The Ugly, the Bad and the oh-so-Good

Greetings Arse-kicking Supporters, here is some more blog, as it is jollop #5 tomorrow, and things are mounting up. I wanted to do a blow-by-blow account, to show you what chemotherapy is really like (or at least my experience of it) Here is what I came up with:

Tuesday 3^rd April:

10.00 am Arrive at unit. They’ve saved the Magic Chair especially for me – hurrah! I make myself comfortable, unpacking bags, removing shoes, bra, etc. Everything is on the LHS as today is a right vein day, and the poor vessel is already shrinking with anxiety. I haven’t had much to drink yet either so they might have trouble locating the thing. Apart from a slight headache and feeling tired, I’m OK. Maybe a bit irked that I have to be here, and a bit nervous of what crappiness is in store this time, but I’m trying to play that down. I know it’s not helpful to think that way. The same goes for the slight pre-emptive nausea. I didn’t have much breakfast so I might have a cold cross bun. I bought a load to share with nurses and patients. Not that the nurses deserve them - I had to put my own cover on my pillow this time. I mean, what is the NHS coming to!

10.12 am Can hear Tina and The Hoff discussing my vein situation. Nurse Becky has left the heat pad on my drip machine to remind all of us. “Don’t worry,” I said, “there’s no way I will let you forget!”

10.32 Here’s Tina! She dumps a massive tray of drugs on the side, all for me. I take 3 granisetron to get in early with the anti-sickness. Blood pressure, temperature taken, obs done. Needle inserted carefully into the RHS to keep pain to a minimum. I’m amazed that today I didn’t feel it. I think it must be Tina’s touch! She also taught me that it hurts less if you watch it, and it’s true. Mind you, I’m getting a lot of practice these days. It’s the 7^th needle in as many weeks, not to mention the lot I had before all this started. I’m hooked up to a litre of saline, which is trickling steadily in. We used to have 500ml, but I’m being diluted thanks to my tender blood vessels. After that’s all set into motion, Tina adds a syringe of steroid and patiently squirts it in. I ask about her twins – Isaac and Mary – who sound like a terrible twosome in their terrible twos. She reckons it’s the boy twin, always startin’ something. I roll my eyes – typical.

11.00 We’re in with the doxyrubicin and I didn’t even notice! I’m getting an old hand with this. Having said that, I can feel it now. It’s cold and the earlier vein damage means that it’s a tad sore. I’ve also been handed my big bag of drugs for the week, which includes lorazepam, the new anti-emetic which happens to also be a sleeping tablet. 

Just Say No, kids

11.10 2^nd bag of jollop going in now. I’m trying not to move my right arm. Typing is tricky! Tapping away at my overdue IS crossword, but very slow with just my leftie.

11.19 Feeling a bit icky and slight chemical taste in mouth so tackling strawbs that I packed thoughtfully before I left. Not too thoughtfully – the lemon juice I dressed them with has picked a fight with my ulcer. Didn’t think that one through. V busy in here today. 5 nurses, all rushed off their feet. Oo I’m beeping. That means no.2 nearly done. 

Next!

11.25 A pause to wash out my veins then in with number 3.

11.30 Number 3 going in. So busy here, we’ve run out of chairs! Old chap opposite has very bruised hands and he keeps scratching ‘em, getting his chemo on rubbish visitors’ chair. Hot cross buns are going down very well with all. I gave up with the strawberries – starting to lose appetite. I know I have to work, and sit here patiently like a good girl, but I’m a bit bored with my day so far. It’s all been “have to”, with not a glimmer of “want to”. If I was at home, it would be time for tea and chocolate, and laying down full length while I watched some TV. But hang on – this seat reclines doesn’t it? (*press lever*) Not like lying on the sofa, but better. Just remembered that something else I get when I’m here is trapped wind. Not sure why. Sitting back might ease this. I might attempt a wee in a sec, but it’s a faff, unplugging myself from the wall and wheeling my drip thing around. I’m the youngest person being treated in here right now. There are a couple of mid-40s blokes, and all the rest that I can see are codgers and duffers. I’m a spritely fogie, compared to them, which is why I feel guilty for sprawling around in the Magic Chair while they’re mostly perched on crap seats. As for watching TV, I have got DVDs and I have got my pod to keep me entertained. I’m saving them for the painful bit. Better try working. 

Oh, oh, oh, it's magic!

11.49 Put the pod on shuffle, the effect of which is like someone sticking an egg beater into my brains. I’ve not tried playing music before while I jollop so we’ll see. The problem is, I want to burst into song! Better try not to. Wouldn’t want to scare anyone. Hard to concentrate on work, but the mini-eggs help.

11.54 The Polish lady’s just arrived for her bloods, and for the first time, I believe she’s bewigg-ed. You wouldn’t know unless you’d been watching her hair thin over the last 3 fortnights. Everyone seems to go for wigs, at least all the ladies do. The blokes tend to bonce around proudly. No-one does the turban thing. Can’t imagine me sitting here for umpteen hours with my wig on. Time will tell.

I love what my iPod throws out at me. My eclectic tastes make for interesting playists, and I particularly love a title significant to the moment. Blue Moon, Creep, Mis-shapes, I’ll Never Get Over You, ha ha ha Five Star – Can’t Wait Another Minute. I Just Wanna Make Love To You (oooo don’t sing Lizzie, don’t sing, don’t even mouth the words, people are watching!) (Butt-dancing a bit in my chair. Is it the steroids? Is it the chocolate?) Wish I was at home. No, I wish I was outside walking in the fresh air, bouncing along to the music and knowing that I wouldn’t be out of my head with tiredness when I got in.

12.10pm Charlotte the Volunteer has just arrived, with two bags of sandwiches (that I think she’s made) and her cheery smile. She’ll come round in a sec to tempt me. I might tackle my sushi in a bit. Or just more Mini eggs? My mouth is a bit sore today, particularly Mr Ulcer.

Mini Eggs, lined up for the slaughter

12.19pm She tempted me to a mini crème egg and mini caramel egg (she’s got all sorts of stuff on her trolley!) and probably could have talked me into a sandwich, but I’ve got my own food and there are lots of people here today. The chap next to me wanted a custard slice and a cream cake, but he was teasing. I know how he felt. The chap two seats down is having his last chemo today. I can’t wait to find out what that feels like. Pod selects: La Vie En Rose – Louis Armstrong. He always makes me smile. I bet the duffers in here think I’m listening to hooligan music. Little do they know!

