The Medically Trained People, last Friday, told me that I was about to turn the corner. I did not believe them, not really, and even when I did allow there to be a flicker of hope that I would cease to produce green lava from my bum and mouth, I could not envisage what my world looked like around that corner.
On Saturday, my bloods went up, but I still felt poorly. As I struggled to comprehend what my ‘worst’ was going to look like, I began to struggle with what my ‘better’ would mean. On Sunday, my bloods went up and then some, and I was told that based on an increase of my neutrophils from 0.02 to 0.2, the Medically Trained People thought I would be able to go home later in the week. Later in the week? But I am supposed to be in here for three to four weeks, not two.
And then strangely, I started to feel better.
On Sunday, I ate. I did not eat a lot, but I ate. I also had a blood transfusion, just thought I would slip that in because I had never had a blood transfusion before. Somebody else’s blood is in my body. Wowser. That’s Dad Science. On Monday, I was able to leave my room. Until I left my room, I had failed to realised that I had not left it for a week. That thought was quite overwhelming. Unfortunately for me on Monday, I also had to shave off my hair. I am bald once again, and this time, the patches of scalp are far more noticeable than they were before.
On Tuesday, I received my last bag of fluids, because the Medically Trained People had decided that I was now able to take my own fluids, without immediately disposing of them, for the diarrhoea and vomit stopped on Monday.
On Wednesday, I was told that I would be going home on Thursday, but probably Friday on Day+16. Not too shabby. Today, I had the magically sound of a plop instead of a shower when I visited the water closet.
All done and dusted right? Think again. We’re talking about My Myeloma here. Things are never that straightforward.
I know I am lucky to have gotten over the worst of this so quickly, and I am fortunate to be able to look forward to going home, but it all feels so strange. Beyond strange. If I have described my last 11 and a half months as twilight, I do not know what this is…. This week, I have no idea where Emma has gone, because in her place is somebody who does not know how they feel, what they want, and dare I say it, who they are. And don’t dare to try and answer those questions for me, because I am likely to shower you with expletives. I get the impression from people, that they think because the shitting is over, I should be fine, back to normal and so should my responsibilities be. A least, that is how some people have made me feel, and it almost feels like a set back. I can categorically say, with all certainty, that this is not the case. I am not back to normal. I am not healthy. I am not full of energy, the opposite is true in fact. I have not spent the last four days on my room plotting and planning my life on the outside, because I do not have the brain capacity to do that. I am fuzzy.
I have spent 16 days away from home, dressed in pyjamas, without any privacy, and all I want right now is an opportunity to be myself, in my own time. I want to wear my own clothes, I want to put my lipstick on and have a timetable of my own making, as much as I can, and not live in one created by a certain NHS trust. I want to get to midday, without having sen at least nine people, whilst I am in a state of undress. They prepare you for all the physical side effects, but they don’t really prepare you for this, not really. Well, I suppose I am fortunate, that as well as being in a place where they give me multiple bags of fluids, blood transfusions and so many drugs I hallucinated, I am also in a place that offers counselling, but that is after the fact. I am not ashamed to admit that I need counselling right now. I have been, correct, I am in the middle of a journey and I do not know what it means yet. We will not know about its success for at least three months. I am desperately trying to figure this all out, but I don’t have the energy for it. If a problem presents itself right now, I do not feel equipped to deal with it, and it would probably result in me crying on my bed or literally pulling my hair out.
Part of me feels like I need to give into it (which I do), the other part wants to go out and run down Tottenham Court Road with her tits flapping every which way, telling the world that I just had a transplant. In the last few weeks, but more so this week, my emotions have been all over the place. Happy, sad, lonely, suffocated, misunderstood, mad, angry, apathetic, hungry, unique. It goes on, and on, but one thing remains, there is one constant, no matter what my mood, I am always right. Always.
I have just had a transplant for goodness sake. I am allowed to be right.
The toilet issues, stomach cramps, oral thrush, sore throat and sleep were difficult, but this new world, is still difficult. Everybody in my Network needs to understand that and let this play out. I am going to scream and shout and let it all out, and I am told by the Medically Trained Professionals that this is perfectly normal. I guess, that while I have turned one corner, I probably have a few more to go before I feel like I can down a pint whilst baking a cake.
My immediate recovery may have been speedy, but there is still a way to go yet. Don’t go forgetting that. Disappointed? Try living my life.