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Peripheral neuropathy. A fancy pants way of saying pins and needles. Except it is a bit more than that and the more, is scary. When tingling on the soles of my feet and in my hands turned to prickles and cried out for attention, I had just started my 14th cycle of chemo. At night, as if hedgehogs at a rave, the prickles began dancing around, keeping me awake. My self congratulation for having coped well so far and immense gratitude to my body now seemed a little premature or at least to have jinxed me. A strange oscillation between numbness and pain set in. At first, it came and went so I wasn’t too worried. I kept up the once a week, Maintenance Chemo.
The pain got worse. The tingling turned to a sharp micro needle feeling and the ache crawled up my left arm. I remember thinking, this isn’t good. I started talking to hubby about wondering whether the benefits of chemo still outweighed the side effects. We decided they did. I kept going.
So, did the sensation and the pain. The cannula insertion became excruciating. The drip of the drug into my forearm was ok but by the end of the treatment the whole arm throbbed; I hadn’t had that before. In the days in between chemo, the pain, numbness and needling rollercoaster, deepened and didn’t let up. I felt increasingly fatigued, distracted and unable to concentrate. Pain will do that. The symptoms eased a little if I did nothing and stopped using my hands altogether. Have you tried that? It is nigh on impossible! My weekends became slow, sedentary, dull; low mood came a calling.
Then it hit me; the way I hold a pen had changed. The length of time I could hold a hairdryer and the way I used a hair brush had changed. Whenever a cap needed to come off a bottle, I now ask for help. I was using two hands to open doors or press flush buttons on toilets. Cooking had virtually stopped (and I had thought I was being lazy) instead lifting chopping boards, holding pans, taking roasting dishes out of the oven were difficult. I no longer enjoyed being in the kitchen. No wonder I’d started avoiding it. Hubby rattled off a list of other things I’d stopped doing or was doing differently.
I felt exhausted just thinking about it. Should I stop treatment? Should I keep going? Would I lose the use of my hands if I continued with chemo? What would life be like if I couldn’t use my hands? If the pain was too much? Was I being a wimp? I’m on a clinical trial, I signed the forms, I committed to it; could I simply stop? What would happen to me if I did stop? Would my cancer flare? Was chemo worth it? Was chemo making things worse? How do I decide whether to continue something that may extend my life, when it seems to be significantly reducing, the quality of the life, I have left? My brain; the whizzing and often unhelpful thought production machine, joined the rave.
I told my oncologists what we had noticed about the difficulty using my hands and how I was questioning whether to stay on the trial; questioning whether more chemo was the best thing for me. They ran a few tests and determined I had lost strength in my hands, especially my left hand. They recommended I defer chemo for a week.
That week came and went with no improvement. I went into a holding pattern for another week. Peripheral neuropathy is the pits and as well as dancing needles it feels like being burnt, a searing. The pain was constant, in my shoulder, my forearm and using my hands made everything worse. More MRIs were ordered. I started to worry about new lesions. Was it peripheral neuropathy? Would it get worse? Was it something else?
It came down to one week and the limit of missed weeks allowed when on the trial. I had happily missed a few weeks of treatment to be with Mum during part of her radiotherapy and then missed additional weeks while we waited to see if the pain and hand function would improve. We now had to decide, the medical team, hubby and I, the best next step for the one remaining week; chemo or no chemo. Sounds like deal or no deal except there was no money involved, no windfall or good luck, instead hope or no hope. Bones versus hands.
Hands won. Living rather than life, won. This time. Drs L and A recommended I stop chemo; they didn’t want my hands to get worse and so I was kicked off the trial.
After 21 months, 17 cycles of chemo, virtually weekly blood withdrawal, 100 odd cannula insertions…it was time to give the body a break.
I went off the trial and on to ‘care as usual’. What I didn’t factor in, was that meant I would no longer be looked after by the trial team, the team that had had my back from the beginning, the team I had come to know, feel safe with, could express my fears and questions to and laugh with. I would be losing the team that had been with me since March 2017 when I first stepped into the Chemo Day Unit and steeled myself for the uncertainty of cancer treatment. Sigh.
Then of course there were the dominos. The other life challenges, falling thick and fast. Not sure what I mean? See my last post, Silent Dominos.
So while still dealing with Mum’s recovery and ‘what next’ (she’s amazing by the way) and my peripheral neuropathy and hand malfunction… along came the next three dominos:
Who on earth had it in for my family? Who had we unintentionally, unwittingly, annoyed?
All of us with cancer. At the same time.
We didn’t deserve this. No one does. I needed to remind myself:
Cancer doesn’t care who you are or what you have or haven’t done. It’s simply not that choosy.
Posted in Cancer in my family, Chemotherapy for Myeloma, Myeloma Treatment, Pain, peripheral neuropathy, Symptoms and Side Effects Tagged with: Cancer, Chemotherapy, feet, hands, Myeloma, peripheral neuropathy, pins and needles, Side effects, Treatment
Sick as a dog, thank you Chemo. I am meant to be on top form tomorrow. It’s hubby’s very special birthday and we have a full day of fun planned. Thanks, thanks a million for deciding to be ‘a bad Chemo’ day. Team, my wonderful team, I feel let down. There has been a mistake. You forgot to give me my steroids. I trusted you. I felt safe. I wasn’t safe today. It made a difference, a huge difference. I let myself down too. I forgot to do my own checks. I forgot to ask for my steroids. Consequences. There are always consequences in this Cancer game, some big, some small, some easily remedied, others drastic and most, a right pain in the arse. Consequences, you can rip the rug right out from under my plans. A plan to; feel good, not have to go near a hospital and not have to be in, manage my mood mode because something unexpected and unhelpful has triggered me.
Monday, you didn’t start out a bad day. In fact, you were brilliant until 6pm. I went for my morning blood test, at 8.30, later than usual after a wee welcomed sleep in and a fab, fun, friends packed day, on Sunday. Then, I moseyed to a café near hospital to do Italian language practice before my lesson with the fabulous C from Sardegna. I wandered back to Macmillan to a meeting with my therapist who helped me think about my recent test results, the meaning I was adding and my plans to up the ante on the work front. As usual she was a great help. My pink smoothie, a nutri-bulleted beetroot and green salad was yummy. My call with friend and coach M, was great. Even Chemo went smoothly. Or so I thought.
I got home and started feeling wretched. More wretched than I have in ages after a Chemo day. Even drinking water was difficult. Pain, everywhere. Nausea, constant. Stuck close to the bathroom. The Dom anti-nausea pill wasn’t doing its thing. Sweat, cold, sweat, cold. Aaargh. Why? Why today? This is sh*t. Will I function tomorrow? Hubby’s birthday is so important to me. He has even taken the day off work which is so rare. 10.15pm rolls around and Chemo you bit*h, you have me sitting on the couch, head in hands and between my knees.
Then it dawns on me. I didn’t receive my steroids today. Dexamethasone, I wasn’t given it and I was so busy watching Americans on Prime to distract me from any pain of the cannula going in, that I didn’t do my own checks. Bugger. Now what. Now, I’ll have to telephone the Haematology Registrar on-call and see if I can take my day 16 (tomorrow’s dose) of Dex now. It’s not a great time of day to be taking a steroid, they’ll keep me up all night…but hopefully I’ll feel better. Priority right now: feel better.
Then I realise. Pissed off. If I take the dose I have at home, I’m going to have to go to hospital tomorrow now, the very day I didn’t want to go and normally don’t have to go near it. And on your birthday, darling Man. I don’t know how long it will take, to pick up a steroid on a day I am not usually there. VERY PISSED OFF. My feeling wretched, my having a problem, my having to go into problem solving mode, my having to deal with the impact, accept the consequences, pissed off…it was all so preventable. Annoyed. Sad.