12.30pm Tina’s heating up the pad for the Big Daddy, so I seized the chance for a wee. It is mostly old blokes in here, and the grumpy Polish man who is probably younger than me. One pink wee later and we’re good to go. The drip is changed to a slower one, and Tina says she’s set it to go in over 2.5 hours, not 1.5 as usual. I may go quiet now as it’s easier to keep my right hand still. Might try to eat some lunch, but more to do with comfort than hunger, as the sickness is in the pit of my belly.

…shortly after this I had to stop. The pain that seized my right arm was as overwhelming as usual, and we went through the usual routine: Stop drip, heat pad, start drip again even more s-l-o-w-l-y. Stupid weak veins! I hate you for keeping me in here longer than I need to be. They put a blanket over me and encouraged me to relax, so I ditched the laptop for my Sindy Doll book, and tried to concentrate on that. I finished the mini eggs like a girl on a mission, and gave my sushi to The Hoff, who didn’t have any lunch. I felt nauseous, irritable, impatient and uncomfortable, and freakin’ hot from my vein-pain accoutrements and the plastic upholstery of my seat.

I want to go home. Now.

Just before I was released, Tina plugged me in to a sackful of metacloperamide – the anti-emetic that last time I decided to call “clop”, as I thought it was friendly. I don’t want to be friends with it any more. I think it’s responsible for the very strange sensation I had as I staggered out to the car park. It was a huge sense of panic and restlessness, with a dollop of helplessness thrown in. I didn’t want to sit behind my steering wheel and drive home, I wanted to be instantly there. Failing that, I didn’t want to go anywhere. I wanted the chemicals out of my system and I wanted them out NOW. It was a similar feeling to when you’ve had one too many (booze, but also chocolates) and you wish you hadn’t done it. You want to empty your body of them and go back to how you were feeling before you took your first sip/bite. Needless to say, I shall be accepting some of the kind offers of transport from now on.

I threw myself onto the pre-prepared sofa, and remained motionless for a couple of hours, watching TV and desperately trying to forget what had happened to me today, and how I felt.

For those of you who were wondering what a pre-prepared sofa looks like.

 I took the lorezapam, then went up to bed at 7pm, to listen to the MP3 that my sister Christina had made for me. She is on a hypnotherapy course – not receiving it, but learning how to administer it – so she scripted and recorded a custom-made session for me, to help me relax and to aid my nausea. It’s thirty minutes of wonderfulness and it would have worked a treat, had I not bawled my way through it. I think it was the combination of hearing her voice so soothing and earnest, and the sentiments expressed about being well and loved and free, plus the fact that she had done this just for me and Alec, my “little” bro, had edited it to give it a professional finish. I am so lucky to be part of this talented, caring family.

When the tears abated, I felt warm and fuzzy and dozed off into a lovely sleep, not even noticing Rog when he got in.

The next day went like this:

Wednesday 4^th April

7am: Slept OK but chunk of awakeness from 3-5am. Up at 6.30 making Rog’s packed lunch. Now eating naked toast and drinking Pint 1 of still water so I can take Dex the Steroid, Dompy and Granny (all for anti-sickness.) It’s imperative that I knuckle down to some work today.

7.24: Pint 2 (still) and rolled up in duvet on sofa, desperately trying to catch up with work. 

9.04: 1 xword done, but feeling sick and fidgety. Will try a lean bacon sandwich now.

9.20: Bacon sandwich, 3^rd pint water. Now laying on sofa but still writing crosswords with crappy gameshow on TV to break the silence. Can’t believe how much better a bacon sandwich makes me feel. It’s WW bread, Laughing Cow light, Daddies’ sauce and four rashers of extra-trimmed smoked bacon, cut into soldiers. Goes down so well.

10.15 Tangle twister mini lolly, eaten very slowly because of sore mouth. EastEnders omnibus, crosswords.

11.40pm Still working steadily, good phonecall offering a little more work but the deadline’s tight. Attempting to eat peaches and Total 0% yog with a touch of ginger for the belly’s sake. 4^th pint water (fizzy). Parcel of Sindy clothes arrives. Not allowing myself to look until I’ve done some more work.

Realised today that there are two things I would like to achieve before I die – set up a flashmob and be part of it, and appear on Come Dine with Me. Daft but fun! Oh, and go to America. And become Mrs Roger. If we’re pushed for time, maybe I could make it a flashmob wedding in America, where we throw a dinner party for strangers?  

1.30pm Spinach pasta bake eaten very slowly – not sure it’s what I want - 5^th pint fizzy, Dex, Dompy, Granny

The Lamb is my dealer

2.10pm Skinny Cow lolly, 6^th pint fizzy, racing to meet overdue deadline.

2.55pm Tiny bar of choc for comfort’s sake.

Spent an hour and a half looking at my new Sindy clothes, but suddenly got tired so decided to lay still and watch The Syndicate, which I enjoy.

5.00pm Bag of baked crisps, 7^th pint fizzy. Feel a bit sick and slight heartburn. (Not surprised! Ice cream, chocolate and crisps?!) Keep remembering “bugger, I’ve got cancer”. It happens.

7.30pm Feel really sick. Dompy, Lorazepam, Dex on empty belly. The pits. 

... and this is where the blow-by-blow stuff ends. I did want it to be a fuller account, but the nausea got the better of me and I gave up. It is my “Oh SCREW it” attitude that abounds lately, and I hate it. It’s the reason I haven’t done any proper walking this fortnight, or even any pathetic walking. It’s one of the reasons why I have eaten my way through a stupid amount of chocolate, and I’m very behind with my work deadlines. I’m finding it hard to concentrate on anything, especially when jollop looms. The Monday Before is filled with good intentions, which get trampled into the mud more readily than those of the preceding fortnight. I’m only doing this now because I feel as though I ought to, and I know it’ll be too much to catch up on if I don’t.)

Where were we – Oh yeah, groanin’ and green and hating everyone in the world. That’s nausea for you. Stina’s MP3 would have been administered, but the lorazepam got there first and I turned into a useless jelly, and could only wobble upstairs before collapsing on the bed.

Thursday 5^th April

Worked like a demon on something new but with a tight deadline. Hounded by sickness. I only take Dex on day 1, and Granny on days 1+2, so I was worried about how I would be when the Big Guns stopped. I had some extra stuff called Ondansetron, but I’d run out of Dompy and I was panicking again. I refused to take the Clop for reasons mentioned earlier, though I didn’t know if this was just my imagination. I tried calling the Haematology Unit, but they didn’t answer the phone. My nurse specialist’s phone was turned off (apparently, he wasn’t well. Whatever it was, he had my total sympathy, as does anyone who is ill right now!). The on-call haematologist sounded hassled and uncaring. She said to call my GP, which I did, and after a chat, he prescribed me more Dompy and put my mind at rest, which I think was all I needed. Saint Rog drove all the way into Thornbury to collect my drugs, while I stayed here and made his tea in time for his rehearsal. I think the moral of that tale is “don’t be ill on Maundy Thursday, just before the shops close”!

