Tag Archives: diarrhoea

Like A Bullet From A Gun

WARNING – 💩THIS BLOG CONTAINS TALK OF FAECES. HARD, SOFT AND SHAPELESS FAECES.💩 SO DON’T READ ON IF YOU HAVE A WEAK DISPOSITION. IF YOU DO READ ON, BE THANKFUL I HAVE NOT MENTIONED MORE.*

One of the biggest challenges I am quickly trying to come to terms with is the change the transplant and it’s drugs are going to have and have already had on my toilet going activities. I have spent nearly three years complaining about the impact my previous treatments had upon my bowel. Nay, it is more than that, I had publicity reconciled myself to that fact that unless something was drastically wrong with my body like a course of radiotherapy through my stomach or a hefty dose of Melphalan, I had a life of overly formed, every other day excretion with constipation ahead of me. I understood that and I knew how to manage it. Maybe I had even come to like it. At least it was predictable. Ghostly. 👻

Since my release from hospital however, I have been forced to discuss the taboo that is poo, to avoid mass panic and hypochondria. My mass panic and hypochondria. I can feel my body changes and I am on high alert for it and this is outwardly, the biggest change thus far. Gone are the instantly satisfying rabbit pallets, and in with what I do not know what. I could not make my way through the consent or any of the transplant literature without coming across the word ‘diarrhoea’, so the sudden change is not unexpected. It’s just unwanted. And so are the new definitions. 

I could go deep into my concerns and summarise the many conversations I have had with the Medically Trained People about why investing in some nappy rash ointment is a good idea, but I think the conversation below sums up my current dilemma.

  
Such is the importance of stools in this post allo world, I have to inform the Medically Trained People if I have more than two sessions in a single day. Manners would usually dictate not discussing this with anybody else, let alone the out of hours hotline. 

On this subject of toilet, I am beyond cautious. You can tell nurses in particular are used to this sort of talk because my nurse on Monday compared the consistency and colour of her breakfast drink to what I need to be on high alert for, whilst she consumed it. Take that Weetabix. I welcomed the clarity. I have sample jars in my handbag, should there be a sudden need for analysis. I am not actually going anywhere requiring a handbag at the moment, so the fact the jars are still in my handbag are a testament to my current energy levels.

Earlier in the week, I came across the notion of ‘constipation overflow’. If you are interested, that is what I have by the way. Constipation overflow. There is no need for the nappy rash ointment just yet.

The sad truth is, despite my panic last week, I haven’t experienced diarrhoea yet. My friend would be correct with his definition of a ‘loose stool’. For me, this is just another unpleasant experience and it is one that realistically is only going to get worse. Another reason why I must remember my fluids!

The diarrhoea will come and come it will and when it does, I’ll put on my rose tinted spectacles and look in my medicine drawer at my Sainsbury’s own brand suppositories with yearning.

What a depressing thought. 

EJB x

* Humans do Number 1s too, and they are not immune from the allo side effects either. FYI

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The Gippy Tummy

In the last few weeks, I have learnt many a lesson (okay, four lessons). All the lessons revolve around the medical wonder that is radiotherapy; my view of which has changed quite dramatically from when I previously had the NHS brand my who-ha in October 2012. In short:

• Radiotherapy is not easy
• Radiotherapy whilst you are undergoing chemotherapy treatment is definitely not easy
• Never ever ever wish for a gippy tummy
• If you are a female, always prepare for a radiotherapy session as if you are about to wear a string bikini in public

Since my trip to Casualty in June, I have wanted one thing and one thing only, and that one thing is radiotherapy. My pain at that time was such that I believed that fixing that pain was the only way I would be able to make it through my current treatment. On my worse days, my survival hinged on fixing my pain. Do not get me wrong, I loathe chemotherapy just as much as I know it is a necessary evil, but try being on a course of treatment when you cannot bend down and pick up your bath mat, sit on the toilet or pull yourself out of bed. Maybe reducing my paraprotein should be my priority, but it is not. My priority has and continues to be fixing my back, so I can then focus on that pesky paraprotein. Battling the two at the same time takes energy, more energy then I reasonably have. I’ll use my energy on both if I have to, but my effort in doing so is a disservice to both. My pain has taken away too much of my freedom and I just want to reclaim some of it.