I ring the hospital, ask for the Haematology Reg on call. Operator says she‘ll page him and he’ll call me back very soon, often straight away. I wait. 40 minutes later, I’m still waiting. I’m so sick, I can’t get angry. Hubby calls. The operator is surprised I haven’t heard. She pages him again. He calls back in 5 minutes. No apologies, no explanations (e.g on another call). He runs through the usual questions – have a vomited? Not yet. Do I have a temperature? No, just the sweat, cold combo. Do I have diarreah or constipation? No. Just pain, a lot of pain and nausea that pills don’t kick. Finally, he confirmed I should take the Dex I have at home and go up to hospital for another dose tomorrow.
I take the steroids and Hubby manages to find another stronger anti-nausea tablet amongst my large array of pills in ‘the pill box’ (a large bread bin, works a treat). I cuddle up to Hubby, focus on his breathing and wait for drugs to kick in. By the time we move it’s 1am and despite the steroid, I feel like my body is now desperate for sleep. Good. Happy to oblige. I drag myself upstairs to bed.
Hubby’s birthday day. I feel a whole heap better but very drained. He drives me to hospital. I go to get my steroid and my fear about how the day may unfold starts to be realised. Cancer, you bit*ch, you don’t make life easy. My steroid isn’t ready. I don’t get to drop in, collect it and get out again (my hope). Despite having an email back from my specialist in the morning, acknowledging that a) my Chemo, carfilzomib is hard to tolerate without the steroid and b) containing his request that I be dispensed the steroid today, directly from the Chemo Day Unit (CDU) and c) that the clinical trial nurse should call the CDU nurses to make sure they have the steroid ready for 9.30am – it’s not ready. I even get there about 10.40am, figuring I’d give everyone a bit more time to communicate and prepare.
I explain again, what has happened. The CDU nurses won’t give me the steroid and when they call the Clinical trial nurse for information something is lost in translation so they now think they need a prescription before they can give me anything. I show them my box of Dex with the prescription and dose details AGAIN. I start to get upset. Really upset. I could be waiting for ages for the clinical trial nurse to come to the CDU with a prescription (I’ve been through this before so know how long it can take) and then if I must go to the regular hospital pharmacy for it to be filled, I can write off another hour, it is hideously inefficient.
Tears. Yep they’re coming. I cry. M the wonderful receptionist comes to comfort me and says ‘this is not like you’ and to find out what’s going on. I fleetingly wonder ‘what is like me, when I’m here?’ I feel bad because I know the team have had someone die today and one of the head nurses has had to race off and manage that. My tears over impacting my day with my hubby seem trivial in comparison and yet not, nothing is trivial in this Cancer journey. It’s all bearable for me most of the time, yet it is all sh*t too. I cry some more.
Nurse L comes to my rescue. She looked after me all last year and I missed her when she left to do a stint in private practice. She asks what is going on, I tell her, show her my empty box of Dex and say I just need my day 16 dose because I had to take it last night after not receiving the steroids yesterday. I don’t say which Nurse forgot to give me the steroid. Nurses are human. We all make mistakes. She is usually so so good so must have had an ‘off day’. AND, it was my mistake too. It’s not really fair to hand all responsibility and agency of my care over to a Nurse. After all, I bang on about being the agent in your own health and treatment for as long as you possibly can. Nurse L goes and gets the Dex dose immediately and finally I get to leave.
Thank you M and L. You saved my day. I know my Clinician plans to talk to the nurses about how the steroid was missed but I don’t worry about that now. I know mistakes happen yet between us, the Nurses and I are usually so good at going through a checklist each time. It’s a shame it went wrong.
On this day of all days.
Psychology Tips – Working with your and others’ mistakes
Admitting mistakes can be hard. Research shows there are links between our beliefs about whether we can change our behaviour or whether our personality is fixed and if mistakes and admitting mistakes are perceived threats.1 Cognitive Scientist, Art Markman summarised the research results2 and explains when you believe that your behaviour can change, you are more likely to be willing to admit responsibility. You recognise that by admitting what you have done wrong, you can work to make it better, to grow and so you are not threatened or are less threatened by admitting mistakes.
People who do not believe that they can change, can be stressed by admitting their mistakes, because they believe that those mistakes say something fundamental about who they are as a person. Understanding that people see their own mistakes as a threat, and have different beliefs about their own and possibly others’ ability to change, can help us to remember to avoid showing unhelpful frustration and anger when managing mistakes. We can all change our behaviour. We can all learn from our mistakes. We can all repair and improve relationships. It can take some people longer than others, to recognise that change and growth is possible, especially when their starting point is one of: I and others have fixed personalities and mistakes are flaws.
It’s easy to get frustrated with others’ mistakes when we feel something is unfair (it can be completely justified) but does it help the situation to show the frustration? A compassionate response will get you more powerful results and responding with anger and frustration negatively impacts loyalty3,4. In my case, I want the Nurses to like treating me. I want them to feel we are on the same team, to feel loyal, committed. Showing my frustration and upset was normal, human, yet unlikely to have been the optimal way to have managed the situation. Remembering that frustration, anger and stress raise heart rates, make it harder to think, mean that when recognising frustration, a good first step is to pause, be mindful, and then choose a more powerful response. One of clear communication, compassion, kindness, empathy, forgiveness. This is more likely to invoke compassion, kindness and loyalty in return.
Recognise too that anger, frustration and upset at mistakes of yours and others are often underpinned and exacerbated by worry and a catastrophising thinking style. I was worrying that my need to go to hospital on Hubby’s birthday day would ruin our day. Ruin his day. Eventually I managed to realise an unhelpful worry and thinking style was probably in play and ask myself, was my hospital visit really the worst thing in the world? Were my thoughts true, would our day really be ruined? How much time in our day did it take up really? Was it more likely that hubby was happy to help and had enjoyed his rare time alone, in a café, doing things he wanted to do, without having to be at work, while I was at hospital? Regaining perspective enabled me to let my frustration and upset go. An hour later I noticed I was laughing at something Hubby said and our day was going well. Yes, it meant we came home earlier than expected because I was really tired yet we relaxed together and the evening was a good one. I could easily have been very tired anyway. It’s not unusual for the day after Chemo.
1 Who accepts responsibility for their transgressions? Schumann, K and Dweck, CS. Who accepts responsibility for their transgressions? Pers Soc Psychol Bull. 2014 Dec;40(12):1598-610. doi: 10.1177/0146167214552789
2 Markman, A. (2014) What makes some of us own our mistakes and not others?
(2009) Witnessing excellence in action: the ‘other-praising’ emotions of elevation, gratitude, and admiration, The Journal of Positive Psychology, 4:2, 105-127
4 See Adam Grant, Psychologist and author of Give and take: A revolutionary approach to success. See also work by Emma Seppala, Center for Compassion and Altruism Research and Education.
Shadow and Dex pictures by Me
© 2018 Janine Hayward www.psychingoutcancer.com. All rights reserved.
Posted in Chemotherapy for Myeloma, Myeloma Treatment, Psychology for Cancer, Symptoms and Side Effects Tagged with: Cancer, Carfilzomib, Compassion, Consequences, Dexamethazone, Frustration, Mindfulness, Mistake, Mistakes, Myeloma, Nausea, Psychology, Sick, Steroids, Sweats, Tears, Worry
Dr L turned to his colleague and said, ‘for someone with Myeloma, Janine’s immune system is a Schwarzenegger’. Hey Arnie, you are now a metaphor for my health status. Who’d have thought?! It sounds so positive and I am very grateful that my precious physical self is coping so well with the toxicity of Chemo. I notice too that I get a little hung up on the ‘for someone with Myeloma’ phrase though more about that in the next post. Now, I want to talk about my relationship with my body. It has become a bit confused.
Can I share a secret? I liked it when cancer, chemo and a diet change caused me to lose weight. I like being closer to 60kg than 70kg. I like how slim and less pear shaped my legs look. I like being size 10 and for a few weeks, size 8. All my life, I have valued being slim, strived for it. I’m not obsessive. I don’t over exercise or starve myself or think about it constantly. Even when I put on two stone from IVF treatment: I hated it but didn’t panic. The weight had context. Once we stopped IVF treatments, I lost a stone quickly and then worked on chipping away at the rest. I like cake. I binge occasionally (or did before this new eating regime). Who doesn’t when there is a pack of dark chocolate hob nobs in the house and the hormones are taking over? I would say I’m weight and health conscious with no extremes.