“Good” Friday 6^th April – Monday 9^th April

Easter is usually an inconvenience to self-employed me. I don’t see it as “ooo let’s have a holiday”, I see it as “darn, I’ll have to stop working for a couple of days”. This year, it was a similar sentiment but for different reasons, including “it’s Easter, and I couldn’t care less”.

I was fed up of inactivity and uselessness, so I scraped myself up from the sofa and blew the cobwebs from my beloved Kenwood Chef, idle since December. I made what the recipe said were Hot Cross Buns, but my impatience and loss of kitchen mojo rendered them Hot Cross Splats. Still, they were tasty, and I managed to eat some sitting at the table with Roger, which is very civilised and a bit of a holiday treat. 

Mmmm, splats. Jesus would be proud.

The takeaway curry we had for tea was more of the same, but I came over a bit funny in the Mumtaz and had to sit down. It was an awkward five minutes later, with a glass of water and waiters hovering even though we weren’t staying, that we went back to chez RogLizzie to yum up our prawn balti, naan bread and spinach bhaji. It felt like a mistake while I was eating it – I didn’t want it, but I bloody ate the lot. (This feeling of shovelling food down my neck whether or not I’m hungry is also abundant. I haven’t a clue what my body wants these days. I can’t hear it. I simply do the things that used to be nice, but they don’t have the same effect any more. Nothing does. It’s very confusing.) Our evening was topped off by the most agonising period pains I’ve ever had in my life. They came in spasms and made me shout out. Probably the closest to contractions that I’ll ever be getting. I did calm down, but had a difficult couple of days in that dept. I’ll not go into detail, but “Sunday Bloody Sunday” probably covers it.

In spite of it all, I did manage a short walk on Saturday. I knew there were newborn lambs in the vicinity, and Rog happens to have known the farmer since they were six. So, when we poked our bonces over the fence to look, he saw us and called us over. For twenty minutes I was in Lamb Heaven, my woes completely forgotten as I stroked the fleecy faces of several youngsters. Just yesterday they’d been surrounded by placenta, so today they were being checked in. They didn’t mind having the numbers sprayed on, but they weren’t all that chuffed with the elastic bands placed around their tails to shorten them, and I can’t say the boy lambs were impressed with their welcome into this world. It makes my eyes water to contemplate it, and I’m already bollock-free! There were also nine 3-week old spaniel pups for me to peruse, and I grasped the one they named “Gizmo” and held back more tears: It was a lovely spring day, there were pups and lambs in the world, and all I wanted to do was go back and lie down. What a waste!

On Easter Sunday I “helped” Roger do a roast dinner for us and his mum. I also helped them to eat it, as the nausea had mostly passed by now. I try not to take anything for it on the Sunday afterwards, and usually manage. The reason is that I get shockingly constipated from all the tablets. This time it was horrendous. Even though laxatives were taken from Day -1, suddenly my trips to the bogatry become little slices of hell: Sitting, but no sh-  …er, I mean, sitting but that’s about it! If any eagles do decide to land, they do so with all the urgency of paint drying, and I just don’t have the patience for this. I try reading, to relax me and make it less boring, but the seat isn’t a comfortable one for long-term use. What’s more, with all the food and extra bulk (thank you senna), my belly swells up like the Graf Zeppelin, which flippin’ hurts.

Sorry, digressed, back to our meal: To my abhorrence, we had to have shop-bought apple strudel, to save me worrying over dessert. I did end up doing some more home-made ice cream and my first attempt at proper Yorkshire pud was not tragic. Scrabble followed scran, and I let Roger win this time, as a reward for his good behaviour! When he took his mum home, I got onto the ol’ Skype and had a lovely chat with my mob back in Margate. Love abounds. I wrap myself up in it and let it carry me through.

Monday was just me and my man, hangin’. We went to Tesco in the rain (revenge for the time he dragged me to Plumbase on a similarly-weathered bank hol…). The Coventry football fans, dumped in Thornbury before the game with Rovers, had scoffed all the fish and chips, so we went home and worked as a team, making delicious pie from leftover roast dinner. We yummed it up with a nice film, and a bit of Bully on Challenge! It was lovely to have Rog all to myself at last. I didn’t feel a bit poorly. All the drugs had done their stuff, all the side effects worn off ( - an exceptionally large eagle landed mid-afternoon, and it was a weight off my mind, to say the least!). I think Stina’s MP3 had something to do with this too.  

So it was Easter all around me, and I hardly noticed, but I had a smashing time nevertheless. I was of course crying when I wrote this in my pseudo-diary:

“The best part has been spending most of the last four days with my bloke. He’s been wonderful. Squeezing me, loving me, making me smile and laugh when I’m crying. Roger Winter, you are the best medicine a girl could have and I swear I’m not going to abandon you. I have not had enough time with you. We should have years left.”

It was that little questioning voice in the back of my head – what if, what if, what if? Residual hormones, or the result of a lot of lovely stuff being over, but it happens some times. When it does, I remind myself about the Fat Lady singing, and as far as I’m concerned, she hasn’t started on her warm-up exercises. In fact I don’t think she’s even turn up. Can I use her dressing room then? It’s very crowded in this one and they keep pinching my coathangers.

* * * 

The words “brave” and “inspiration” are being bandied around me an awful lot, and not in ways that I would necessarily agree with. I know I’m being a Big Brave Girl with every stab of needle and every wave of nausea, but I have to go through all this so I have no choice. As for the I-word, it’s something I’ve always aspired to, but not this way. Maybe, as I consider it to be a compliment, I can’t accept it? (Low self esteem blah blah etc) These people, on the other hand, are doing things off their own bat as a result of my misfortune. That’s inspirational!

·        My sisters Lucy and Christina, and my mini Mamma are taking part in a Race for Life near them in July. L&C are going to run, Mamma says she will do a combination of walking and waddling! I say good luck to the three of them, and I’m hoping that the chemo session directly before they do this will be my last, so I will be able to watch their achievement. http://www.raceforlifesponsorme.org/lucylindsell is Lucy’s page. I’ve heard that some members of Thornbury Musical Theatre Group will be doing similar, but I can’t confirm this yet. I never ever thought that anyone would be doing a RfL with my name written on their vest…

·        Ex-school chum Matthew is going to have a stab at the London Bikeathon in September. That’s a 26-mile cycle in aid of Leukaemia & Lymphoma research. I know that he’s not 100% in the pink either, so this is a massive effort on his behalf, on my behalf. If you agree, sponsor him here http://www.justgiving.com/dr-matthew-williamson .

