Last week was a tough one. After a good 12-week run with relatively few side-effects, my dad's chemo bit back, and we were reminded of just how delicate the treat/poison balance really is....
He'd been experiencing debilitating chest and shoulder pains that he insisted were nothing more than trapped wind. In fact, he'd developed a dangerous blot clot in his left lung, that thankfully was picked up on his routine scan, and he was whipped into hospital for some hard-core blood thinning treatment. Now safely home, he is fast resembling a pin cushion and will be getting daily heparin jabs for the forseeable future. On the plus side, his oncologist is pleased that the chemo seems to be stopping the cancer from spreading, and he will be carrying on with more cycles with the double-hard-ass stuff as long as he can handle it.
And so we continue....
Emotionally, I feel like I've been whacked over the head with a very big stick. I'd almost gotten used to the fact that my dad was living with cancer and that the future was uncertain. The whole dreadful business had settled into the back of my mind. It's all now just been brought back into focus.
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