The journey from discovering the first twinge of back pain on 27 May, to completing my course of radiotherapy treatment on 29 August has been mercifully quick. Three months may sound like a long time, but all things considered, it has not been that long at all and that is just another prime example of the brilliance of the NHS.

It may have taken a month or so to convince the Medically Trained People, with Operation Radiotherapy, that I could not wait to see if my treatment alone would heal my back, but once that was agreed by the end of July, everything else happened very quickly. Operation Radiotherapy was far from subtle and essentially involved me only talking about my pain during my appointments, much to the dismay of Big Sister who wished for me to discuss my treatment plan. I may not have been subtle, but neither was my pain, which had decided to occupy almost every waking thought, especially the thoughts that came when I attempted to move in my sleep.

On the 6 August I was informed that I would be having radiotherapy and it was most probably going to be in the form of five sessions over five days, targeting the tumour around my L5. I was ecstatic at this news. I know I was ecstatic because I wrote a blog about it. It was during this appointment that I was told that I may experience a gippy tummy as a result of the radiotherapy. Thirteen days later my treatment began.

I did indeed have five sessions, on five different days, but due to the Bank Holiday and my need to see Kate Bush in concert, it actually happened on a Thursday, Friday, Tuesday, Thursday and a Friday. A week prior to the first session, I had my planning appointment, which featured two new tattoos and a CT scan. By the Tuesday session, I was incredibly relieved that I had some respite between zaps and I was not due in everyday. I do not think my body would have been able to handle it. It was a four-five hours a day for two minutes of radiation, and I am a weakling.

The Radiotherapy Department at UCLH is a strange place. It is in the basement of the tower and thus as I waited, I had no phone signal to keep me company. The waiting areas are very much designed for patients receiving the treatment for usual cancerous reasons. They were not designed for people getting radiotherapy to ease their pain. It may sound like a small thing, but waiting for upwards of an hour on a hard departure lounge style chair is not something my spine particularly enjoys. Add that with having to lie down on a slab for ten minutes, bookended by hour plus journeys in a suspension free ambulance chair and what I got was immense jarring pain.

In the secondary waiting area, the opaque windows are adorned with pictures of butterflies and stars accompanied by quotes about the brilliance of nature. This of course, made me guffaw at the thought that somebody, somewhere, believed that this would relax somebody with cancer. It was in stark contract to the stark room with the big whirling machine hidden behind a maze of iron lined corridors. In these rooms, there are six identical rooms, there was a screen for me to protect my modesty as I removed the bottom half of my clothing. I am not entirely sure why I needed to protect my modesty with a screen, when my knickers would be pulled below by bum during each session, when I was lying on the metal slab, with a piece of blue paper over my nunny.

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I found the whole thing incredibly exhausting.

After the first, second and fourth session, I vomited. Vomiting is not a side effect I am particularly used to. I thought I was used to everything. I may have had a stem cell transplant, but vomiting, thankfully, bar a few other occasions on my HRT, had been my only experience of being physically sick. Nausea sure, I live with that daily, but vomiting to me symbolises being unwell and until I experienced cancer, is one that I heavily associated with people having cancer. On the fourth day, I lost a very nice sandwich from Benugo’s. I did not like it. It made me feel like I had cancer.

On days 1-5 and for several days post, I experienced extreme fatigue. After the first session, I got into bed at 19:00hrs and emerged the following morning. Three days after my last session, I was so tired, I forgot that I was crashing on my steroids. Fatigue was not a side effect I was told to particularly expect, but I think that radiotherapy and chemotherapy is something of a toxic mix, and my body was just displaying that for all and sundry.

