Worse was to follow as the next wave was upon me before had time to reach the replacement dish. Tears streamed from my eyes and the stomach contractions continued as I tried to mouth pitiful apologies to the nurse. She, of course, was quite used to this type of reaction to the treatment and did not seem to mind scraping the vomit from the floor.
The worst facet of CROPs I found was their duration. The sickness felt following the initial injection extended into the night. One found relief by the next morning, only to wait in trepidation for the injection that day, in the knowledge that the same was to follow. It was the subcutaneous cytosar normally received in the upper arm.
A doctor’s routine in these circumstances is highly unpredictable, and the time spent in expectation of the treatment and its effects, meant that the temporary state of feeling fine was never enjoyed. I used to wish the man with the needle would not arrive, but then I knew that he would.
My stay in hospital was not without its more humorous times. Friends cheered me up enormously, with stories and laughs. Knowing the limitations of hospital food, visitors brought peanuts, potato chips and other reminders of home. I would eat them swiftly only to have them bounce back some ten minutes later. It was three years after this before I could eat chips again. Following the same result, I also steered well clear of peanuts.
Loneliness never really affected me during this time, as my parents made the monotonous trip every day. I had people to talk to, when I needed them, and this was very important to me. To get news from that normal world outside the hospital walls was a valued thing. It reinforced my desperation to return to my previous lifestyle.
My mother regularly sat through the afternoon shift with me, keeping my thoughts occupied, while my father tended to appear very soon after work in the city. The first week or so was restricted to family visiting due to the Reverse Barrier Nursing which was in operation.
In the adjoining private room was another patient, who quickly became a good friend. He was five or six years older than I, but we had much in common. In between treatments and care from the nurses, we spent a great deal of time in conversation, which rarely touched upon our common ailment.
One morning, when the drip was removed from my arm, I climbed out of bed and strode through the open doorway. I felt almost normal again. He was dozing.
I saw a thinning face topped by wisps of rebellious hair. There were obvious signs of the struggle within. As I turned to leave he spoke.
“I’m awake. Come in.”
“Sorry, Jeff. You were asleep.”
“No I wasn’t. How’ve you been today?”
I could see that he was extremely tired following treatment, and that it was only his friendliness that kept him awake.
“I’m feeling really good. I might pinch this paper if you’ve finished with it.”
“There’s a good article about the Bombers,” he said with a smile.
My friend of just a few weeks, Jeff, was a courageous man with a fine sense of humour. I felt enormous grief when I learned that he had finally lost his battle. Leukaemia had struck him down in the prime of life, when he had so much to give, and had so many plans. He holidayed in Queensland with his family and fiance when the doctors gave up all hope. His room was cleaned and ready for someone else.
The justice of this type of tragedy has always escaped me.
This is quite a write, thank you for sharing this.