I’ve never liked my arms: they’re too big. Well, apart from the time I sanded every spindle on a stair case by hand: my arms were toned, like Madonna’s or Geri Halliwell’s. I thought my arms looked great after that. It didn’t last long. Finding tops and elegant shirts to fit my arms has always been a hassle. The welcomed side effect from cancer, chemo and clean eating has been the slightly thinner arms and shirts fitting, for once. I don’t really want to give that up yet…
I find myself struggling. I’m in a tussle inside my head. Too much weight and muscle loss is not healthy, not helpful and goes against Dr L’s advice. He explained that he had noticed that people with Myeloma who keep up with the gym and have some muscle reserve seem to manage the chemo better. I do want to live as long and as well as I can. Yet I find myself loving my new size. I bought a pair of boyfriend jeans a few months into treatment, laughing with a wave of pleasure when I discovered I could fit into a size 10 only to find they slipped off a month later and I’d lost even more weight. Now what do I wear? Nothing in my wardrobe fits!!
At that point, 61kg, it did get a bit worrying. My face was looking drawn. My rib cage and spinal vertebrae were a too visible. I promised Dr L that I wouldn’t let my weight fall further. I expanded my food repertoire slightly (good quality bacon, goats cheese, sourdough toast occasionally) and started the weight training.
Back at the gym, I felt good and waves of relief from feeling stronger. I’d become so weak. I was asking hubby to open jars and water bottles for me and lift anything. This does not fit with my independent and equality philosophy. Yet, I dislike how quickly my leg and arm muscles grow. When my weight started to rise slowly I would find it hard to like what I saw in the mirror. I know it may seem silly in others’ minds. Intellectually, I know I look ‘normal’, ‘healthy’ and would still look heathy even if I did put on weight (I’m fortunate to be tall). Except, somehow it feels like a tug of war in my brain – Janine, don’t put on more bulk, you look good as you are (now size 10-12) versus Janine, you need more muscle and strength to manage Chemo effectively, get yourself to the gym.
For more years than I care to think about, I have gone to buy clothes and come back disillusioned when I have needed that elusive size 13 or 15. It seems crazy to have the same problem at a lower size (now 9 or 11) and with the added complication of my size constantly changing. I can’t afford and wouldn’t want to invest in new sets of clothing every few months yet as my weight goes up and down on chemo, what can I do? Frustrating. I hate being uncomfortable in clothes. I really dislike ill-fitting clothes that don’t help me feel good and enhance how I look in the world. Too loose is as bad as too tight!
Even more annoying, last summer, before diagnosis, I bought some new clothes after ‘making do’ for a few years. Now they are sitting in the wardrobe, barely used as they are far too big. I am in the maintenance phase of treatment, with 3 days rather than six days a month of Chemo and my weight is climbing and fast. I’m 67kg today. Maybe I’ll need those ‘larger’ clothes again in a couple of months. Except, I don’t really want to get any bigger or go back to the size of those clothes again. The 6 days of steroids each month may have something to say about that.
67kg. Nothing to worry about. Yet, I don’t feel good about it. I am beginning to worry that a steroid induced, sharp trajectory up of weight, will set in and hang around for the duration of treatment. There are 16 months to go! That’s a lot of weight gain. That makes me feel sick.
It is also motivating. I’m back on the high veg and protein regime. A few bits of non-clean eating crept in as I celebrated getting through the first 48 (see previous blog) and 9 months of treatment. Then I let the goodies stay, it was Christmas after all. Then I felt sorry for myself with the arrival of two viruses back to back. January came and went, and it’s always the toughest month in UK for me. It’s so often grey, cold, hibernation inducing and all I want to do is eat comfort food!
Oh well, not having the clothes I would like, in the bigger scheme of things, is insignificant really. If I hover around the 65kg mark and I am made of tiny Arnie style muscles, that will be good enough. Viruses and January blues are gone. The revolution is here. February has arrived.
I’m back on track with preventing my body from being a perfect host for cancer. I celebrate a new food focus: FISH. It is easy to do: I am languishing on the beautiful beaches of ANTIGUA for a much-needed holiday. Fresh snapper, mahi and octopus are on the menu. The company is great (hubby and besties), the sun is high, the sea is warm and the forecast is rosy. No time for weight tussles now: The bikini is out and about!
Antigua seascape: Photo by me
© 2017 Janine Hayward www.psychingoutcancer.com. All rights reserved.
What a year! I turned 48, I was diagnosed with cancer and I’ve completed 48 chemo sessions. I love the number 48; it seems so symmetrical to me (I love a bit of symmetry). Now ‘48’ has a WHOLE new world of associations!
Warning…I have happy news, and, I’m going to talk about toilet rituals.
First, the rituals.
This may seem very strange to those of you who have always been super careful about hygiene when using public loos. In my defence, I have rarely worried about these things because my childhood in New Zealand was filled with non-traditional toilet arrangements. When you are fortunate enough to spend all day at the beach or walking in the bush or driving long stretches of deserted road or camping in remote sites you tend to get over yourself quite quickly about going to the loo wherever and however.
Doing your business quickly behind a tree, rock, or in a smelly long drop with minimal paper or alternatively leaves or seaweed, is not that unusual. Worrying about being seen was always a bit more bothersome than worrying about bugs, microbes or possible infections! The upshot is; I have never worried about using public loos, ‘catching anything’ or having to use disinfectant. I just focussed on washing my hands well.
Now that my immune system is compromised it’s another story completely….though maybe I’m being a bit anal? (pun intended)
In the Chemo Day Unit, patients are asked to ‘wipe the loo’ with anti-bacterial wipes before and after use. I recently discovered I had developed a wee ritual…Take a wipe, clean toilet seat, fold dirty side in, use clean side to wipe toilet handle, tap, hand wash dispenser, door lock, door handle. Dispose of wipe in bin. Use loo. Wash and dry hands properly – you know the 8-10 step process (depending on the poster). Take new wipe and clean toilet. Goodness knows what bugs I could pick up if I didn’t do this; don’t tell me!
Anyway, this is a new ritual in my life and once again one that seems to consume a little more of my available time and life though hopefully is worth it. It seems so, so far, as I have yet to pick up any major nasties despite lower immunity and chemotherapy for 9 months now. This ritual has now made its way out of the hospital and into public conveniences. AM I being anal? I’ll let you be the judge!
…is happy, positive and hope-FULL…I’m very grateful for it and its effect; a reaffirmation of my faith in my medical team, the drugs and my health and life choices. The Myeloma presence in my body has decreased further in the last few months… It’s down to 1 g/l (42 g/l at its peak) and a may be yet to plateau. Yee ha! Not only that, the serum kappa light chain results are 1.75 mg/l, backing up this great news and described as ‘excellent’ by Dr L. On top of that my liver is doing well. My Hb (Haemoglobin, the protein found in the red blood cells that carries oxygen around) level is back up to 121 g/l so I no longer need to consider taking EPO (yes, the cheaty cyclists’ drug of choice! I’m a tad disappointed. I had wanted to experience how energised I’d feel!) While 121 g/l is lower than the desired normal levels (125 g/l plus) it is great for someone with Myeloma. My kidneys are also doing OK for someone with Myeloma, my Creatinine is 69 umol/L and normal level for women is approx. 45 -90 umol/L (I think; there seems to be some debate!). Lots of good, great news, here. Dr L delivered these details and then reminded me to keep drinking 2-3 litres of water today for kidney care. I imagined my kidneys; bloated, water-logged, bean-shaped balloons, wrapped up in clouds of cotton wool, floating about, relaxed and without a worry in the world.
