In my formative years I was a collector of bouncy balls (by my own choosing), postage stamps and spoons (those were my grandfathers preference) and stickers (me again).
In my early thirties I'm acquiring quite an impressive collection of something a bit less tangible and much more varied. If ever there was a side effect printed on a Tamoxifen leaflet, I am very likely to be experiencing it. In fact, even things that aren't printed on there, but on further research are always likely caused by Tamoxifen, can be added to my collection.
Another problem is I'm a Google-phobe when it comes to anything medical. I would rather wallow in my imagination than look up some nutjob Internet theory on how my aching toe means definite metastatic disease, caused by buying apples that come in plastic bags or putting my bed 90 degrees from the window. So I'll go a good few weeks worrying about said toe before Katie invariably looks it up and tells me it is Tamoxifen induced. (Metaphorical example; An aching toe is just about the only thing I don't have.)
So far my impressive collection consists of:
Aching joints. Or joint, since its just the one hip, but by gawd is it annoying. Before my scans it was terrifying, but now I know my cancer is contained to my nit (non-tit, remember?), its been demoted to annoying again. Serious enough to warrant an occasional 'rude boy bowl' that embarrasses DadJokes no end, and, deep breaths, makes me avoid high heels. That is serious.
Bad eyesight. After squinting at one too many no. 38 buses I went to the optician, and sure enough, dry eyes and potential retina issues are to be expected for the next five drug taking years.
The Wobbles. A collective term that covers everything from getting disproportionately irate at the lack of order in the spice rack, to crying at Hollyoaks.
Hot flushes that would make Madonna admit her age and go into retirement. The worst part is the late night duvet battle. He wants it on I WANT IT OFF OFFFFFFFFF GET IT OFF.
Er, WC happenings, or not happenings as it were. Gillian McKeith would not be impressed...
I'm still waiting for the promised levelling out as my body gets used to the drugs, but since I am not a seasoned tablet-taker, I'm not sure how long I'll have to squint and sweat before my body cooperates.
In an attempt to tackle 'The Wobbles' I admitted defeat and went for some extra help. Now, I'm all for anything that will magically make me feel better, but I have a funny feeling about anti-depressant drugs since at my all girls school, a Prozac prescription was seen as a sign of extreme coolness, depth of character, and a ploy to make Mr Willis from Physics fall in love with you. I'm not sure where the reasoning comes in, but mental illness was thought to be veeery attractive in my fifth year. I couldn't get my head around it then, and still now am more prone to go the psychological route of learning coping mechanisms, than taking a pill.
When you cry at Hollyoaks, psychological care is maybe not enough, and faced with my recurrence fears being realised I signed up for some magic pills. Um, if being too tired to blink and too despondent to put effort into saying words is helpful, then I can do without thanks. The 'these tablets may make you feel worse before they make you feel better' warning on my particular leaflet did of course refer to me, (text book), but when I was still waiting for the feeling better part three weeks later I gave up and went back to good old fashioned family cuddles and Michael McIntyre on the telly. MUCH better. The good news scan results must have helped too, but I realise if I can avoid tablet taking, I will. I'm no Jennifer Saunders, although I'd love to know what she's on such that she raves about it in the papers.
My alternative therapies include retail, feline and social, so while I recover from my latest op I'm looking forward to a lot of the aforementioned, just to get me through you understand. 'Scuse me while I open a new tab; The net-a-porter sale is calling...
In my early thirties I'm acquiring quite an impressive collection of something a bit less tangible and much more varied. If ever there was a side effect printed on a Tamoxifen leaflet, I am very likely to be experiencing it. In fact, even things that aren't printed on there, but on further research are always likely caused by Tamoxifen, can be added to my collection.
Another problem is I'm a Google-phobe when it comes to anything medical. I would rather wallow in my imagination than look up some nutjob Internet theory on how my aching toe means definite metastatic disease, caused by buying apples that come in plastic bags or putting my bed 90 degrees from the window. So I'll go a good few weeks worrying about said toe before Katie invariably looks it up and tells me it is Tamoxifen induced. (Metaphorical example; An aching toe is just about the only thing I don't have.)
So far my impressive collection consists of:Aching joints. Or joint, since its just the one hip, but by gawd is it annoying. Before my scans it was terrifying, but now I know my cancer is contained to my nit (non-tit, remember?), its been demoted to annoying again. Serious enough to warrant an occasional 'rude boy bowl' that embarrasses DadJokes no end, and, deep breaths, makes me avoid high heels. That is serious.
Concentration issues. A testament to this is the four half written blog posts I have in production at the moment. Also the need to re-read the same paragraph of my book 3 times before I can move on. But that could equally be because its a sh!t book.
Bad eyesight. After squinting at one too many no. 38 buses I went to the optician, and sure enough, dry eyes and potential retina issues are to be expected for the next five drug taking years.
The Wobbles. A collective term that covers everything from getting disproportionately irate at the lack of order in the spice rack, to crying at Hollyoaks.
Hot flushes that would make Madonna admit her age and go into retirement. The worst part is the late night duvet battle. He wants it on I WANT IT OFF OFFFFFFFFF GET IT OFF.
 |
| Desmond has no such issues |
Er, WC happenings, or not happenings as it were. Gillian McKeith would not be impressed...
I'm still waiting for the promised levelling out as my body gets used to the drugs, but since I am not a seasoned tablet-taker, I'm not sure how long I'll have to squint and sweat before my body cooperates.
In an attempt to tackle 'The Wobbles' I admitted defeat and went for some extra help. Now, I'm all for anything that will magically make me feel better, but I have a funny feeling about anti-depressant drugs since at my all girls school, a Prozac prescription was seen as a sign of extreme coolness, depth of character, and a ploy to make Mr Willis from Physics fall in love with you. I'm not sure where the reasoning comes in, but mental illness was thought to be veeery attractive in my fifth year. I couldn't get my head around it then, and still now am more prone to go the psychological route of learning coping mechanisms, than taking a pill.When you cry at Hollyoaks, psychological care is maybe not enough, and faced with my recurrence fears being realised I signed up for some magic pills. Um, if being too tired to blink and too despondent to put effort into saying words is helpful, then I can do without thanks. The 'these tablets may make you feel worse before they make you feel better' warning on my particular leaflet did of course refer to me, (text book), but when I was still waiting for the feeling better part three weeks later I gave up and went back to good old fashioned family cuddles and Michael McIntyre on the telly. MUCH better. The good news scan results must have helped too, but I realise if I can avoid tablet taking, I will. I'm no Jennifer Saunders, although I'd love to know what she's on such that she raves about it in the papers.
My alternative therapies include retail, feline and social, so while I recover from my latest op I'm looking forward to a lot of the aforementioned, just to get me through you understand. 'Scuse me while I open a new tab; The net-a-porter sale is calling...
