones may fracture or break. At the time I thought this was funny, because when is an adult really not careful about breaking their bones? Sure, no contact sports or skateboarding.

Well, today I was told that I had fractured a vertebra in my lower back and he said something else about a ‘collapse’. Collapse? I still do not know what that means. The consultant thought that this was manageable… Some people disagreed and as I go to bed, there is still no conclusion about what to do about this fractured vertebrae. There are some mystery neurosurgeons, in another hospital, who are most concerned and suggested urgent X-rays and another CT scan and a hospital transfer for repair. I did the tests. I do not know what else is happening. Neither does my nurse, so she is making me limit
my movements to the bed and toilet. Spoilsport.

Unfortunately, I have also been suffering from the attractive and very comfortable night sweats. Though, to be honest, there was a day when I was relieved to discover that the moisture was sweat and not from an incontinent source, if you catch my drift. So this happened the night before last and what do you know? Chest infection. This meant one more day in hospital (at least, this then allowed them to find the fracture) and more drugs.

More to follow tomorrow about my Zimmer. Let me just remind you… I am
28. 28!

I want to go home now please….


I am rattling. That is all.


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