I’ve had yet another bone marrow biopsy and pet scan (what effect does three doses of radioactive sugar chasing gunk in a year have on one’s body? I guess I’ll find out!). I have an ear numbing full body MRI coming up in a fortnight.
Let’s hope they show (or don’t show lesions at all) that lesions are further dissolved and there are no new uninvited guests!!
What a year.
One number I’ll never forget.
Images: Me (graphs va KCH), Long Drop – Sarang (public domain use permission granted)
© 2017 Janine Hayward www.psychingoutcancer.com. All rights reserved.
OK Mr Tumour or more accurately Messrs Tumours. Listen up. Yep, all four of you. You know who you are. You are hanging around unwanted and uninvited. Where do you get off thinking its ok to be dossing about in my body? You’re a greedy bunch, aren’t you? Not contented with one spot, you hunker down in two places in my spine, my shoulder and my sternum. You threaten me with paralysis as you near my spinal cord and grow dark and big. What arrogance! Well, I have some words for you.
I have mindfulness and meditation and you are not going to like them. In fact, I already know you haven’t seen them coming. They have roughed you up a bit with their calm, kind, ease. Aww. Tough. If you can show up unannounced, I sure as hell can unleash mindfulness and meditation on you.
Your resistance is futile. You are already weaker. You can keep trying to hide out, munch on sugars (if I give you any) and try to take over the joint…but I know where you are. Your luck has run out. The Chemo is working. My new diet is working. My NHS medical team is great. I am doing fine. My mindfulness and meditation practice, reminds me this is so. Mindfulness and meditation practice, whether 5 minutes or 35 minutes; it’s getting to you, Mr Tumour (yes you, the large one in my lower spine). I’m talking to you.
YOU are DISSOLVING.
One at a time. Worst, darkest, nastiest first. You are dissolving. I know because I have seen you. My MRI showed me. You are thinner, lighter, dissolving, dying. Don’t feel bad. You are no match for kindness, curiosity, breath, acceptance, listening, powerful visualisation, practice of belief. Belief that my decisions about my treatment have been the right ones for me, that my medical team is the right one for me, the Chemo is the right Chemo for me and that I am doing fine.
My favourite guided meditation reminds me of this.
NOW you are DISSOLVING.
Meditation helps me visualise an all-powerful, protective, transformative, warm, healing light. It wraps up all four of you, Mr Tumour, you and your buddies, letting you know you are not needed. The light heals my body, generates new healthy cells, rids me of you. This same meditation helps me draw energy, power and peace from the Universe, imagine, believe and trust I am in safe hands, doing the best I can do. It is working. You are not running this show or in charge of this gig. I am; with the help and support of mindfulness and meditation.
Mindfulness for sleep. Mindfulness for Cancer. Mindfulness. It helps me to stop. To be. To breathe. To observe. Mindfulness, paying attention, moment to moment, in a kind, curious, non-judgemental way. Not like you, Tumours. You are random, cruel, unnecessary. Yet, thanks to Mindfulness, I accept you. I accept that you are here. I watch you, learn from you, ignore you and listen to you. I accept you have muscled your way in, demanded to be seen, to be heard. With Mindfulness, you don’t get to invade my every moment or even most moments. You don’t get to hurt my sense of who I am. You don’t get to take over. You get to be. Until, you are no longer being.
Listen up Mr Tumour. You are superfluous to requirements. While I accept you are there, I’m just letting you know you can go and take your friends with you. I know you are likely to return in the future; I’m a realist. Right now, you are not needed and not wanted. By the time, you want to make a comeback, I will be stronger than I am now, even more practiced in mindfulness and meditation, and healthier with years of a great low sugar diet behind me. I will have more chemo options and more effective medical solutions at my disposal. I will know more about you, your characteristics and the environment you need to thrive. I won’t provide it. You’ll have to find somewhere else to go or better yet not bother at all. I am ready now. I will be ready in the future.
I might have dark days and dark weeks through this journey Mr Tumour but that is nothing on how uncomfortable I am making things for you. I am not going to fight you. I’m not in a battle. I simply will not be providing the terrain that you want. I see you. You are dissolving. Soon I won’t see you. You are getter weaker. Myeloma may remain but you Mr Tumour are no match for my healing light. You do not have to stick around. Mindfulness and meditation, they’ll remind me why you came and what you can teach me. I won’t forget you. I don’t however, need you. I will watch you dissolve. You can leave now. Thank you.
Three of my favourites;
Survive Thrive and “Dawning of the Day” by Aine Minogue
© 2017 Janine Hayward www.psychingoutcancer.com. All rights reserved.
I’m going to be sick. I’m running to the bathroom. I’m not going to make it. I’m scanning for basins and thinking use the kitchen if I can’t make it to the bathroom. At least make it to the tiles, it will be easier to clean up. I make it, this time. While I’m trying to keep my hair out of the toilet bowl and not notice how sore my knees are on the floor I start thinking; Where did this nausea come from? The last three months have been relatively easy; is this what Chemo is really like? Is this the nausea others talk about? Well they can have it back; it’s awful. And it’s not the worst thing.
I slowly make it back to the couch and lie down. I’m wondering if this last month of induction treatment is worse because I have responded so well to Chemotherapy over the last few months, now there is less cancer to vamoose; more good cells are copping it. I’m thinking about this when I notice my brain is getting hot. Not my head, not like a headache; my brain. In fact, its not just hot, it’s getting hotter by the second. My brain is on fire and I’m not sure I can cope. My eyes feel heavy…and hot. I can’t keep them open but I feel sick and am going to have to get up any second to go to the bathroom again. At this rate I’m going to need a couch near the bathroom or in it, not that it would fit. My brain hell fire is getting worse and my body is screaming at me to close my eyes, sleep, now!
I can’t, I have to go back to the bathroom. Ginger tea isn’t working this time. The anti-nausea pill isn’t working either. This chemo experience is different, and besides, I can’t keep anything down. So much for gaining weight or staying hydrated. A bit hard to do when I’m vomiting. I manage the journey to the bathroom, throw up and hang out for a while waiting for the next wave of nausea. I have a picture of my brain burning bright yellow and red with solar flare flames coming off the top of it, searing their way out of my skull. My brain feels like it is about to explode. It’s excruciating. Am I literally being fried with chemicals? I make it back to the couch and succumb gratefully to sleep.
From 4pm to 2am I’m in the bathroom or asleep. When I wake I feel trashed, tired but better. I eat two rice cakes and marmite (love it or hate it, it has its moments) and manage to take my meds. Relief. I feel slightly normal again. I watch TV for an hour and go upstairs to bed.
Sleep has been elusive over the last three to six months. I often wake every 1-2 hours. I am feeling a bit low and constantly tired despite the steroids. Unsurprising really when I’m not sleeping well. I talk to Dr L about pills and the nausea/brain fire. He takes control and agrees sleeping pills are a good idea and proposes a second anti-nausea drug. He doesn’t want me ‘putting up with’ anything. Relief again. I am finally going to get a good night’s sleep. Florence pops into my mind.
Music; Dog Days are Over, Florence and the Machine
For the first three months/rounds of Chemo I’d had no anti-nausea help and found using simple ginger tea worked. Now, I’m using two lots of anti nausea meds and ginger tea. The pfaffy thing; I need to remember to take the new meds 30-60 mins before food, three times a day. More stuff to think about when there are already so many pills and supplements to keep a handle on and information about upcoming treatment to process. Still, I’m highly motivated to prevent “brain on fire” and vomiting every five minutes – funny that.
The flag at Kings College Hospital is at half mast during my hospital visit, appropriately, for the victims of the horrendous attacks in London and Manchester. I feel strange too; grateful for not being in one of my favourite areas of London, an old stomping ground, at the time the attacker was there and yet also wondering how I would have reacted if it was me the person with a knife had come after. Does knowing you are dying sooner than expected change how you might react in crisis? Would I have run or taken more risks? Thrown things at the attackers, tried to fight back or help those that had been stabbed? Who knows? I can’t know. I’m grateful in many ways for not knowing and yet I’m curious about whether I would be different now.
