Saturday, 26 October 2013
The Nitty Gritty
Probs not for my Dad or anyone else squeamish.
Cancer is crap. Terminal cancer is even more crap. That kind of goes without saying. What piles the crap on the crap is the medication and the side effects.
So, I had got myself into a position where I was having chemo, which is tough on the liver anyway - all that poison, taking loads of pain killers - ibruprofen and trying to not take too much paracetamol, which is really tough on the liver and, occasionally morphine, to help me sleep. The resultant constipation was AWFUL and I tried everything. As Trots, from Colleen & Clare, said to me last week, the stomach issues involved with cancer treatment turn perfectly respectable English women into ageing labradors, farting and burping and rushing to the loo with a pained expression, almost overnight.
All of which is very undignified anyway, but add the swollen stomach, the obvious discomfort and the rattiness and you get the general picture that I am not entirely pleasant to share a long car journey with, if the windows are shut.
As I said, cancer is crap - literally and figuratively. I don't think Colleen had any idea how apt the last four words would become....