On the fourth day, I also had my regular clinic appointment, during which I lambasted the false claim that I would experience a gippy tummy. I did this because I am a fool and did not associate vomiting with what one could consider a ‘gippy tummy’. I was just fed up with being constipated that I thought I would welcome a good, thorough cleaning. The treatment finished on a Friday and by Sunday, I was cursing myself and the pain in my stomach. By the Monday evening, after I had spent four hours on the toilet clearing my bowels, I was cursing the radiotherapy. I am a self styled ‘Strong Ox’, but slipping off a loo sit because my naked body was drenched in diarrhoea induced sweat, was enough to make me doubt my stoicism. The next day, Haemo Dad put me in his car on the advice of the Medically Trained People and took me to A&E.

I like to think that my four hour adventure to Peterborough City Hospital was not an overreaction and was a well considered precaution. It was a precaution for many reasons, not least because four days before my neutrophil count was 0.85 and there was a fear that I had an infection. To me it was a necessity because I needed reassurance that everything would be okay. I know many side effects and I know how I should feel on almost every occasion. I had no idea what was happening to me and that scared me.

Haemo Dad had to go off and do some Haemo stuff in PCH, so he was replaced by Mama Jones who waited patiently with me until I got the okay to go home after I was given some fluids and IV paracetamol. As an aside, I can confirm that IV paracetamol can give one a nice, deep sleep.

In my private room, having waited for five minutes to check in with my fellow citizens in the reception, I was rather impressed with the treatment I received. It was thorough, and it was delivered by a Person Medically Trained Funded By The RAF, which led me to seek confirmation that I was not hallucinating. Obviously, for anybody who has ever inserted a cannula into my veins or has been present when somebody else has inserted a cannula into my veins, I was rather less impressed by the size of the cannula (I think I am spoilt at UCLH), or the blood that bled when the tube was removed. It is 15 days later, I still have a bruise.

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Evidence that I made a third visit in two years to Peterborough’s A&E.

After six more days of sleep, liberal doses of Buscopan, and a £34 round trip to have my bloods done, I felt back to normal. As I said to my CNS, normal to me means heavily constipated. As well as feeling constipated, I also felt embarrassed that I went into my radiotherapy thinking that it was nothing. Not only nothing, but I went in thinking that it would be easy and welcomed the predicted side effects. I was wrong. I would not want to go through it again any time soon.

Time will tell whether the treatment worked. This week, my back hurts more than it has for a month and I hope this is a sign of the radiotherapy is working. I just don’t know. If this whole affair has taught me anything at all, it is that when it comes to My Myeloma, nothing is ever certain.

🙏

EJB x

P.S. Blame the fatigue for the length of this blog; I certainly do.

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Rock Bottom

I want this to stop. I don’t want any more pain. I do not want to experience the pain I am already experiencing. I do not want to produce from my mouth and nose, anymore green vomit with egg whites. I want to be able to eat. I don’t want to have to have a green poo, if you can call it poo, on the hour every hour. I do not want to have ‘a good case of oral thrush’. I hate relying on the Angels for every little thing, which last night, included putting my bed sheets on me because I did not have the strength to do it myself. I want to be able to sleep properly. I don’t know why my skin has decided to turn a certain shade of grey, but I want it to be its normal colour. I want to be able to drink without feeling like the universe in my stomach is staging a coup. I want some energy. I really want all of this to stop and normality to return.

The thing is, it’s not going to stop, not immediately. And I have to deal with this. I am not wallowing and I am not crying. The beauty of this process, is it cannot be turned around. These feelings, and these experiences were determined last week, we just did not know how they were going to manifest themselves. We still don’t for certain. The fact that I cannot back out, means that even though I may feel weak and a scaredy cat, I am forced into a position where I have to be strong, because all this shit, literally, is going to happen anyway. This makes soldiers of everyone, regardless of whether they thought they had the strength to do it or not. Get through this and I’ll never look at somebody who complains of a cold in the same way again.

Clearly we have assistance from the troops, for me, this means going straight to the oramorph now in the constant event of pain, because nothing else will curb it. My doctor told me this morning that I have to stop trying to be brave. I would not say that trying to remain well mannered is brave. I think he was referring to the use of morphine and how long go I go without asking for further assistance (T13 déjà Vu). How bad is bad? Is this rock bottom? It looks like it. After my experience last night, which was worse than the night before, I have reconciled myself to the fact that rock bottom looks something like this, and needs several doses of oramorph, to make the future look rosy.