·        Endurance is one thing, but shaving your long hair off when you don’t have to is also remarkable. That’s what my old classmate Nicki is going to be doing in a few weeks’ time, this time in aid of the Little Princess Trust – the charity to whom I donated my locks. I’m honoured to have been asked to carry out the separation of Nicki from her ponytail, and I will do my utmost to do this. In the mean time, you can help us out by visiting http://www.justgiving.com/nicki-faherty or even (and how simple is this) text BTJ056 to 70070 and you’ve donated LPT a quid.

So yet more good stuff has come out of this bunch of arse. I am very touched, and very humbled. It’s things like this that I need to focus on. Waking up in the mornings can be vile, but these days it sucks. There’s that blissful moment between the two conscious states where you’re no longer asleep, but you can’t feel or remember anything… then it hits you in pieces, like a computer booting up.

Today, my bladder woke me at 4am, as is its wont. I was in that ethereal in-between place, snuggled up with my bloke under the cosy duvet, awake but not aware. Mmmm lovely, I thought. Then I put my hand on my belly and felt the extra padding therein. Oh no, I’m putting on weight! Of course, I remember. Still, that’s OK. I got myself up and made the journey to the toilet. As I stood, my head felt light and cold, and I remembered: Oh no, I’ve got short hair and it’s very thin. At the top of the stairs: My mouth is sore, I can feel that now. At the bottom: Oh yeah, I’ve got cancer, haven’t I? Bathroom door: … and my next chemo is tomorrow, damn. On loo: … so I’d better get a shitload of work done today and some housework, and the washing, and I must confirm my lifts to and from the hospital, and those books will have to be returned to Amazon, and I’ll do Roger’s packed lunch – what are we having for tea? – oh, and I have my counsellor at 4.30pm and that delivery’s coming, yadda yadda yadda, all the way back to the duvet. It’s a wonder I go back to sleep again. I don’t always manage it…

* * * 

I had my second PET scan on Tuesday 10^th April, the results of which I’ll find out any day now. I’ve received some more thoughtful gifts too, but details of both will have to wait, as I’ve rambled on somewhat. (Such intrigue! You’re forced to read the next one now…hahaha!) The lead-up to jollop involves copious amounts of housework and chocolate-eating, which I’d better run along and get on with.   

Packing my bag. There's a kitchen sink still to go in.

Though I approach #5 with the same sense of trepidation as ever, I know it will be different this time. Experience is helping me to improve the experience! I will be chauffeured all the way which means they can put lorazepam in my drip instead of clop, to ward off the nausea, and to keep me calm. To enhance and prolong its effects, I have Stina’s MP3, which is such a comfort. I’m going to take 100% of my prescribed laxatives for a little longer, with lactulose for an extra boost. Plus, with any luck, I shall have the knowledge that a certain arse is definitely being kicked, and it’s only a matter of time before it’s rendered powerless. For good.

With a little help from my friends

Well hello there, long time no write. Maybe you were wondering if my hair was to my writing as Samson’s was to his strength? Maybe you were not.

I must confess I’ve been having a strugglesome time of late. The last lot of chemo took three days out of my life and rendered me incapable of even simple thought. After that, my mood ploughed deep, leaving furrows on my brow like medieval ramparts, in amongst all the chocolate-induced acne. Anyway, it turns out I have quite a lot to impart, so I hope you’re sitting comfortably:

Hair-wise, that first weekend, I loathed it. I couldn’t look in the mirror without blubbing, so I stopped looking. When I did catch sight of myself, I would think “who is that old-looking woman?” for a split second, before remembering that it was in fact me. As the week progressed however, I realised what a good thing The Chop had been.

If you haven’t already seen them, vids of before, during and after my restyling are here:

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=10151403019770304

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=10151403233125304

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=10151403345275304

First and foremost, it’s so easy to handle! I’m not tangled in it all the time, and my showers are a fraction of what they were. Very convenient when even sitting up has me out of breath. Secondly, it is falling out (see below) and it would be a real mess if it was still 2ft long. I wouldn’t have had much left to pass on to A.N.Other. So all-in-all it was a good job well done, and in the nick of time. The nurses at the hospital were impressed when I danced in and showed it off. I’m getting fantastic at this acting lark.

I can’t say I was looking forward to the third chemo session, but I’m learning to just take them in my stride as there are going to be quite a few more. 

More drugs? Yes please!

This time I was back on the good side of the room, and I even got the Magic Chair. This is one of two proper armchairs, which actually has a recliner function – bliss! (I can’t fathom why, for a place where people are going through possibly the worst experiences of their lives, that they don’t have more comfortable seating. Maybe this is something to investigate when I’m all better and looking for fundraising causes… ) Thanks to said furniture, I was literally much more laid back about things. 

It reclines! Joy.

The nursie whose mercy I was at today was the delightful Tina, who was back from Nigeria, cheerful as ever, and telling me I looked well. I think she’d say that to me even if my severed head was hanging from my neck by a flap of skin. She looks fantastic. She divulged her age and I was staggered. I had her pegged a good 20 years younger.  

Tina - more proof that black don't crack!

There then followed the usual heady mix of the first three drugs, crossword compiling, eating my packed lunch (get me, Mrs Organised), nodding off to self-hypnosis, comedy shows and general time-passing. Lots of texting updates to family and friends, with Bear making himself useful this week and holding my phone. 

Hold the phone - it's Bear (who can't even do that job properly... tsk)

I didn’t feel the need to squeeze him this time. The Magic Chair is in a nice out-of-the-way corner. Nobody engaged me in conversation, nobody crowded me in.

Breaking up my sentence was The Wig Lady, otherwise known as Jayne. I’ve heard much about her talents, and got to meet her in the flesh for a pleasant half hour of distraction and wig-testing. From the plethora of photos I had bombarded her with, she had selected a few specimens that might work well on my bonce. The best three are below. Which do you favour? 

Hiiiiiiiiiii-ya, Hodgkin!

Dance your cares away...

Wouldn't it go well standing next to Roger?

I like the blue one myself. It’s called the Marge. OK, OK, it is April and I’m a fool. Maybe this was more like it: 

Playing it straight

Short and sweet

Blondie

We meet again tomorrow to try a curly one (the Brittany – not joking this time) and maybe to decide.

It was only as I was hooked up to drug #4 that the trouble began. I was fine for about two minutes before an agonising pain took hold of my left arm and worked its way up to my elbow. I did a bit of pathetic grimacing and groaning, and sighed with relief when it stopped. Unfortunately, it had only stopped because Tina had stopped the drip. Lisa brought me a heat pad and a blanket and I tolerated a gentle ache until hometime, while the final drops dripped in.