The rest of month four passes without too many glitches and the best thing is getting some sleep – hurrah! I’m a bit depressed about how much strength I’ve lost though, and how old I feel when I can’t undo a jar lid or carry something I’d usually be able to carry. Weight training is now 20 reps of 1kg weights rather than three sets of 12 reps of a much higher weight. Fatigue is ever present.
This is not a novel new project anymore. The chemo, the eating regime, I’m over it. I want a break.
Editorial Support: Stephanie Kemp
© 2017 Janine Hayward www.psychingoutcancer.com. All rights reserved.
I bopped down the hospital corridor towards the Chemo Unit (listening to a bit of Adele) and started thinking back over this cycle of treatment. It’s not a good or bad news story. It’s a GREAT news story. Yes, there are a few side lines about niggly things, just to keep it real. Great news though; we can always do with a bit of that, can’t we?
Music – Music was back, yay! All a bit eclectic, and hey, that’s how I roll!
The theme-tune from Cheers: Where Everybody Knows Your Name, Gary Portnoy; On the Level, Mac DeMarco (calming and grating at same time); The Only Way Is Up, Yazz; Rapture, Blondie; An hour of Radio 1 in an afternoon; Right as Rain, Adele (transpose talk of lover with Myeloma; it works!)
Also gobbled up podcast S-Town, Serial Series 2 (Series 1 was great too).
Here’s a graph. I love a good graph, don’t you? I especially love this one as it shows some important stuff going in a mighty good direction. Cancer presence is trending down. My chemo response rate is trending up! Yeah, baby!!! I’m not fighting with Myeloma; I am guiding it to the door, hoping ultimately to close the door behind it for as long as possible.
The great news
My para-protein level, the indicator of those unwanted Myeloma plasma cells (now kicked to dust over the first two cycles of Chemo) is looking good, very good. My results have come down: from 40 g/l at diagnosis, up at 42 g/l when starting treatment, down to 17g/l by the early part of this cycle and by the third week, 11 g/l. The medical team look for (and the clinical trial requires for next step progression) a minimum of partial response (PR) by the end of the induction treatment (four cycles of Chemo). PR is a drop of 50% of presence of Myeloma indicated initially by the para protein level. The good news is that I had achieved PR by the end of Cycle Two! Also, the para protein level has kept heading in the right direction: down! I still have one cycle to go in this round so a great overall response rate seems so possible right now. And I am still gunning for 100%. I hope I am not too disappointed if 100% is not achieved.
The niggly things
It was a tough start to Cycle Three. I was feeling a bit low. On day one, Si and I attended a clinic appointment with my Clinical Trial lead. It was helpful, and he kicked off the conversation about the stem cell harvest. It was also awful. He went over the prognosis again: the incurable nature of Myeloma. Then he followed with the dramatic strides that have been made in the last two years with new drugs and better outcomes. They are better outcomes: people with Myeloma receiving treatment used to get three years, recently they were getting seven, and now the average is 8-10 years. Great strides, but still short, and I had trouble on that day hearing it all again. I wanted to focus on next steps in the treatment instead, not how long it may or may not ‘get’ me. I left feeling utterly drained and not overly well-informed about the cell collection as I had trouble listening to these points with loads of the other stuff in my mind creating noise.
While the scaredy needles seemed to get over their fear this month (Nurse L worked her magic), a strange rash appeared down my left arm (worse than the little bit I had experienced in early days of Chemo) and it hung about for a couple of days. No known cause at this stage and something to look out for again. My calcium level dropped a bit so I now take calcium tablets too. My urea and creatinine levels dropped for a week. These returned to normal after I focussed on keeping up the three litres of water a day and recognised night sweats might be dehydrating me a bit more than I had thought.
Long waits for Chemo occurred on a few days. One day was over three hours and down to a process issue; these kind of things happen sometimes yet are usually preventable. I gave what I hope was constructive and gentle feedback to the medical team. They were supportive, listened really well and agreed a plan of action. A Clinical Trial Nurse, M, thanked me for being an active partner in my treatment: for my feedback and follow up on things they have mentioned in the past, such as providing patient diaries and requesting new ones if they have not been received. Her comment felt genuine and I really appreciated it. I never want to overstep or cause additional work, yet my nose for process re-engineering and efficiency often rears its head, especially in the NHS. The NHS is awesome (free!) and could benefit from regular process review, especially as when used well, reviews and service/process development ultimately save time and cost. Hey, who has time to do timely reviews? More appropriate NHS resources required! Let’s hope Brexit doesn’t scupper that. Or the upcoming election.
Other great things; small and large
I attended a helpful webinar through MMRF that shared the latest USA understanding and treatments. Lots of promising diagnosis tools and new drugs are coming down the line that will hopefully be available in the UK by the time I need them, after my initial remission period lapses. I also attended a fabulous day at Kings College Hospital where the latest UK-based clinical trial information and outcomes were shared. We were given a tour of the labs in which blood and marrow are analysed, stored (at -196 degrees) and the clinical research facility. After donning the blue plastic shoes, hair bands and protectors to ensure we didn’t cause any contamination, we were taken into one part of the facility where we could safely view the highly-restricted areas and complex equipment – very ‘CSI’ (for anyone who has watched those TV programmes as much as I have). We learned about how contamination is monitored and prevented, and how studies of highly sensitive blood and organs are undertaken. Fascinating, and a real privilege to see ‘behind the scenes’ in this way.
My girlfriend B came along to Chemo with me on day 2 this month and it was so great to have her there. She was calm in a strange environment and we laughed together which was fab. Strangely, despite the circumstances, this day and another day on which we did meditation together and a third day when we made time for a great lunch date (unfortunately just before she left London; would have been great to fit in more of these) really stood out to me as special moments, quality time and very supportive.
We finally christened the table tennis table (Si’s birthday present). I am queen of the table; the presiding champion in the round robin between Si, my brother-in-law and me. Of course, were you ever in any doubt? Si didn’t like that and brought up other stories about me beating him at clay-pigeon shooting over ten years ago during another birthday present experience for him. Ooops! Although, wait until Mum gets here, she tends to claim table tennis crowns!
On the last day of Chemo this month, I wore a dress and two people told me I looked lovely. What a great start to the day. Especially as I felt very tired that morning. Choices again. I could have worn tracky bottoms and a top like I did the day before and that would have been fine. I needed a pick-me-up. A dress and makeup was a helpful move. After all, I felt better. It was great to dance in on the way up to Hospital, feeling the fabric move around my bod. And hey, it resulted in compliments – the dress, not the dancing! Worth it, that little bit of effort. I might not have the energy to do this next time and that’s ok. It was lovely to grab the moment on that day.
Thank you to you, the readers; there are now over 800 users on the Psyching Out Cancer blog.
Psychology – Reflection
Life is a daily, weekly, yearly roller-coaster of good, difficult and neutral events that come and go. Our response to each event – small or huge, the attention we give each, the meaning we add, the willingness to accept the unchangeable – all dictate how we well we cope with the rollercoaster. Our ability to pause, notice, and choose a response, facilitates how much we stop and enjoy the good times, and ensures the more difficult times have less impact on our day to day lives and long term goals. Sometimes though, we forget to pause or find it difficult to pause; this is where in addition to knowing our triggers for unpleasant reactions, Reflection is crucial.
Reflection is defined as serious thought or consideration. In psychology, reflection often involves a therapist reading or saying the client’s words back to the client so that they can hear for themselves what they have said and evaluate the logic or reasoning behind their own statements. You can also be your own therapist with reflection. Self-reflection can be referred to as examination and contemplation of our own thoughts and behaviour; helping ourselves to hear and evaluate.1-3
There can be no knowledge without emotion. We may be aware of a truth, yet until we have felt its force, it is not ours. To the cognition of the brain must be added the experience of the soul.