And so, from rock bottom, I wish you well.

EJBx

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Expecting the Expected

It is strange to be surprised by the expected, but I am. I knew that I was going to have a dodgy tummy, nausea and fatigue, I have been preparing for it for so long, I was almost bored of it, but now I am in it, I can wholeheartedly say it is nothing like I expected it to be.

I think my current situation, is one where to truly understand it, one has to live it. Saying the words, will not make you comprehend the force. And let’s face it, there is a lot of force. No amount of preparation is going to make a stomach cramp any easier.

On Sunday afternoon, when the diarrhoea started to come, I sat on the toilet and thought to myself, that if that was it, it was going to be easy. Clearly, that wasn’t it. Fast forward a few days to last night, when I was forced by my body to have my tenth poop of the day, whilst doing that, I developed a cramp that was so hideous, I vomited (500ml by the way) and sweated. It then took, three more visits to the toilet, five hours, IV anti sickness, IV fluids, oral anti sickness and stomach pills and oramorph for the pain to subside. Until that pain did subside, I spent that time awake, unable to do or say anything, lying on my bed thinking, this must be the worst I am going to feel. It must be the worst right?

I do not know if I have yet hit the bottom. I currently figure that my diarrhoea and vomiting cannot worsen, but my fatigue can, if I continue to lose fluids at the rate I am losing fluids. That’s basic science right?

I am going to try and explain my current role in this world as Green Excrement Girl, but I am not doing it to gain your sympathy, it is just to explain what this feels like. I’m having to think of it in much the same way; if I start to feel sorry for myself, I become a martyr to it. I am no martyr. Right now, this is my job. So, as well as expecting the expected, I have to accept it too. I am just trying to ride the most unpleasant wave that has ever existed.

Since Sunday evening, I have not been able to hold down any liquids or foods that have entered my body. The Medically Trained People were trying to get me to drink 2.5 litres a day, but it was decided yesterday, that attempting to do 0.5 litters caused so much discomfort, that I did not need to do it. I really am trying, and yesterday, I even felt hungry, but after a few sips of water, spoonfuls of mashed potato, the mixer in my stomach started churning and I had to run to the toilet to deposit it. This happens whenever I drink or eat. On Monday, it was worse, because I ate much more, thus the sheer volume, was, well, impression. Mamma Jones was soon sent out to buy moist toilet paper. Practical. I do not want to irritate any piles.

Managing the diarrhoea is one thing, but it is not my only symptom or problem.

Practically, it requires me getting out of my bed on the lefthand side to unplug my pump, wheel my fluids and myself round the foot of the bed, navigating wires and other obstacles, past the sofa, to the bathroom. On competition, when I am back on my bed, the pump needs to be reset, because it’s battery is broken. I taught myself how to do this yesterday, because I could not stand all the beeping.

Physically, the diarrhoea is accompanied by nausea, which until last night, had just been nausea, and not full scale vomiting. If you were wondering, the vomit, was the same colour and consistency as my poo; slime green. So yes, nausea, it is a bugger. I feel constantly sick. There are scales to it, but in short, there is always a feeling of sickness around as is its friend, the stomach cramp. The stomach cramps, for ladies, feels like the worst sort of period pain you will ever have, at it’s worse, I imagine it is like giving birth. I actually think this. It constantly feels like they is a wooden spoon, in my stomach making potions, occasionally making sure it gets all the ingredients by scraping round the sides. Last night, I knew there were drugs in me, because my mind started to create stories for what was happening in my stomach. I kid you not

So, as somebody has had a nasty bout of food poisoning will know, because of all of the above, I feel weak. I am dehydrated, my blood pressure is low and I constantly tired. Yesterday, because of the dehydration and the byproduct, dizziness, I had to sit on the toilet for ten minutes longer than needed, to ensure I would not faint on the long walk back to my bed. Again, with that sort of activity, I am running a constant risk of piles. I am talking grade 4 level here.

Above are my main adversaries, but I also continue to fight a fever, a toothache, a sore throat and ugliness. Oh, and my neutrophils are flat.