Which brings me neatly to the next bit pop-pickers, the Top Ten side effects for the fortnight commencing Tuesday 20^th March, and it looks something like this:

10: The Hippy Hippy Shakes (Swingin’ Blue Jeans)

Shaky hands, which I think came from the metacloperamide (which I shall call “clop” as that sounds more friendly), a new anti-sickness tab to add to my repertoire. Not a useful side effect in terms of icing biscuits, but it didn’t last long.  

9: Needles and Pins (The Searchers)

Tingly toes and slight tingling of fingers, especially when exercising or showering. One to watch – if they start going numb, I got trouble.

8: Don’t Stop Movin’ (S Club 7)

I think this is what they call “restless leg syndrome”, and it sucks. My mum and sister get it, so it’s possibly inherited. It might not be a side effect directly, but I know it is worse when I’ve been lying down a lot. http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmedhealth/PMH0001810/ for more details, if you’ve never heard of it.

7: Something for the Pain  (Bon Jela)

One ulcer, which I swear is the size of a dinner plate. Luckily, the Boots own sore mouth gel has a delicious dose of local anaesthetic in it. I am using that and Bonjela to soothe it, but the bugger won’t go away. It’s been over a fortnight! Mouth-wise, I’ve had it all: metallic taste, no taste, sensitivity to very hot or very cold temperature. (At one point the minty toothpaste I use rendered me speechless with pain), and a bit of soreness.

I came back from the last session armed with various mouth meds. Contrary to popular belief, I’ve never been good with gargling, so the mouthwash lays untouched. The Gelclair (which is like gargling jelly) is something designed by Satan and after one attempt at this (gonna vom), the box is on the windowsill gathering dust. I might prod my ulcer with some of this if the thing’s still around. The one med I have been using, (only twice a day, not four times as directed) is Nystatin, which I have to hold in my mouth as long as possible, then swallow. (Is that some sniggering at the back?) I’m OK with this as it tastes like the antibiotics they gave you when you were five. I think it’s kept my tongue from cracking, so I will keep taking it.

6: Keep Me Hanging On (Supremes)

Where is my period? It’s late again, so far by three days. If it doesn’t happen before tomorrow, I’ve got a feeling it’ll be Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday!

5: The Size of a Cow (Wonderstuff)

All you druggies and alcoholics of the world, even you smokers – I get it. I totally understand where you’re coming from. I can’t get through the day without something made from the fruit of the Cacao plant: Before breakfast, after breakfast, after lunch, after tea, before bed and snacks in between. It’s getting so bad that my strategy is to eat only Slimming World meals to make up for the extra sugar intake. I have a self-hypnosis MP3 for comfort eating, which I’ve listened to a few times. I know it’ll work, but I’m usually too busy eating to use it! And yes, I know that if there were any time of my life that I deserved a treat, then now would be it. Unfortunately, the treat part is when the sweet stuff is actually in my mouth. The ensuing sugar rush, weight gain and general feeling of un-health are not a treat, and what relieves them? More chocolate. Now hand me that Mars Bar…

4: (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction (Rolling Stones)

Constipation! A direct side effect of the anti-sickness tablets, but I’ve just about got the idea of how to handle it: 3 senna tabs before bedtime, 2 sodium docusate (sod) in the afternoons. The first add bulk, the second make it all soft and squishy so it Don’t Stop Movin’ (oo, S Club 7 again, though I can think of other ways that they might be related to this topic…) I have to remember to pop the sods in advance, as they take a couple of days to work, and I could quite frankly do without the abdominal pain (colic?) and all the vasovagal episodes that accompany what I like to think of as Extreme Pooing. Marvellous.

3: (It’s Not Easy) Bein’ Green (Kermit T. Frog)

Into the Top Three with the ever-present nausea. This time I was a good girl – I took it all: steroid in my drip, 3 steroid tabs on the following day, granisetron as prescribed. To this I needed to add Dompy and Clop (sounds like a Dickens novel). And I STILL felt sick. It’s a nagging sensation, which stops me doing anything normal, like moving. I hate it. Doc Hoffman (The Hoff?) has prescribed me something to add to the arsenal of anti-emetics this time around, but it’s related to sleeping tabs, so I will have to take it in the evenings. If I’m awake…

2: Weak (Skunk Anansie)

Fatigue, although I think I’m too tired to write about it. Ho. Over the last fortnight, it’s stopped me working, shopping, helping Rog in the garden, even leaving the house for fear of it happening while I’m out. It can strike quite suddenly, as if I’ve been walloped in the chest with a plank. This isn’t just tired, this is M&S tired, where my arms and legs and bod feel like there’s a heavy weight on them. Can’t move, can’t think, can’t even stay awake, but can’t always sleep. Keep thinking “I’ll get up in a minute”…. “No, I must get up” but I actually can’t. Loathesome, and when accompanied by nos.3, 8 and 7 (and no chance of relief from no.5) makes for a hellish and uncomfortable 72 hours. The 72 hours I am facing in about 24 hours’ time…

Bear in mind that although some of these are side effects directly from the chemo, some are side effects of drugs taken to combat those side effects, which bring side effects of their own. Yes, it’s a party here at Hodgkin central. 

And so to a New Entry – straight in at number one:

You’re So Vein (Carly Simon)

Forget everything else, this is a corker, and liable to put an end to my day-to-day activities if it goes on. Basically, my poor veins are taking a battering from the jollop, and my left arm has been agony for the past five days. It was bad enough to keep me awake on Tuesday 2 night, and (after finally dozing off,) I woke on Wednesday 2 morning with a big fat elbow. Painkiller doesn’t touch it. The only thing that helps is a hot water bottle and not moving it. When lovely nurse Lisa took my blood on Friday 2, it was from my right elbow as even the thought of touching my left arm made me want to slap her. She jabbed the needle in, and I’m fine with that. I wasn’t prepared for feeling my vein’s reaction to being punctured. It didn’t like it! I’m ashamed to say I blubbed, but Lisa was great and squeeze my hand with lots of “You’re doing so well… you’re being so strong” etc. “Silly cow!” I replied, but was quick to point out to her that I was talking about me! It’s the Dacarbazine that does it - the daddy at the end of the chemo that takes 90 mins to go through. At least it did. Now it’s going to take longer because my vessels are completely irritated by it (I know the feeling). The only way to combat this is to drip it in more s-l-o-w-l-y with an extra helping of saline. So goodie, I get to spend even more time in the Haematology Day Unit.