Arnold Bennett (1867–1931) 4
The lessons I have learned, and psychology skills I have applied, this month have often been difficult to remember to use in a timely manner and I have needed time to notice and understand my reaction and needs. The post reflection lessons have been transformative and confronting; they have led to open, honest debate with myself and communication with others such as in my previous post ‘Killing Me with Kindness’.
All in the Mind, a BBC Radio show presented by Claudia Hammond, is a fabulous resource for learning about mental health (links below). The show often hears from people with experience of mental health difficulties, charities working in this space, expert clinicians, and academics and researchers who explain the latest evidence about incidence and treatment, and debunk myths. In one of the recent episodes, evidence was presented about the power of expressive writing about your experiences and the positive outcomes that were experienced.
Writing can be, for some, a great way to facilitate reflection. Whether it is keeping a diary, or writing a letter to yourself or another, writing about how events made you feel emotionally and physically, the thoughts you noticed, what you were curious about or wondered about in terms of the event, yourself, the other person’s thinking, feelings, reaction, motivations. It can be so helpful to ‘not to make the person wrong’. Instead, focus on the event or behaviour and how it made you feel, how you thought it might have made the other person feel, with curiosity and compassion. Recognise that you may have their feelings and thoughts wrong; be careful not to assume and instead be curious. You do NOT have to send the letter. You do NOT have to keep the letter once it is written, though you may find it helpful to send or re-read them; only you can decide this.
For those that don’t like writing, a Dictaphone, a voice recorder, or even an app that converts your voice to word or pages can be used.
If neither of these appeals, taking time out simply to be and think about a past event, day, week, a particular period, can be useful. Notice all those things above, and also notice what worked well, what worked less well, and what you would do differently or not do differently.
Alternatively, and I highly recommend this approach (which can be done alone or in combination with the others above) solely focus on taking time to sit, put yourself back into the event and be with whichever emotions, light or strong, arise. Allow yourself to feel them, deeply, outwardly with tears, or anger or another response, if that is what arises, without judgement of yourself or anyone else. This type of reflection helps your body and mind to fully experience and process events together. Regular reflection, not rumination where negative thoughts are given repeated attention, but regular curiosity-based reflection, can help process strong emotions.
All regular reflection can help your mind and body notice when similar events are happening again, often earlier than usual, and sometimes even in the moment. This observation then allows for pause and choice of response; helpful or unhelpful, one that serves you well or doesn’t serve you well.
Remember, after reflection, be kind to yourself; your responses and emotions within reflection are normal. If you feel upset or angry afterwards, take 5 minutes or more to do something enjoyable even for a few minutes; take a few deep slow breaths; tell yourself you are ok, safe, good enough; read a magazine; do one yoga sun salutation; make a cup of coffee; close your eyes; do a body relaxation exercise, a tai chi movement, a back stretch or something else relaxing and fun to bring your arousal level down before trying to get on with your day.
Reflection is an important skill for maintaining good mental health and one worth investing time in practicing: through writing, dictating or focussing on your experience in a curious way that allows you to fully experience your emotions.
Cycle Three – done. A roller-coaster and many highlights of great news. Onwards with Cycle Four, the last month of Chemo before the next phase of treatment. Gosh, the time has gone quickly.
BBC – All in the Mind. http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b006qxx9
All In The Mind, Episode including benefits of expressive writing (15 May 17) http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b08n2wcz
Gibbs Reflective Cycle (in Dye, 2011), University of Cumbria (2016)
1 Oxford Dictionaries https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/reflection
2 Alley Dog Psychology Glossary https://www.alleydog.com/glossary/definition.php?term=Reflection
3 Psychology Dictionary http://psychologydictionary.org/self-reflection/
4 A return to the use of emotion and reflection. Helen Demetriou and Elaine Wilson
Images: B, Me
Editorial Support: Stephanie Kemp
© 2017 Janine Hayward www.psychingoutcancer.com. All rights reserved.
It’s been hard to write the blog in week’s four, five and six of Chemo; I didn’t know where to start, there didn’t seem to be time, and I was worrying. Even Music didn’t show up much; I didn’t hear it or go looking for it – strange.
I started to worry about having little time; not time on this earth but time during the day to do all the things I needed to do. Sound familiar? I have learned over the years that when I worry about not having enough time, it usually means I am probably trying to do too much and am not getting enough rest or chill space. I noticed too that when reminders popped up in my calendar to get some ‘headspace’ or do a visualisation, I was swiping them away and thinking I’ll do that later yet later never came. This worried me.
I wondered whether my blood test results for week four would not be as good as the previous weeks and imply that going away to Canada had been a bad call after all. It turned out this worry, while natural, was unfounded; my results showed more test results falling within the normal range than in the previous weeks and suggested my immune system was hanging in there – a good result.
I worried about an interaction with a Nurse and found myself feeling ‘told off’, then wondering if I was being over sensitive, or not sensitive enough to others. I felt guilty for coping well with and doing well on Chemo. The nurse had asked how I was doing and I had said something along the lines of “really well thanks” and “chemo had been quick today”. I heard a response of “well that’s not the case for everyone”.
Then a stream of thoughts flooded my mind;
Feeling a bit indignant, more thoughts rushed in;
Overnight and with reflection I decided I probably was being a bit sensitive and it was also fine to be positive. The following day I checked in with the nurse, who quickly reassured me that he had not thought I’d been insensitive to others on the ward at all. We cleared any misunderstanding and he reiterated how great it was that I was doing well. This frank discussion helped bring clarity and perspective to my thoughts. It stopped this worry completely. I’m glad I raised it with the nurse even though I was uncertain (and nervous) about what I might hear.
Despite this resolution, a residual sense of stress, worry and an over active adrenal system remained; the opposite of the many calm moments that I had been experiencing last month. The overall worrying continued.
My weight had dropped again to 66kg and I was struggling to eat enough calories. I often didn’t feel hungry but still tried to eat. I hoped my weight would stabilise and even climb back up to 68kg. That weight had felt comfortable while now I noticed I didn’t seem to have much padding, wondered if I really did have much of a reserve if I got an infection and I noticed I had lost muscle mass. The backs of my hands look like some very elderly person’s hands; dry and wrinkly despite the constant fluid intake. I worried that my weight would keep falling and my skin would get worse.
I worried about whether I should stick to the plan of not working for six months to focus on getting to remission as successfully as possible or to work while I still could. I worried about if I worked, would it be too stressful, leave me enough time to rest or feel like it’s getting in the way. I worried about not being able to work out how much work was too much, and for private practice whether enough work matched with breaking even financially. I worried about how to contain my clients’ concerns if my appearance changed with more chemo and how I provide a consistency of safe space for them if my medical appointments needed to change in the future. I worried and yet I missed making a difference and being the psychologist I know I can be.
To cap off the week, I finally had a long-awaited Ear, Nose and Throat appointment (yet another hospital visit) to check my possible hearing loss. This is something else I have been worried about for a long time and that has no doubt been bugging Si for years as I constantly ask him to repeat himself or need the TV volume well above the level he would choose. I had noticed my hearing was worse when; I’d find it difficult in crowded places (and with background noise) to hear the person I was standing next to and speaking with, or to hear what someone was saying if I couldn’t see their face and mouth. I noticed I had started guessing (not always accurately) what someone was saying.
For a psychologist; listening skills are imperative and before listening skills can be invoked one has to be able to hear! While I had rarely experienced these problems in one to one therapy sessions, I was concerned symptoms would get worse or impact my functioning. Sure enough I wasn’t dreaming this either; tests showed my hearing has deteriorated though is still in the mild loss range; inner ear cochlear deterioration so unrecoverable. This is essentially the kind of loss most people start experiencing from around 60 years old on…except I’m not 50 yet! I suspect I’m paying the price for good times; a burst ear drum while scuba diving as a teenager and damage from standing far too close to speakers at Fabric nightclub a few years back (ok, so quite a few years ago now).
