“This feels weird,” I muttered, eyes fixed upon the I.V. drip. The bag of saline sitting menacingly above.
“These drugs can go in fairly quickly,” the doctor replied.
At the foot of the bed stood one of the ward nurses, watching the activity carefully.
“... but you shouldn’t feel anything more than a coolness in your veins.” He seemed introverted, efficient and trustworthy, and I could not have foreseen how much I would grow to feel sorry for this man. His lack of thought at a later date was going to cause me enormous anguish.
The dark headband made me feel my racing pulse.
“When do I get my next injection?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Same stuff?”
“No, just one injection of Cytosar. You’ll probably feel a little nauseous tonight. Let the sister know when you do.”
A little nauseous!
Who was he kidding?
Later the needle was removed, and a wad of cotton wool was taped to my arm.
Treatment had begun.
At a later stage in this book, I wish to fully document the reasons why I believe I have survived. But at this point I feel compelled to use the above example to illustrate one important factor.
In the treatment of potentially fatal diseases it is common that the medical profession are either in the throes of breaking new ground, or are using techniques developed quite recently, maybe at home or abroad. It would be most rare that they could predict all possible future side effects of toxic drugs.
Patients who could not cope with this fact, push it far from heir thoughts and continue with a positive attitude, would be placing undue mental pressure upon themselves.
State of mind is so very crucial.
You must be positive.
You must have confidence in those who are qualified to help you, and in your own ability to fight the disease.
I have often joked about the gross abnormalities that could have arisen from the cordial flavours floating around in my body, but genuine concern only occupied my thoughts about eight years later when my wife had a miscarriage.
This is quite a write, thank you for sharing this.