With all this going on, you wouldn’t think there’d be room for any more. Well my bod does not like to disappoint afflictions, and leave them waiting until I’m better. In the last two weeks I’ve had bits of hayfever, nose-running, sneezing etc, touches of cystitis, and on Saturday 2, a trapped nerve thing in my neck that has made sitting up difficult. I mean come ON.

So, am I downhearted? N… n… yes.

Well, you try being cheerful with that lot! I have had a couple of Kevin the Teenager moments this time (“It’s so unfair!” etc), though I will credit my hanging hormones with the magnification of this. I can’t even think about what having cancer might mean for my (and Roger’s) future. As far as I’m concerned, I will kick it before the year is out, and there’s an end to it. That doesn’t make it any easier when I see lives going on all around me, knowing that mine is on hold through no fault of my own. Tanya from EastEnders (ooo highbrow!) had it spot on – the sofa is a prison for someone having chemotherapy. I don’t think I’ll be doing anything as radical as she did (setting about hers with a knife…), but when I watched that episode I bawled my eyes out. I would go further and say my body is a prison: Looking at the lovely spring day outside and not being able to get up, not even just to open a window to let it into the room; Not being able to push a wheelbarrow of grass ten feet, thus meaning that Rog mowed all our lawn by himself, while I flung myself into my cell and cried with frustration; My only consolation is food, which makes my clothes shrink, but I’m stuck with it and I hate it; Even my lovely 3-mile walk has turned into a challenge, after which I just feel worse and wish I hadn’t bothered. I can’t wait to feel muscle tone again, and for an adrenaline rush to make me want to shout out, not pass out. I know it will, in time. In time in time in time. AAAARGGGGGHHHHHHHHH

Mind you, there are some gems arising from all this bollocks, and they take human form. Since my diagnosis, there has been a steady stream of well-wishing cards, messages and even gifts, each of which lifts my saggy pecker every time. (Of course I blub too, but only cos I always blub when I receive presents. It’s a self-esteem issue, yadda yadda yadda) I can’t thank everyone individually yet, but if you have sent something or have done something lovely for me, know that I am extremely grateful, from the bottom of my heart, and that you are on my List of People to Make Biscuits and/or Other Goodies for.

On Tuesday 2, I got back from shopping to find this cake gracing our doorstep, from a mate of Roger’s, whom I have yet to meet. 

It's All You Need...

 When I stopped blubbing, I had a bit with Total 0% and strawberries, and it was delish!

On Wednesday 2 Roger bounded back from TMTG rehearsal with a bag containing home-made lamb tagine, rice, salad, Shloer, croissants and home-made marmalade, from TMTG group member Pete. After blubbing quite a lot over this (I was really touched), we enjoyed the croissants for breakfast and the tagine for tea on Friday 2. I had wanted to lose my tagine virginity for a while now, and I couldn’t have lost it to a better bloke!

Like a (Tagine) Virgin

Tender lamb, tasty sauce, all very sweet – we scoffed it all.

Finally on Saturday 2, the post brought a well-timed double whammy: A card signed by all at PA (the people I do some work for) (blub) and a package labelled “I wish I hadn’t needed to make this for you.” Inside was the most exquisite knitted hat, hand-made by my lovely friend Sue.

Lizzie, in her Lizzie cosy

I agreed with her sentiment – I wish she hadn’t needed to do it either. I put it on and let the tears flow. I wanted to howl. I’m so angry. Why me? I know it has to be someone, but WHY ME??? The statistics are about 30% of people will have cancer at some point in their lives. So 70% won’t. Of that 30%, I would guess that a large proportion are older people, near the end of their lives. My life was just taking off, and now I have to pause to deal with this twat? The hormones don’t improve my mood, and smack of impending jollop doesn’t help either. However, I’m OK with this. It’s perfectly understandable that I should feel this way, and it’s all right for me to express it sometimes. At least it isn’t all the time. I’m about 5% feeling sorry for myself and 95% fight. Deal with you I will, so-called Mr so-called H. You’ll be sorry you ever darkened my immune system!

Something else that has lifted me no end is rediscovering my hobby of collecting Sindy doll stuff. When I was a kid, I had one doll, a few items of clothing and the use of my sister’s Sindy house. I never understood why it was always Stina that got the doll stuff for birthdays and Christmas, and not me. Even Lucy got more than me, and she wasn’t a big fan. I used to go to my friends’ houses to play with their collections with the greenest of eyes. Some of them had more than one doll (gasp) and a bucket of clothes, (not home made, proper Sindy clothes,) and all the bits and bobs of furniture, housed in massive mansions. Zoe, Bonita, Catherine, Ashlyn - lots of memorable moments in my childhood come from their toys! I suppose that my passion now stems from acquiring that which I never had.

Thank goodness for Ebay. I spent a silly amount of money on someone else’s childhood collection last week, and would have driven all the way to Milton Keynes to pick it up. Luckily for me, another gorgeous friend happens to live nearby, and happened to be visiting his nephew in Newbury, so an exchange occurred at the Chieveley services. There is a LOT of stuff, and today I’ve got a bit of buyer’s remorse. Not the money, but the space it’s all taking up. Poor Dave crammed it into his mini, and barely had room to include the Thank You Toblerone I presented him with, (in lieu of handmade biscuits). Anyhow, should you still have your Sindy or know anyone else who does, and wants to get rid, get in touch. You might make a big kid very happy! I pay top dollar, with homemade bix thrown in (though you’d have to wait a bit for those…)

Almost two months to the day since my initial diagnosis, I received the date of my next PET scan. This is to determine whether or not the jollop is working, and will occur on April 10^th. When I phoned to confirm, I told the receptionist about my current chemo, like I was supposed to. She said that they don’t normally do scans so close to treatments. My heart stopped – what was I supposed to do? Fortunately, as I’m having it every fortnight, they’ve no choice, it has to be done on the 10^th. This is the Tuesday between treatments, so it’s as far away as it can be from one session without getting closer to the other.

I’m very lucky as a) the PET scan has only been used in HL treatment for the last couple of years and b) I live near to one of the few places in the country where you can get one. More details and much crossing of fingers and baiting of breath to follow. I am confident, of course, but I will feel even more so, when I get some proof that I’m making a dent in Hodger’s arse. Watch this space.

