I’m feeling surprisingly chipper after my third and final chemotherapy session yesterday. Last time it left me feeling really lousy for about three days. This time it’s come with a positive side effect which gave me the best night’s sleep I’ve had for weeks. The radiotherapy may have killed my saliva glands, but in revenge it’s massively increased my production of mucous. It had got to the point where I was having to clear my throat every hour through the night. Last night it dried up. Bliss.
It’s just as well I feel physically better today. I got back from the hospital yesterday feeling shit. Not only had I been on a chemo drip for five and a half hours and had radiotherapy, but I’d had a couple of appointments with specialists that brought back to the surface a few uncertainties I’d carefully buried at the back of my mind. The doctors reminded me my life has too many “ifs”:
“IF your voice comes back…”
“IF you can swallow…”
And, most worryingly: “Until the swelling goes down we won’t know IF the treatment has been effective…”
But we booked our flights to Ibiza last night, re-watched Trainspotting for the first time in years and I got a decent night’s kip.
Now I know I might not be able to eat, drink or talk, but I will be out dancing under the stars before this Ibiza season’s over. Fuck cancer, let’s dance.
(To Scottish friends who feel the last statement shows my illness has somehow affected my mind, let me say it’s not that. It’s the ongoing presence of a yellow disc in the sky that has probably addled my brain over the last nine years. And I’ve never found a Spanish or Catalan word that means the equivalent of “driech.”)