Did you miss me?

The leaves I’m leaning over right now are the same colour as the vomit I’ve donated into the drain beside them.  I laugh quietly, internally.  Why am I thinking about leaves? Colours? Vomit? Why am I not even slightly anxious about the strangers watching me, possibly worrying about me, wondering if I’m ok or if they should or need to do anything to help me…or, in this post covid world, maybe they’re thinking about how to stay safe FROM me. 

What do you think when you see someone unwell? Do you stay calm, slip into crisis management mode and think about helping?  Do you get scared, wondering oh no, does she have it, have covid?  Is she contagious?  Is this some new horrible virus, the next pandemic?  Both are normal reactions as is somewhere in between though the calm crisis management response is at least a little abnormal, a little wonderful, admirable and inspiring.

I’m not thinking about any of that, I’m noticing all the beautiful autumn colours of the leaves as they are squashed up against the sides of the drain and my chemo sickness slides down the grill over the top of them, beside them, disappearing into the deepest darkest London drain below.  Wonder where it ends up? Does it pass under your house, my house? Or seep out into the underworld of this, vast, amazing city. 

Gingerly, I unfold from my forward bend after what feels like half an hour.  Only minutes have passed.  I am relieved to see the open taxi door, the taxi driver’s patience as he waits for me to be ok enough to get back into the car.  He hasn’t driven off; he doesn’t seem worried about me soiling his car, ruining his day.  Thank goodness I splashed out on an exec car.  I notice the slightly weird angle the car was holding in the street; the driver’s, unruffled (so grateful for that) rapid response (oh so very VERY grateful for that) as he had stopped the car when I had managed to whisper firmly stop now please, I’m going to be sick.

Shaky, trembling, feverish and nauseous, I did feel slightly better; certainly better than I had done all morning.  I’d run late for a meeting, and then literally run to try and make it on time, only to find the person I was connecting with was sick too and had not bothered to tell his colleagues I was coming in.  In the end, after breakfast on the house, getting something into my stomach to absorb the swathes of medication I’d downed and after a hopeful meeting with his apologetic colleague I felt safe again, listened to, cared about.  I decided I had chosen the right venue for my upcoming shindig after all.  The day wasn’t a complete disaster, in fact, so far most things had gone well.

Looking forward to being home and resting on the couch in front of the tv for the rest of the day, I crept back into the taxi, thanked the driver for his serenity and fluid driving skills, leant against the window and closed my eyes.  I noticed how far I’d come, how I simply did not get embarrassed easily anymore, that feeling embarrassed, apologetic somehow, felt like a complete waste of my very precious time, energy and effort.   I reminded myself embarrassment IS a valid feeling like all other feelings.  Even though I wished we never had to experience embarrassment or shame.  Those emotions crippled me in my early life and at various times throughout my teens, twenties and thirties.  I had done anything to avoid embarrassment; the discomfort of being noticed in an unwanted way, of feeling shame, being caught out somehow, feeling the fool, of being judged naive, gullible or stupid. 

Thank goodness I’m not so easily embarrassed anymore.  I simply don’t care if I’m stared at while throwing up in the street, or when I do something wrong, make a mistake, am caught out, feel out of my depth or don’t know something.  It’s easier than you think.  Not caring doesn’t mean not taking responsibility; I still apologise when wrong, try to fix errors and am willing to quickly agree when I have misunderstood someone or something. 

Yet remember, like me, you are human and just because you don’t know everything, or are sensitive and open enough to take something at face value and not realise someone is messing, teasing you, and above all you recognise you, me, we, ALL have, as much right, yes as much right as absolutely every other person…every other human being on this planet…to be here, to exist, to take up space, to have needs, wants, desires, have and use our voice. 

We are as human enough as the next person therefore when I am being human, doing human things, like being unwell, throwing up, navigating chemotherapy, living life, craving being home on the couch…I don’t have to bother with embarrassment.  I am already well and truly –  ENOUGH.

New Treatment

I’m on a new treatment called DVD and it’s fairly heavy duty so no surprise I wasn’t going to get away unscathed.  I want the regime to work.  I need it to work if I am going to be able to hang about on this planet for a little longer; a little longer than the statistics still give me hope for.  Anyway I’m here. I’m still here. I’m loving life, despite its challenges.  I’m not going anywhere other than on travel adventures as much and as often as I can.  I will be spending time with the most wonderful, special people I am privileged to have in my life, share this planet with as much and as often, as I can.

Happy holidays, Hanukkah and Christmas everyone regardless of what you do and don’t celebrate. I hope you are having an especially special break in whichever way suits YOU best.

Take care out there,

Janine

p.s. if anyone is hurting and needs support contact us at ComposurePsychology

Acknowledgements and References

Images: Me or courtesy of various artists on Unsplash.

© 2022 Janine Hayward www.psychingoutcancer.com.  All rights reserved.

Posted in Covid, Myeloma Treatment, Psychology for Cancer, Symptoms and Side Effects, Uncategorized Tagged with: Bortezomib (Velcade), Cancer, Chemotherapy, Daratumumab, Dexamethazone, DVD, emotions, Myeloma, Nausea, Psychology, RIchLife, Steroids, Treatment

Mistake. Give me my steroids, NOW!

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.

Steroids

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 loyalty^3,4.  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.

References:

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?

³ Sara B. Algoe & Jonathan Haidt (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.

Acknowledgements:

Shadow and Dex pictures by Me

Dog Photo by Matthew Henry on Unsplash

Shattered plate Photo by chuttersnap on Unsplash

Failed it Photo by Estée Janssens on Unsplash

© 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

Chemo Cycle Four – Brain on Fire

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.

Posted in Chemotherapy for Myeloma, Myeloma Treatment, Symptoms and Side Effects Tagged with: Brain, Cancer, Fire, Myeloma, Nausea, Sick, Side effects