Dad arrived home and sat on the end of the bed. He had had
a hectic day. I was telling him all about the afternoon at the
clinic, when my mother entered the room with an empty icecream
container, a neatly folded towel, and an extra pillow.
"What's that for?"
I was looking at the ice-cream container, with drops of water
clinging tightly to its sides. Mum was ready for the night I was
trying to believe was not going to happen.
"Just in case," she smiled knowingly.
"Your dinner's ready. Do you want to come out and have it
now?" Mum asked Dad.
He nodded, told me that he would return later on, and left
the room. When the last of their footsteps could be heard as
they moved down the hall, a minor wave hit. The muscles of
my stomach contracted at once, and I found massive secretions
of saliva filling my mouth in preparation for the onslaught. But
I had not vomited.
Five minutes later, it began.
I rolled to my left and grabbed the bucket in one motion. It
was filled within seconds.
"Mum!" I yelled down the hallway in between some very deep
breaths. My eyes were filled with tears.
No answer.
I repeated the call, fearful that the next bout may arrive before
the replacement bowl. This time my mother responded, and only
just in time. The drama had begun.
The vomiting did not cease when the stomach had
been emptied. At regular intervals of about twenty minutes, the
attacks took hold of me. I tried to sleep, but it wasn't until 10.30
that the cycle ceased. My parents had been on the run for four
hours. Feeling good was a temporary state, because the next day was
to bring more of the same for each of the four days.
This was the plan for 1976 and 1977, all going well; sufficient
CROPs to achieve full remission, with monthly bone marrow
biopsies, regular full blood examinations and a June session of
radiotherapy and lumbar punctures. In fact, the chemotherapy
lasted until June 1978, before a course of tablets replaced the
injections.