Fortunately for me, the Medically Trained People are marvellous, and more crucially, they have seen everything I am experiencing before. The Doctor explained yesterday that they can give me so many more concoctions to get me at my most comfortable, she also said, which I guess is a good thing, nothing is happening that should not be happening. I am no medical marvel.

The difficult thing with all of this, is that nobody knows for certain if this is going to work. I have seen a lot of comments on the blog mentioning the word ‘remission’ and I have been asked about it much more than that in person, but the truth is, my transplant is unlikely to give me that. Everybody’s experience is different. It’s my best chance. The reboot is what I need. Back in January, when I was sitting on my paraprotein level of 20, I was told that it would be highly unlikely to walk out of a transplant with a level of zero. At my last Clinic Appointment, the Senior Medically Trained Person said that a decision will be taken after my transplant as to whether I have to start a new course of treatment straight after or if they are just going to let my body be for a bit. It could be that my body does surprise everybody, but I think we all need to be realistic about what my transplant is going to achieve. If the last 11 months has taught me anything, it is that My Myeloma is one stubborn arse. Time will tell. I am going through this, putting up with this, because somehow, maybe not immediately, I know it is going to give me a holiday, but more importantly a return to normality.

As for today, I am hoping for a better one. Late last night, my stool sample came back and I do not have an infection, which means that I can take Imodium. Yes. Imodium. The day might not be better, as I was threatened with having to measure all my outgoings yesterday, which sounds fun. Time will tell I guess.

Today is Day 7.

EJB x

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Whoopsie

Perhaps it was destined to happen. I joked about it happening for long enough. I could not help it. I am sick. Really sick. It was unexpected. It’s the drugs fault. Even though I am an adult, this was beyond my control.

Oh God, I just shat myself.

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Overindulgence?

The Jones Clan has their Christmas dinner on Boxing Day. We always have and I believe we always will, except this year, we did not have a traditional Christmas dinner. It was agreed last year, after much protest from one particular family member, that we would not have a roast dinner again for our family meal. I was outraged. As it turned out, you can be just as greedy with a three course meal that does not include a roasted bird and pork loin, than you can with one that includes said roasts. In fact, you can be really greedy.

Fast forward to seven hours later however, and yours truly was poorly. Very poorly. For four months, it has been a daily struggle for me to, well, you know. It was not a struggle for me on Wednesday night. I was reunited with something with the greatest of ease. I also had to request a pail. I should have realised something was not quite right throughout the day, when I was, well, you know, all day long. I was you knowing, all over the place and loudly. It was a point of discussion. Sure it is uncouth, but I have cancer. Plus I was with my family, I do not have a boyfriend and I am very much a believer in flatulence being funny (in the right circumstance). It was not funny after 45 minutes in a little room, which was proceeded by me having to go to bed at 20:00hrs feeling sorry for myself.

In all my years previous to this one, I would have blamed the pain, dizziness, sweating and you know, on pure gluttony. It may still have been the reason I was ill, but I have another little friend you can blame things on now. I hate that. My Myeloma makes every change to my body sinister. Would I have been as ill if I did not have myeloma? We will never know… and as with all things that relate to my body, I hate that.

If you are sitting around thinking that you overindulged this Christmas and need to exercise, on Boxing Day, I ate the following; a bowl of Rice Crispies with Gold Top milk, three roast potatoes, a slice of ham, three slices of leftover roast pork, half a block of large Brie (I know I shouldn’t really eat Brie), a bowl of pea and ham soup with a Big Sister twirl of cream, bread, a few spoonfuls of chutney, three portions of beef stroganoff with fillet and rice, a mouthful of Stilton (I know I shouldn’t really be eating Stilton either), three brandy snaps filled with extra thick double cream, three glasses of Prosecco and a bottle of beer. I *might* have also squeezed in three clementines at some point, it is a little hazy.

Impressed or repulsed? If it is the former, did I mention I was single?

Oh, and in case this blog is too subtle for you, I believe my five year old niece explains it well in the text message below… She is her mother’s daughter.

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