So I’ve been worrying and it’s completely natural to worry. It is not helpful to dwell in worry or worry about things I can’t control so how do I let go of it? Worry is something I have helped many clients with over the last ten years so it is definitely time for some self-help. Below are the psychology tips and strategies I reminded myself to use.
Psychology – Overcoming and managing worry
What is Worry? How worry works.
Worry is a form of mental problem solving about potentially negative future events. It can be triggered by a variety of external events or from thoughts that just pop into your head. Worry is characterised by a lot of ‘what if’ questions. For example, ‘What if my Chemo doesn’t work?’ ‘What if my new boss doesn’t like me or think I’m good enough?’
Normal worry is usually short lived and leads to positive problem solving activities. Worry becomes unhelpful when it is about several things, is frequent and difficult to control or dismiss. We can think prolonged or frequent worry helps with problem solving, planning and preparation however worry breeds more worry (and anxiety) which prevents positive thinking and action.
Worrying can rob people of time. It’s exhausting and often leaves people feeling tense, with disturbed sleep, difficulties concentrating, and feeling irritable. While sometimes it can feel appropriate or necessary, worrying is exactly the opposite; it’s restrictive, and takes up time, attention and energy that could be spent on useful, enjoyable and meaningful activities.
Why do some people seem to worry more than others?
Worrying is human! The causes of are not clearly understood though it may be that a number of vulnerabilities increase the chance of developing a tendency to worry excessively; prolonged stress, past experiences of uncontrollable or traumatic events, an inherited biological disposition to experience negative emotions, learned messages from others that the world is unsafe or that worry is useful, and a coping style that involves avoiding challenges or situations where there is a chance of experiencing negative emotions (which prevents positive experience of coping and positive emotions).
UNDERSTAND YOUR WORRY CYCLES – Understand your vicious cycles of anxiety and how avoidance contributes to anxiety. See the handout below (CCI – Vicious Cycle of Anxiety).
NOTICE YOUR PAYOFFS AND COSTS. Part of understanding your worry can be to notice if you are getting a pay-off from worrying, ‘buying into it’ and most importantly what the cost of the pay-off might be. Are you avoiding going out? You might get a pay-off of avoiding any negative emotions such as uncertainty of what will happen or be said when you see someone but you also miss out on the potential positive experiences; fun, laughter, connectedness or ease which going out may also provide. Also notice, where do you worry and what are you doing when you worry. For example, are you sitting down and telling yourself ‘you are worrying but getting rest at the same time’. Consider that your type of ‘sitting down’ in this instance is not truly restful and what it actually costs you is feeling rested. If you shifted your attention away from worry to giving yourself permission for genuine rest, and allowed yourself to do something enjoyable without the worrying in that same time, you are much more likely to feel rested and relaxed (and be better able to cope with normal levels of worry that we all experience).
Other practical strategies:
USE A WORRY TREE to identify where to put your attention so that you shift your attention to worries you can do something about and form a plan for rather than worries you have no control over. There is a link to a handout below
CHANGE “WHAT IF’ STATEMENTS TO ‘HOW’ STATEMENTS’. For example, instead of “what if Chemo doesn’t work?’ I might ask myself ‘How will I act if Chemo doesn’t work? How will I find out what action can be taken next?’
POSTPONE WORRY. This is where you give yourself permission to worry about a specific topic, at a particularly time later in the day, for a maximum duration of say 20 minutes). This way you are acknowledging your concern and allowing yourself to think about it for a contained amount of time without it taking over and impacting the rest of your day. Sometimes you may find the thing you were worrying about has resolved itself by the time the allotted worrying time has come around, or it looks completely different and isn’t as big of an issue as it seemed earlier or doesn’t have to be dealt with today after all.
These are just some tips for managing worry and there are others if these don’t work for you. Remember, while worry is normal, excessive worry can be gripping and creep up on anyone. Even when worry can feel like a good thing to do, it creates more anxiety. When it stops you from enjoying life or doing the things you want to do, worry is not your friend. Excessive worry can be overcome. Please try the strategies outlined above and the links to helpful handouts below. If you find them hard to do alone, do talk with your GP or ask a psychologist to help with gaining treatment or to work through the strategies with you.
Acknowledgements, Permissions and Helpful Handouts:
Centre for Clinical Interventions (CCI), Department of Health, Australia http://www.cci.health.wa.gov.au/
CCI Generalised Anxiety and Worry
CCI Vicious Cycle of Anxiety
CCI Postponing Worry
Get Self Help Get.gg – Worry Tree
Images: Simon Hayward
© 2017 Janine Hayward www.psychingoutcancer.com. All rights reserved.
My veins are not playing ball. According to one Nurse they are spidery, superficial and collapse as soon as a needle comes near them. This is the accumulation effect of the Carfilzomib drug and not unexpected. I had hoped this side-effect may take a bit longer to kick in but hey I want the drug to work so I will take some of the after effects! For each needle insertion attempt that fails – is it Bad Karma? Maybe for my veering off course with my plans… the odd coffee, sip of alcohol, not enough rest…a fabulous slice of chocolate fudge cake on hubby’s birthday (hey I’m only human!).
On the first day of my veins playing ‘hide and seek’ (Nurse L’s description) and after two Nurses had taken two to three pin cushion moments on my arms (with my permission) they called in K. As he and Simon bantered about K being the ‘big gun’ and having a ‘big probe’, I discovered what K had brought with him was an ultrasound machine, and that he is one of the few (possibly only) Nurse trained on the Chemo day unit) in using ultrasound for finding veins. In that moment, I loved K; he found a vein quickly and had the cannula in my arm in a flash. The hours of trying to find a vein were not in vain!!
So yesterday when Nurse L said, ‘I’ve come to make friends with your veins’ I said ‘absolutely’ thinking that just because it been hard to find them last week didn’t mean it had to be hard again this week. Unfortunately, that was not the case and the ever-cautious Nurse L was wonderful and genuinely sorry it wasn’t going smoothly. My next request was, could we not muck around any further today please, and get K and his ultrasound. This is when I found out K wasn’t in. K of course is allowed a day off (or two!) however I was unimpressed that only one person can use the machine I need. I imagined that given they know of the accumulation effect of Chemo, I am not the first person to have elusive veins.
Nurse G said he was rusty on using the ultrasound but he’d give it a go. He showed me the images of my veins disappearing as soon as a gentle pressure from the probe was applied in my arm. He abandoned it and said he wasn’t confident enough to use it successfully. Good news though; he checked the back of my left arm and said he could see a vein. He checked whether it be ok to try otherwise they would probably have to insert a PICC line. I didn’t want a PICC line before absolutely necessary so I gave the go ahead, hoping like hell it would work. I could have kissed him, straight in, a little sore but the needle didn’t escape the vein; Si and I escaped the Chemo unit by 5pm.
Kicking in to rationale mode, I started thinking;
Moving into problem solving mode; I decided I need to
Ask my consultant;
Also ask my consultant about below…
PICC lines are peripherally inserted central catheters (long, flexible tubes) that are put into a large vein above the bend in the elbow, threaded into a vein until the tip sits in a large vein just above the heart. PICC lines can make things easier for Nurses and for me; it means there is always a line into a vein (with a removable cap) that enables a bag of intravenous drugs to be easily attached; there would no longer be a need to poke around with needles to put a cannula in or to take blood.
On the flip side, PICC lines stay in, require a local anaesthetic and chest X-ray (to check positioning) which are no big deal but are more procedures, and insertion may need to be done multiple times to get the right position. PICC lines get in the way of clothing, need cleaning and re-dressing weekly (Mondays would become even busier visits to hospital), the lines stay in for weeks or months, non-Chemo weeks would then involve visits to hospital. Finally, they are another daily reminder that I have cancer and how my life is different now. I knew i would happily have one when it’s necessary; it just doesn’t feel necessary yet when ultrasound searching for veins has worked.
Today was also a case in point for deferring PICC for as long as possible. I kept my arm and hand warm all morning, under two thermals and a glove. Nurse L found a vein first time. Lovely.
I was in and out of hospital in under two hours.