When I went to the unit on Friday 2 for my usual pre-jollop assessment, I bumped into fellow HL butt-kickers Jan and Jean, both getting their chemo juice. The former (the lady who chatted to me when I was having chemo #2) was propped up in the Magic Chair. I made a point of staying a bit to talk to her, asking how her doggy was and teasing her about her “toy boy” who had given her a lift in. Jean was in one of the Evil Chairs, and had had a bit of a fainting kerfuffle earlier on when they put the needle in. Both ladies looked groggy, and both were – so they told me – completely bald! It would appear that Jan’s hair had gone overnight, so much so that she’d scooped it up in a bag and taken it to her hairdresser to show them. Jean’s had come out in handfuls in the shower, and she was now wearing her wig. Credit to the Wig Lady that I hadn’t realised. Even when she told me, I couldn’t see the join. Jean’s barnet had departed since I saw her last, and she expressed surprise that mine was still all my own, as I am a treatment or so ahead of her. Of course, I grabbed at mine and showed off a bit, with some tongue-in-cheek rubbing in… before saying that mine is going too, but less dramatically.

 When we were little, we used to get real Xmas trees. I would always run my fingers over the branches of a new specimen, knowing that the next time I did it - when the festive season was over - all the little needles would topple off in my hands and rain on the tatty wrapping paper covering the ground beneath. It would symbolise The End of Christmas, so I used to test the tree now and again to see how close the conclusion was. Do you see the analogy?

Every day since the chop, I’ve been pulling at my locks, scrutinising my hands like a hawk. (I’ve come to know the lines on my palm so well, I could tell my own fortune with my eyes closed!) For the last week or so, I haven’t had to pull too hard. It’s been falling out properly since Tuesday 2. With every shower comes another handful, sitting in the shower drain like a dead animal. Something macabre in me puts the beast on the shower tiles so I can compare amounts each day. 

It was on my head before I tried to wash it! Tuesday 2's loss.

This morning was the most so far. That’s only what I catch. There are also bits on my clothes and in the carpet. Charlotte the volunteer tea lady (and leukaemia survivor) told me “It gets everywhere. All over your pillows, in your food. In the end you just have to cut it off.” I’m totally OK with this. The worst bit is over, and I’m getting used to the daily ritual of seeing how much bonce-coverage my morning’s ablutions have cost me. I won’t miss what’s left too much. So far there’s no real evidence - no bald patches, just a little thinning, but I had quite a lot on my head to start with. I am going to leave it for a while. Rog is on standby with the clippers, all I have to do is say the word. He’s due a haircut – it might be a mutual shearing! Wouldn’t it be funny to be a pair of eggs just in time for Easter?

I think I’m done! Told you it was a lot. I must try to do this more regularly in future. Small bites are easier to digest, ne c’est pas? By the way, I started up a Twitter account, so I can bang on about it all on there. If you are a fellow Twit and would like to follow me, I’m here: https://twitter.com/#!/KickAssLizzie . As for now, frantic pre-jollop preparation is calling. Better crack on.

Good health to you all xxx

Hair yesterday, gone today

The thing that one associates most with chemotherapy is the loss of locks. When the doc initially told me I had cancer, and that they were going to treat it with chemo, I was shocked, but of all the hundreds of questions I needed to ask, the one that got to my smacked gob the fastest was “Will I lose my hair?” My first tears from this situation came as she replied: “Oh yes”.

Since that day, I have been braced for baldness. I scoured the internet for information and evidence because I wanted to know for sure if I was destined to share hairstyles with Roger or not. (Uncertainty is one of the worst things in life. Something is in control and it ain’t you.) The general consensus was that with ABVD comes hair loss. Mostly a thinning, but sometimes a total boiled-egg look, with eyebrows and eyelashes to match. One or two have commented that I might be lucky and escape this side effect, as some people do, so I decided to hold out for as long as possible. No point in putting myself through the pain of getting it cut if it wasn’t going anywhere in the first place, right?

Yes, pain. I’ve often had nightmares where I’d had an inadvertent trim, only to wake up and touch my locks, relieved that we were still attached to each other. At times, it has seemed that the loss of my hair has been more upsetting than the actually illness. If you have waist-length, curly hair too, that you have spent the best part of a decade cultivating, you might understand that. So yes, I made a fuss.

The hair falls out because the stuff they stick into you is meant to kill off rapidly-growing cells i.e. the cancer. Unfortunately this includes some healthy cells in your bod, like blood cells (hence the low immune system); cells in the mouth (hence my sore gob) and cells in your hair follicles. Ahhhh! I had read that it is possible to wear a “cold cap” during treatment that restricts the flow of blood to the bonce, and thus the amount of Stuff that gets to it. I spent some time debating over whether or not to have one (I don’t think it would be very comfortable during an already vile process for starters). It was a decision I didn’t have to make – cold caps are not offered where I receive treatment.

Almost every morning since the first load of toxic chemicals sloshed around my veins, I’ve been going through the same routine: Brush hair, inspect hairbrush. Wash hair in shower, inspect shower drain. Dry hair, apply product, count hairs that come out. Everybody loses hair regularly, at about the same rate. Those of the close-cropped persuasion won’t notice, but when the individual strands are up to two feet in length, just the one coming out announces itself like a reality TV star launching their autobiography. Using the same simile, it gets EVERYWHERE and is just as annoying: over clothes (mine and other peoples’), car seats, cushions, and forming a mysterious web over carpets when I’m vacuuming, which always needs to be pulled off the pile and forced down the Dyson. Just a couple of strands and the shower floor fills with water until they’re removed from the metal strainer thing (installed to stop my hair going down the plughole and clogging it up in a tangled mass of fibrous protein and gunge. Blee!)

Anyhow, before all this Hodgkin hoo-ha, I was always dismayed at how much bonce-coverage came out on a daily basis, which is why I washed my hair every other day, and sometimes with all-in-one shampoo and no product. The point is, I knew the background levels to expect. That was all I got. In fact less than usual – almost as if my follicles were using their last ounces of strength to cling on with all their might. After two weeks, nothing had budged and I was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, I would be one of the chosen ones.

So we get to the Monday after my second chemo session, and thus the third week from the start of treatment, which (as a lot of the internet blurb declared) was when this side effect starts to rear its shiny head. I brushed and inspected – was that more than usual? I washed and noticed that I was able to pull the odd strand straight off my head. Everything I pulled out I stuck to the shower tiles. By the time I had applied my product, I had quite a cluster of hairs, and I went loopy. B-day was imminent and now a reality.

Part one of my plan was to wait until it started to fall and then get it cut. I had almost been willing this to happen, because I was getting tired of hanging around, and now here it was, in mousy and gold (with the odd fleck of grey) on my hairbrush – I was for the chop. When I finally calmed down, I treated my barnet as usual, but with the extra love that you do when you think you are doing something for the last time. I scraped it up into a ponytail for it to dry and curl, then shook it loose to dry off completely. I would see if it continued to come out, then book appointments accordingly. A doom-and-gloom Facebook status was posted, that no-one could like, followed by a miserable text to family and friends, and blubbing down the phone to Roger. Of course, it was a false alarm. Storm in an AA-cup.

