Two trips, two hospitals and too many breakdowns

It’s been a tumultuous week.

Sunday evening, my plane lands in Brisbane and I feel generally okay by my standards. Completely exhausted, but what else would I expect from my decrepit body after forcing it to sit sedentarily in back-breaking chairs for 3 hours, digest meanwhile filling with gas due to air compression and stay alert despite the circulating poison in my body? A kind friend picked me up, and I was soon back to my sparse Brisbane apartment where I had once felt was my sanctuary. I walked into each room, noting the lack of a bed, rug and my personal belongings that once resembled the one-bedroom rental that has been my home for years. Alas, I settled for living out of a suitcase, had a quick shower and did my usual three-hours of upset-gut that usual occurs after around 6pm. Exhausted, I took some Imodium and settled for what was going to be a night of back pain in the uncomfortable mattress generously leant to me by my next-door neighbours. I heated my three wheat bags (not excessive, or anything), wedged myself into a position that was achievable and let the three Valium do their job in lulling me into unconsciousness.

I did my usual late night awakenings, except this time it was different – I wasn’t waking due to my bowels, but the sensation of my head throbbing and burning. My back ached, so I took some Endone to numb the pain and lull me back into a sweaty unconsciousness. 5:04am, the sound of my alarm pulled my headache and light sensitivity into full awareness and I did what any immature 24-year-old does: I texted dad. I knew the sensible thing to do was to call emergency straight away – you do not fuck with a temperature during chemo – but I also wanted to be splayed in the park with a book in the 26 degree weather of Brisbane. Eventually, I fell back to sleep and was roused by the sound of my irritating intercom – it was Jake, coming to say hello before work. I always hated that intercom, this morning more so…not implying I didn’t want to see Jake but the piercing noise made my eyes water and head burn. The power was eventually taken out of my hands, and he called the ambulance. Waiting for the paramedics was a blur, as was being transported to Mater emergency, my second home. My blood pressure was so low that my eyes didn’t want to stay open, and despite having guests, my energy was so low that I felt my internal dialogue scream at me to be more conversational. I couldn’t muster up much energy for either. I was given IV hydration, pain medications and a blood transfusion for haemoglobin that was far too low for functional. No scans, no ultrasounds, no interrogations much further than a blood test for the flu and my pathology. Sorry to the Jehovah’s Witnesses and the vampires, but I signed that consent form quicker than they could read me the risks.

In hospital for a total of 15 hours, Criddy’s husband Sam picked me up and patiently listened as I spoke gibberish on the drive home. Much like I left that morning, I returned to my empty apartment in the dark, not witnessing the 26 degree sun as planned. Monday night dragged and I spent most of it monopolising on my pain medication and getting some last-minute packing and cleaning done. I slept a few hours, and went to the gym in the morning and felt semi-human for five minutes before feeling utterly exhausted. The life admin of the day was enormous, and I continued to pack and clean despite my urge to go back to bed (which actually, wasn’t as strong as it would have been had I been home given the softness of the mattress and pain in my back). Wednesday and Thursday were similar – packing, seeing a few friends who helped me pack (thank you, sweet angels) and doing last-minute ditch efforts to sell my junk on Facebook marketplace. I tried to get some sunshine, but could barely stand on my feet due to filling with so much fluid, which started to break the top of my skin (despite wearing compression stockings). I ended up getting a few hours of Endone-induced sleep while upright on my couch for those two nights while trying to elevate my feet, heat my back and keep my bowels as happy as could be.

Thursday soon came around, and I was blessed by Saint Bec (she’s not anointed but saints are only anointed when they die, anyway) who helped me with last minute cleaning, drove me to the airport and even carried my oversize suitcase through the long bag drop line. I almost cried as I boarded the plane to see myself stuck in the window seat next to a couple, one of who was an obese male and the other who was his way-to-old-to-be-wearing-glittery-patterned-fake-nails wife. He put his hand out and introduced himself. Brian. He introduced his wife, and spent the next three hours and twenty minutes informing me of all his life experiences, where he’s lived and making ill-placed jokes about his love for Adelaide wineries. Not giving a shit, I tried many strategies to ignore his conversation, but no amount of loud music through headphones, typing on my computer or blatantly ignored him could silence Brian. The flight was as turbulent as my gut felt and as full as my legs felt, and I found myself limping to the bag pick up on what felt like heavy ankle weights. The pressure rose and my back ached, and the fluid continued to pool above my legs as I pulled up my compression stockings. I got home and broke down into tears, and; for the sake of sparing you too much sadness, that’s the state I stayed in for the majority of Thursday night.

Helpless, despairing and in physical pain, I desperately called my oncologist on Friday and informed her of all my new symptoms. Fevers, sweats, fluid, skin breaking, the intense back pain and headaches…she called me a bed at the Calvary North Adelaide and I was soon back in the monotony of repeating my name and birthday every quarter of an hour. My ballsy oncologist decided the risk of bleeding out (while being on blood thinners) was worth it to have my abdomen drained out, with all the other symptoms being an effect of the pressure of my ascites on my organs and lymphatic system. Soon, I was needled in the abdomen, cut, shoved a tube into and drained of almost 5 litres of orange cordial.

 I’m kidding – it is cancerous fluid.

Thinking it would be a relief, the subcut fentanyl didn’t prepare me for the pain of my now moving bowels, nor did it touch the sides of getting the drain removed. As I cried and screamed, I told the nurse that, yeah, it was worth it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It may be temporary, but being 6kgs lighter for a few days may what I need to wear my pants and patch up my unsteady self-esteem. And on a deeper level, it may just be what my bowels, kidney, back and bladder need to have some time to breath. If there’s one thing I have in common with my internal organs, it’s that we all need a goddamn break.