The quick deterioration of my movement over the last month, has been an unwelcome surprise and it has been something of nightmares. Cancer I can handle. Being bed ridden and unable to climb into the shower? Not so much.
Two months ago, I was worried that my movement had improved to such a point that I could not in all honesty, carry on without contacting the Department of Work and Pensions. Of course, I still had my good and bad days, but on my good days, I could challenge myself. I could almost feel normal.
Then there was a wake up call. A big fat, need my walking stick to get off the toilet, wake up call.
I am now at a point where my movement is so restricted that in the last few days, I have been bed bound, tripping out on a healthy cocktail of Oramorph and Diazepam, contemplating the meaning of life. Needless to say, I enjoy this return as much as I enjoy a Black Forest gateau with extra cherry. In case you were wondering, I do not enjoy a Black Gateau and I most certainly loathe the cherry that any extra would be a waste.
Forgive the length, but the following is an honest assessment of my recent dealings with Mr Pain;
Monday 12 May 2014
I was in Rome, and somehow, I managed to walk five whole miles. It was accompanied by lots of complaining and ounces of pain, but I did it with bells on.
24-27 May 2014
In an act of dogged independence, I repeated Rome’s sightseeing in Berlin, only this time, I did it whilst carrying luggage.
Evening of 27 May 2014
On a train from Southend Airport to Stratford, I decided to lift a 9kg suitcase. This was an error in judgement, I know. The truth is, I forgot that there was a reason why I should not be doing heavy lifting. Subsequently, on a train from Stratford to Dalston and then on the short walk home, I realised that I could not use my left shoulder. The pain was unbearable and it remained so for the next three days.
Thursday 29 May
I had an appointment with the Medically Trained People, during which, I received a royal telling off for doing too much. Fortunately, as the disease was not active, the pain was believed to be muscular. There was another telling off and I was sent for an X-ray or two.
I started to write a blog about me being a forgetful fool. It was full of mega LOLZ, so I apologise for declining you of that gift. As X-rays were a novelty, I also took these rather attractive photographs reminiscent of days gone by.
The X-rays revealed nothing. I however, had to resort to the dreaded Oramorph to allow me to sleep. It was Oramorph by night and a sling by day.
And then the pain slowly went away.
Friday 13 June 2014
The day started with me starting one of my usual, riveting conversations with Housemate. It went along the lines of ‘do you believe in Friday the 13th?’. He said no, and that was the end of that.
Shortly there after, a sharp pain appeared in the middle of my back to the right. The pain was such that I could not bend. I could not laugh and I struggled to sit. In short, it felt very familiar to me and I was worried enough to inform the Medically Trained People. The pain was also such that I once again, reached for the opiates. I also started double dosing my standard MST dose twice a day from 30mg to 60mg.
That day, was Velcade Day, so I was seen by another Medically Trained Person who tested my leg movement, advised bed rest and sent me for another X-ray. The x-ray had to be done in Accident and Emergency, which is only noteworthy because I had to strip in front of the radiographers. I was wearing a pair of flesh coloured Spanx, so I am sure they enjoyed that. The pain was such that I cried and went home to cry some more. I was offered a hospital bed, but I declined.
Sunday 15 June
The pain persisted, shooting up my spine whenever the opportunity presented itself. I say opportunity, what I mean is, whenever I breathed. It is difficult for me to give an objective opinion about my pain, I’ve had it for too long to be able to describe it. I knew that this pain was different because every time I attempted to get out of my bed, my back felt like it would snap in two. Every time I stood up.
I phoned the on call Haematology line, shamefully, with tears once more and I was advised that my X-rays were fine. I was told that there was nothing that they could do, and I could take more Oramorph and paracetamol. It’s not important to my tale, but the person I spoke to had a speech impediment and every sentence was followed by a low snigger. It was most irritating.
Monday 16 June
The pain had eased slightly, but I was asked to come into Clinic on the 19th. Turns out that appointment was not about my pain, but to be safe, a MRI was ordered.
Tuesday 17-Saturday 28 June
I went into my overdraft using taxis to get me from A to B and back again. On the two occasions when I attempted public transport, I regretted it so much, it reminded me of the last time I accidentally ate a Black Forest gateau. Plans were cancelled, and I spent a considerable amount of time in bed, hating myeloma and everything it stands for. I made empty promises to myself that I would stop pushing my body, for I believed that if I stopped pushing my body, all would be well and my muscles would behave.
During this time, not because I am a badass, but because I value my brain, I chose not to take any Oramorph. I chose functioning over pain. I functioned barely, for there is only so far one can afford to travel by taxi. Peckham Rye, for example, was a no-no.
My physiotherapy was cancelled indefinitely.
Sunday 29 June
I woke up, intent on travelling to Cardiff. I sat on a seat it is customary for all Western Europeans to sit on in the morning and with that act, I screamed as a shooting pain made itself known from my lower spine reaching all the other parts of my body. It pulsated. I stumbled to my room and cried out in pain. I could not describe it, but at the point it happened, I would rate it as a 10 on the medically accurate pain scale.
To cut a long story short, phone calls were made and before I knew it, I was in A&E once more, this time with the privacy to change into a gown, awaiting an X-Ray. Whilst waiting, a finger was placed up my anus.
The pain was unbearable.
I went for the X-ray, pleased that the technology has advanced enough that I did not need to get out of the trolley. The technology has not advanced enough to get a clear image, but that is by the by. My spine was all a spasm.
Once again, I was offered accommodation, but I chose the comfort of my bed and my flat over a shared ward with old ladies and their commodes. I was prescribed frequent, strong painkillers and home I went. I remained there, spaced out until this morning.
Tuesday 1 July
Today, I had me an MRI scan. It was less painful than I anticipated, but the two diazepams I took prior may have had an impact on my perception of time.
And now I have to wait… There will be paranoia and there will be pain. I just hope that we will shortly get to the bottom of this.
Myeloma is incapacitating. It needs no further encouragement from spinal difficulties. I will manage my treatment, I do not want to manage the pain on top of it. The pain, this pain, prevents me from living.
I hate it. No roller coasters I can handle. I need to roll over in my sleep.