T Shirt by http://theartofindigo.com/#/t-shirts/, photography by Rachel, stuped closed eyes by Lizzie

 

The week was a rollercoaster of energy and fatigue. I felt so incredibly well on Thursday, I could have done ANYTHING. I spent lunchtime on the web, looking for mountains that hadn’t yet been climbed, oceans that hadn’t been rowed across – I could do them all. I got tonnes of compiling done, and lots of fiddly jobs that I’d been postponing. I even got back into home cooking, and produced some beautifully healthy dishes, the likes of which we hadn’t seen since before I took up with the pantomime. Wonderful.

After that, there wasn’t much wind left for my Friday sails. Typically this was the day I had to go out, all the way to S’mead for my second pre-chemo assessment and blood extraction. Shower first, so I unplaited my braid and brushed. Woah – definitely more than the background. 

More on my brush than there is on Roger's head altogether!

 The same went for the shower, and it kept coming. When a veritable handful came out at once while I was applying my curl cream (for handful, read 3 strands), I knew it was poo or get off the pot time. After Monday’s drama, I was a lot calmer and more pragmatic. My ponytail done, I toddled off to Tesco, and noticed that my bunch was looking a bit scrawny anyway. Let’s face it, this day was going to come, cancer or not. When I got to the hospital, I had made the decision: I was going to – and this is no cheap innuendo – going to have it off.

Nearly 24 inches from root to tip, I'll have you know.

 The appointment was made for 6pm. I told them what they were to be doing and braced for, then brushed off, the all-too-familiar gust of sympathy that comes with my news. (Digression: It’s a tricky one. I want to be frank about things - that’s the best way forward in life - but I still wince a bit at the initial reactions. I don’t feel like I deserve sympathy, but on the few times when it has been scarce, I miss it!  There’s a brilliant male/female divide on this too. Ladies are wordy; chaps suddenly clam up even more tightly than usual. I’ll take whatever comes because as far as I’m concerned, we all deal with things in our own way.) After that, I knew I only had a few hours left of enjoying my hair, so I untied the ponytail and let it cascade around down my back for the last time. Of course, it looked extra pretty, didn’t it? It trickled and shone and whispered in husky tones “What’s all this about cutting me off? You know you want to keep me. Look what I do for you…” 

"Please don't cut me!"

 I decided that I would get that McDonald’s I had been promising myself, to pick me up. It was a massive calorie-laden anti climax, and I think I may have enjoyed eating the packaging slightly more than the burger. Except the onion rings, they were yummy. Don’t get me wrong – I love a McD’s, but my heart wasn’t in it. As I stood in line in a packed restaurant, the door was wedged open by several of the hundreds of students whose lunchtime it was, and my locks blew into my face in a really irritating way. When I was sitting in my car chowing down, I kept munching on fluffy hair. And when I examined my coat on returning home, it was coated in strands that had been on my head just a few hours earlier. Definitely the right decision

I tried to focus on this but it didn’t ease the pain of the impending barnet bereavement much. After a couple of hours of duvet time and a spot more blubbing, I arrived at the executioner’s, er, salon, clutching my camera, my wallet, and my lovely friend Rachel, who had driven all the way down from Stroud just to hold my hand. What she ended up holding was the camera, to document the denouement of this sorry tale. 

For old time’s sake I dragged a brush through once more, my earlier activities having left several knots that it took ages to attack. The hairbrush was really loaded when I finished which helped to remind me that this was For The Best. A bit of contortion to make my final braid, and I was ready. Kerri the Stylist took her scissors, and with a few snips my relationship with my favourite feature was over.

Going...

Going...

Gone! *sob*

I felt the weight of the hair go, and leave a cold spot on the back of my neck. As expected, I shed a few tears, from the shock and enormity of it all - not the cancer, but the enforced change of style. (My sense of perspective is delightfully askew today!) I asked to hold the plait in my hands like someone asks to hold their newborn. It was much heavier and longer than I’d thought it would be, but it was utterly dead, like I was holding my own corpse. It rested on the shelf in front of me as Kerri busied herself with tidying up, Rachel snapped away, and I tried to hold it together. Thanks to all the supportive texts and messages, the support right there in that salon, and one very special piece of information (keep reading), it was much easier than I’d ever thought it could be.

20 inches, weighing in at a mere 83g

What the stylist was creating was almost exactly what Thoroughly Modern Millie would be sporting for about nine tenths of the show. I rolled my eyes to the God of Irony and remembered a snippet of conversation between Wendy (DODS costumes) and me when I was first cast, back in blissfully unaware November:

“Lizzie, what are we going to do with your hair?”

“Well I shan’t be cutting it, that’s for sure”

*guffaws of laughter*

Tch.

Kerri was very kind and dried my shorn locks into some style that I wouldn’t have picked for myself EVER. I completely trusted her judgement, and I have to say it didn’t look half bad. A change is as good as a rest. Welcome to the 21^st century, Lizzie’s hair! Rachel then produced a gift of dangly earrings and my new look was complete. I left the salon with my lighter head held as high as I could manage, without giving my newly-exposed neck too much of a battle with the elements.

21st Century Girl

Roger is very taken by the new ‘do, and keeps giving me the fruity eye, so something else positive arises from this malarkey. For him, it’s probably like he’s got a new girlfriend, or at least an improved old one! 

 As for me, I had a troubled night. The number of times I rolled over and automatically went to lift my hair high onto the pillow so it wouldn’t be in Rog’s face…then realised there was nothing to lift. This morning’s shower was the hardest. I managed to remember to use less shampoo etc, but I still rinsed it for the same length of time, and it was very hard to squeeze the water out. I used to hold my tresses with both hands and wring them dry. I already miss that. Sure it took less than a quarter of the time, and I wasn’t entombed in soggy hanks as I stepped out, but on the downside it looks like I might need to attend to it with a hair dryer or straighteners, as it’s looking a bit moppy today. I keep running my hands through it in disbelief, especially the very back, which is only slightly longer than my bloke’s. 

No matter: Firstly, it might not be for long as it’s still falling out, though it’s harder to tell. Phase two of my plan involves electric clippers, a kitchen chair and The Rog getting his revenge. And secondly – if I even dare to start to feel sorry for myself, I just use the one over-riding thing that helped me find the strength to do this in the first place - knowing where my beautiful hair is going to end up.

If you find this blog brought a lump to your eye and a tear to your throat, you too can make a donation to The Little Princess Trust: http://www.littleprincesses.org.uk/Donate/Default.aspx - money rather than hair, unless you can spare more than 7 inches of it...