Please not this blog was written yesterday. Today is Day+5, but really, who is counting?
I have to be blunt. This sitting around and waiting to get sick, is nonsense. It is a nonsense that is really is getting on my tits. That’s right, on my tits. I am aware that that statement is somewhat crude, but I do not want to use my very limited energy coming up with a more palatable way to express my frustration. Waiting to be deemed ill enough to be admitted to hospital is beyond tiresome. Knowing what that illness feels and looks like, and waiting for it to happen, is not something I would wish on my top ten list of worst enemies. It has to get worse before I can feel better. I cannot compartmentalise this yet. I cannot cross the bridge yet.
Today is Day + 4, the day I was admitted to hospital during the last transplant. I did not envisage outdoing my previous milestone. I planned, and I prepared, and I convinced myself that the treatment would take me down much quicker than it did last time… I am quickly trying to readjust my thinking. It’s back to the drawing board. It’s difficult to do that when every minute of every hour of every day of this last five days, I have waited with pure dread for the unforgivable mucotitus. The chickens have not hatched.
At this point during the last transplant, I felt worse than I currently feel. My bowel had already started to fill a reservoir, my stomach was cramping, I had not eaten for 24 hours and I had a fever. Today, I feel quite nauseous, but the three anti sickness pills taken three times a day, seem to be doing their job and I managed to nearly finish my lunch earlier. An outsider would be forgiven for thinking it was a piece of cake, but to the feeling of almost constant near vomit, add the need for 12-16 hours of sleep every day since Friday, burping after every sip of water, stiff joints and the occasional sweaty brow; and a poorly Emma you make. Just not poorly enough. What I experience now, I would describe as ‘horrible’, but it is nothing compared to what is to come and I feel that most keenly. Am I allow to seek sympathy now when I know I am going to need so much more in a few days, or am I just crying wolf?
There is a lady in the hotel who had her transplant on the same day as me, and she is waiting to become unwell just like me. However, I am jealous of her, because unlike me, she has not experienced the ‘feeling unwell’ before. It’s ridiculous, but I think I found not knowing exactly what to expect much easier than I have the last 72 hours of remembering. I would be the first to admit that I do not recall how accurately I have remembered it all. Accurate or not, my current anxiety is real
As things currently stand, my White Blood Count and Neutrophils both stand above 2, I do not have a temperature, my mouth feels woolly and my stools are non-existent. I am eating, but I am unable to drink more than a litre a day. I am more than under the weather.
I am whinging. I know I am whinging. I cannot help it. It’s the fatigue and the overwhelming fear that I will not be strong enough to manage the pain and inflammation of my body’s mucous membrane. That my friends, is the long and short of it.
Fortunately for me, I prepared for such moments of self doubt. There is the obvious response to my questions of coping and getting through it all, stolen from a sports brand, along the lines of just doing it.
However, when I feel like my ego needs a bit of stroking, I take my mind back to February 2015. “Hello a birthday weekend away with friends in February 2015”, I say. A weekend when, in spite of being at the end of a very long course of debilitating treatment, and thus, worrying of nothing but my ability to stay awake, I defied all my expectations and stayed awake. I saw 05:00hrs for reasons other than my back hurting and steroids . It was hard work and required some preparation, but I did it. I was so pleased and surprised with my three day performance, that I, rather delicately declared that I had “pulled some energy out of my arse”.
A few days after that, I was asked how I thought I was going to get through my transplant, and I responded with “I will just have to pull something out of my arse, that is what I have done so far and it has worked.”
So, can I pull something out of my arse yet?