8. Chemo Savvy

Aggressive.  Adjective. 

1. Very angry or hostile. 

2. Too forceful. 

It’s a word we have heard much too often since this diagnosis. Never comforting, but nothing new. The cancer continues to grow, building empires where it is clearly not welcome, but unfortunately this isn’t a democracy.

At the outset we were told that chemotherapy might not necessarily be on the cards. Adenoid cystic carcinoma doesn’t generally pay much attention to plans, advice, or polite suggestions.

The fucking narcissist. 

The Plan Changes

The original plan was for chemo to start about a month after the radiotherapy had finished. That has now been brought forward.

Something about the cancer being aggressive. Apparently, that’s important.

But that aggression seems to have forced the oncologist’s hand, and for now we’re just going to throw everything at it.

Chemotherapy begins in mid-February. Six sessions spread over eighteen weeks. This will be reviewed after the second session to see if it’s having any effect whatsoever. If not, the chemo will be discontinued and other options explored.

Which feels fair enough. If you’re going to poison someone, you’d at least like it to be achieving something.

I arrive in plenty of time for my first session, but there is a problem. Despite having all of the details for at least two weeks the insurance haven’t actually approved the treatment. The drug to be administered is on the rarer side, but surely, I’m not the first to have received it. You would think the concept of chemotherapy has crossed their desk before.

I have no idea what a session of chemo costs, but I’m not going home without it, so can we just crack on please and I’ll settle up later. 

No need in the end, as within about 45 minutes the insurance company decides that they’ve just been dragging their heels. Wonderful, and not stressful in the slightest.

A fairly quick delivery of steroids and anti-sickness drugs comes first, before the main event.

I’m receiving CAP chemotherapy, which is a combination treatment used for advanced or metastatic cancers, notably salivary gland cancers.

Seems legit.

The Cocktail Menu

Delving deeper, for those that are interested, and for my own peace of mind, it consists, unsurprisingly, of a combination of drugs; 

Cyclophosphamide, an alkylating agent. 

Adriamycin, an anthracycline antibiotic. Known as the ‘red devil’. Always reassuring when a drug has a nickname like that.

and Platinol, a platinum-based chemotherapy drug. 

All of these work in a similar way, essentially damaging the DNA, inhibiting replication and triggering cell death in cancer cells.

Which sounds impressive.

Although it does feel slightly like distinguishing a house fire by detonating a grenade in the living room.

There is going to be a lot of liquids delivered over the course of seven hours and I am advised that frequent toilet breaks will become the norm. 

The Adriamycin is up first, and it is dark red in colour. I am warned that it will turn my urine red, but that I should not be concerned.

That first toilet break is very disconcerting. It’s coming out crimson for christ sake. The sort of colour that would normally prompt an immediate call to emergency services. The sort of colour that would be wholly concerning, unless you have been told not to be concerned. Although, that still makes the experience no less concerning!

Whilst receiving the first drug, I am approached to see whether or not I would like a massage. 

Damn right I would. Yes please! 

‘It’s a foot massage’ 

Oh. I can’t really say no now, can I? 

Maybe lead with that next time. 

As it turns out I have been too quick to judge. I am asleep within a matter of minutes, pure relaxation and if nothing else it’s passed the best part of an hour. 

The other drugs are administered throughout the seven-hour session, with plenty of saline going in too. There is a lot of liquid coming in, and a lot of liquid coming out.

The Hangover

Nothing in the process is painful, but at the end of the day I am beginning to feel a little nauseous. Some anti-sickness pills and a kip when back at the hotel soon sort that out. 

I travel home early the following day, feeling extremely tired. Thursday and Friday in particular involve lots and lots of sleep. 

I’d be warned that the side effects should be expected within a couple of days, and sure enough the nausea hits hard. It’s rough. No appetite, and a constant feeling of just wanting to throw up. Luckily I don’t actually throw up, but my body spends several days behaving as if it’s seriously considering it. A very uncomfortable place to be. 

The anti-sickness medication doesn’t really help, and it’s only by day six that the symptoms begin to ease.

For the first time in a long time I start to feel a bit fed up with it all. Positivity is key, but it certainly took a back seat for a while.

On the plus side, I’ve still got all my hair. Well…what was left of it to begin with.

Back on My Feet

A week after the chemo and I’m feeling 100% better. The nausea has passed and I’ve now got to concentrate on packing on some of the weight I’ve lost, about 10kg since the turn of the year. 

The dietician has given me free rein to eat whatever I want. Challenge accepted.

The weather this week has also allowed me to get back out on the golf course. Some really, really terrible golf, but that just gives me plenty of room for improvement. Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.

For Fucks Sake

Once again I’ve spoken too soon and these last few days have seen a very rapid decline in the state of my hair. I am malting profusely. 

Showers are taken while protecting the plug hole. It’s literally coming out in clumps. The bathroom looks like Scott Howard has been staying with us, although it’s me that now needs to hoover after every visit.

In all probability it is only a matter of days before a very important decision needs to be made; lollipops or baseball caps. 

‘Who loves ya, baby?’

I’ll be back in London for my second session of chemo this week. 

Rinse and repeat.