A tough week ended in A GOOD DAY!
Image: Macmillan information sheet on PICC Lines
Illustration (Scaredy Vein): Sapphire Weerakone
© 2017 Janine Hayward www.psychingoutcancer.com. All rights reserved.
Music: Fat Boy Slim – Where You Iz (Where you is, is where it’s at, and you can’t beat that with a baseball bat); Far L’amore (awesome dance track from the film The Great Beauty), VCMG Spock.
Full dose Chemo plus new drug by intravenous Zometa (bone builder)
Follow up e-Coli urine test – all clear
Ferritin (iron) levels improved from slight anaemic to within normal range
|Total Protein||79 N||YES!|
|Kappa Light Chain|
|Lamba Light Chain|
|White Cells||2.59 L||No, as expected (AE)|
|Haemoglobin (Hb.)||111 L||No, AE|
|Neutrophils||1.11 L||See-sawing AE|
Day one this week went pretty smoothly. S came and kept me company and we talked about her trip to Norway over the weekend. By 5pm I was very tired and my back around my weak T7 area (mid back) was sore though not hugely so. My slightly swollen ankles, dry eyes with eyelids sticking to the eyeballs didn’t phase me; eye drops and putting my feet up for a while helped with those. The coconut water added to my water bottles during and post chemo also seemed to prevent the headaches of last week. So, all good.
Day two was a slightly different prospect and once again I needed to find my voice. I’d been awake at 1am, 2.30am, and 3am before eventually getting up at 4.10am. The lack of sleep and waking up soaked through probably reduced my patience and tolerance level for the whole day. The rest of the day had started well; raced up for early blood test at 7.30, raced to get the lovely K to work his magic on my hair (why not have perfect hair for the last day of chemo on your first cycle!) and managed to get back on time for noon and my chemo appointment. Then the fun and games began.
A nurse I hadn’t worked with before tried to put in the cannula. She had trouble finding a vein and I know that can happen as Chemo goes on though I was somewhat sceptical at this stage. My arm and hands were warm so cold wasn’t the culprit. I thought about asking Nurse L to come and do it but thought I should give this new Nurse a go. She was sweet yet apologetic for everything and seemed slightly clumsy. A bad day? After two goes of pushing a needle into me only for it to be a bit painful and no vein was found, I asked if Nurse L could do it. To her credit the first Nurse apologised again and explained it was policy for exactly that to happen, that after two attempts to insert a cannula a different Nurse is asked to try. Interesting, that had not happened last week with another Nurse, G, who had rooted around until he found a vein on the third attempt. I would not let that happen again.
Nurse L came over and using the back of my arm got the cannula in first time, pain free. Got to love that woman. Next, when the original Nurse came to change one of the intravenous bags over, the cannula-to-bag connection broke (this had never happened before). Once again to her credit she apologised and explained saying the line may still have worked but to be safe she had replaced the whole line (fortunately the cannula could stay in place). I made a note to ask for Nurse L, Amy or M next time.
How often do you look at your poo or the paper you wipe your bum with? Who has time? Well I seem to be doing this a bit more, fortunately or unfortunately depending on your point of view. This week at about 5pm on day two, I spotted blood, quite a lot of bright blood on the paper and then in my stool. This concerned me, I so didn’t want to have an infection that would stop me doing this trip of a lifetime to Canada. I decided to see if it stuck around or went away. My temperature was fine so I didn’t panic immediately.
Evening snooze and Steroids were working their magic so I was still awake most of the night and eventually went to bed at 4.30am. Got up at 8am. Temperature was still fine but blood was still there. Felt cold and shivery flu like muscle ache symptoms but I’d been warned this might happen thanks to the Zometa so no panic there and felt better by 10am. Finally called the on-call Haematology Registrar at Kings and they suggested a watch and wait approach too so all fine. The blood had stoped after another day.
That may be because my body had bigger fish to fry; like killing cancer and hey maybe some nasty cancer cells went out with the blood. Now that was a nice thought. Ha, here you go nasties – ejected from Janine’s body forthwith, never to return, thank you! Die. Die. Die. I started singing my little ditty; “I’m killing cancer cells and saying sorry to the good cells that have to go with them”. It always cheers me up though I’m getting sick of the Nashville twang version. Might try rapping it next.
Extra supplies and tips for travel
Because my immunity is lower than usual I had been emailing and speaking to Dr L about how to look after myself while travelling and away. He sorted a prescription with some back up alternative antibiotics in case I got an infection and suggested I got loperamide in case of diarrhoea, paracetamol and also plasters to cover any small wounds. Sorted.
We also talked about masks. He explained that wearing a mask was very considerate of me regarding others though wouldn’t help me much. When someone sneezes or coughs and shares germs, it’s the tiny molecules at the end of the spray that get everyone and they are small enough to pass through a mask. I said I’d double up the masks. Dr L laughed and said “I’d rather you could breath!”. He did make some suggestions about how to adjust the aircon on the plane if I did find myself unable to move away from a germy splutterer which were helpful. He insisted the main thing was that I didn’t get cold, or pick up a cold or virus and he emphasised that I would be more vulnerable to this happening as the Chemo worked its way around my immune system. I tried to reassure him that I would take every precaution possible.
We said goodbye to S. It was time. Her hubby was missing her badly and his birthday was imminent. It was so good to have her here and she helped make the first month of Chemo bearable. Thank you Universe for aligning her visit with my need for extra special bestie help and support. Thank you S for making the longer stay happen. D, thanks for sharing her!
Psychology – Asking for Help
Asking for help is a strength. It is not a weakness. Asking for help does not mean you are weak or needy or less than; it means you are human. People need help to achieve big goals in life. The tennis player doesn’t reach his local team champs or the final of Wimbledon without the support of the person who had taught him/her to play tennis in the first place or the person who continues to help him/her play week in and week out, now; a coach, a tennis racquet stringer, an opponent. Many, many people help contribute to one person’s goals in life.
When you have a difficulty, big or small, asking for help is a powerful message and gift for others as well as for yourself. It lets people know they can contribute to you and that it is also OK for them to ask for help when they need it. You will not burden them; you can ask for help in a very specific way, with clarity about what you need and in a way that leaves them informed and free to choose. If they experience a feeling of burden, that is not your concern, it is their experience, and one they would need to manage by finding their boundaries and voicing them (in the same way you could if you had said yes to helping someone).
If you are open and honest with the people you are asking for help from, and clear about how you would like them to help, then it is up to them to manage themselves if they say yes to helping. So ask for help, especially if you are going through a complex health challenge like Cancer. You can ask friends, neighbours, family, medical professionals, your GP; ask to be referred to a psychologist, nutritionist, physiotherapist if you feel that would help you meet a need.
I have asked a friend to stay longer, to carry my urine, to research nutrition. I have asked my husband to help me to speak to my parents about the best time for them to visit and asked him to help me stick to who I want to be through this stage of the Cancer process. I have asked my consultant to answer seven questions at the beginning of each week of Chemo. I have asked the MacmIllan team for help getting referrals to learn about financial entitlements, access to massage and for a place to sleep between tests. I have asked friends to leave any sadness at the door. I have asked neighbours for referrals to a nutrition therapist and to take in parcels of books and food. I have asked my consultant for a referral to a psychologist and a dietician. I have asked friends to meet, to not meet, to forgive me if I’m not quick to respond to emails.
I HAVE ASKED FOR HELP. HELP has been forthcoming from every angle. People often want to help and you can make it easy for them by letting them know what help you need. My asking has not been met with annoyance or judgement but with thanks and love. If you ask people to help in ways that you know play to their strengths then you make it even easier for people to help you though don’t let that stop you either, just ask. If they can’t help or don’t know how to help in the way you are requesting, it is up to them to say No or suggest an alternative way of helping that may meet your need and match what they can offer.
The right people around you, at the right time, with the right help for you and your needs, can be a significant and positive part of the healing process, so why should you miss out on that?
Images: Stephanie Kemp and Nurse L