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Tap, tap, tap.

17 Oct

I’ve decided to stop blogging.

Well – truth is I’ve been so slack at it since my Bone Marrow Transplant, I feel guilty.  Reaching this decision really just comes down to facing the fact I’ve been doing a pretty average job at it.

I’m lagging behind with writing about so many things like the Pink Polar Expedition (in support of the McGrath Foundation), speaking at Red Cross events for National Blood Donor Awareness Week, the truly tragic death of my former ‘roomie’ less than three weeks after her BMT, surviving my first cold, re-connecting with friends and family and trying to find the ‘new normal’ following such a long stint in isolation and several near-death experiences… ‘Looking’ better, but feeling decidedly wretched, being abandoned by my husband and feeling loved and welcomed by new friends. Ohh, then there are the ‘quality of life’ issues which present themselves on a daily basis.

There are numerous reasons I’ve been so neglectful of my blog – the main one of course is that I’ve just been too sick.  I know technology is great and can make it easier, but honestly – some days – just thinking straight and getting my thoughts ordered enough to make sense, is a battle.  I am so scattered and at times wonder if I’m totally bonkers with the things that fill my brain.  Let’s just say my headspace has been rather cluttered with arguably some of life’s big ticket items.

Seriously though, I am feeling perhaps this medium has run its course.  Not across the board, but for being the most appropriate outlet to share ‘my story’.  I even hate the way that sounds.  So presumptuous.  Like you must want listen to what I have to say:-/

On some levels, what I’ve shared on this blog is deeply personal (gory pics and all), yet on others – it has barely scratched the surface.

During the harrowing ordeal that was my Bone Marrow Transplant, my Mum helped keep those interested up-to-date with my situation using various social media channels.  They’re a rather effective way of providing a snapshot.  (When my eyesight was so poor I could hardly see, she typed.  When I was unable to speak, we found a way to communicate and she continued to share.)    SM has a place – a pic/comment here and there and I will keep it up – but it’s hardly a comprehensive record.

I had fully intended to go back to blogging, as I had throughout my breast cancer experiences.  But, apart from the cognitive decline and difficulties I encounter with fatigue, there are still a great many side-effects of this transplant, treatment and medications that leave me struggling.

At the same time, as I try to get back on my feet (pun totally intended given my dodgy hip situation!) I am regularly asked to share my ‘story of survival’.  Whenever there’s a request and it is possible I will do this for awareness campaigns, charity events and motivational opportunities.  I feel very strongly about using these experiences for good, in the hope that someone – just one person will benefit, in some small way.

Perhaps though, I could (and maybe should), use the time and energy I have left, to write a more in-depth account? (let’s face it – there are not many of us with such an ‘interesting’ medical history still around to tell their tale).  There are times I feel compelled to document some of these experiences, so others who are facing or are involved in similar situations may find some help, hope or solace.

I have never written a book.  Hell – I wrote and presented radio news three-liners for a living!!  I don’t even know how to begin.    My first thought is to ask those who’ve paid a bit of attention over the years and who may be potential readers, what is it you want to know?  And if you don’t mind indulging me – why?

 

 

Stormy Skies

10 Apr

It’s one of those stormy and unpredictable nights on the Gold Coast, eerie almost.  Perhaps a reflection of my life at the moment as I consider that just as quickly as they roll in, storms fizzle out.  Maybe the thunder and lightning are even Mother Nature’s way of reminding me that powerful, violent fury can and does end, often leaving a beautiful, fresh glow.

I do hope that’s the case with my current situation.

I must point out that I’m not caught up in a terrible bind, I’m just playing with words.  However I do feel like I’ve been at the centre of my own ‘storm’ for a while now and quite frankly, I’d like it to pass.

In trying to bring about an end to a sort of stalemate with my marriage, I’ve decided to collect my two gorgeous girls and take up a room at my Mum’s place (okay – a room & bathroom + parts of her sewing room, kitchen, living, outside area….)  Paul will move elsewhere and we will rent out the apartment for the time being.

Those of you who know me know how ‘house proud’ I am.  More than that though, I truly adore living in this apartment. It’s in a great area, safe, quiet, in an amazing building, with brilliant design.  It’s also a tad luxurious.  This place is special for other reasons too.  I think of it as kind of like an elegant NYC Brownstone – but white!  The entry is through a glamorous lobby and we were lucky enough to secure one of the terrace apartments on the ground floor – so not only is there plenty of room for the girls, but there’s also direct street access.  I can walk across the road to acres of parkland, the riverfront and the ‘magical tree’ I’m so drawn to, or pop over to the banks of the private lake.  I also have a few neighbours I count as friends, who have become a big part of my life.  It’s stunning in design, yet understated in its feel.  The kitchen is just perfect for entertaining (which again, if you know me – you’ll know I love nothing more than having a house full of people to feed and clink glasses with), the bathrooms are fully tiled with beautiful travertine and I’ve decorated accordingly – continuing the earthiness with timber, leather and steel.  We’ve added a really nice black granite circle of life water feature and the timber arbour is playing host to a very healthy wisteria.  I am yet to see it flower in full bloom.

Elegant.  Sophisticated.  Home.

For the eight and-a-half months I was in Brisbane last year, I dreamed about this place. Every single day I willed myself stronger so I could return home.  I can ‘make home’ anywhere, really.  But this little apartment, well, it just feels good.  I love everything about it.  It’s the only home little Phoenix has known, where Lila loves to bail up the delivery guys and where my darling Ch’i took her final breath.

As much as I love this place, I’m not too naive to pin all my hopes on returning. I of course hope I will, but as we all know – a lot can happen in a short space of time.  We’ll just have to wait and see.

There’s heartache and disbelief to deal with first.  The reality has certainly been overwhelming these last few days, as I’ve moved some things to Mum’s, sold others and sent the rest to storage.

The emotions are running high.  It’s devastating to be honest – but I need to try and keep everything in check.  Seriously, the drama of three lots of cancer plus a bone marrow transplant isn’t enough? The destruction of my career, my marriage…and now this.  I’ve had a gut full to be honest.  What I could really do with is a break! This period I am certain, is meant to be THE most amazing, happy time of my life – as I should be celebrating the fact that I HAVE A LIFE! Courtesy of a lot of hard work by a great many people and of course, the generosity of my incredible donor. Instead, there’s more major upheaval as Paul leaves and blames the ‘cancer bubble’.

Well, fuck you cancer.  I don’t need to be around those who can’t deal with you.

Fuck you cancer, I am a grateful soul.

FUCK you cancer, I wake up happy.

 

Back in Black

5 Apr

Not in an Amy Winehouse kinda way..

But….Congratulations dear Donor, Dr’s and nurses – the numbers are good.

For the first time in over two years, my pathology report is not red line after red line.  My all important counts have recovered to the point that I’m in the ‘normal’ or ‘safe’ range for most readings.  This is a huge improvement and actually came as quite a shock because I’d been feeling so dreadful in the lead-up to today.

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Although I didn’t get to see Dr Kennedy today – I’m certain he would have used the words becoming ‘stable’ to describe these latest results.  Nurse Kylie and I think so anyway!

..before you go!

21 Feb

As keen as I am to get home later today, I knew it would be foolish to rush.  One of the benefits of not pushing, is that final checks revealed my haemaglobin has dropped since the surgery (as was expected.)

So, I was able to have a last minute blood transfusion to ‘top me up’. Thank you again you wonderful donors out there, still a year post transplant- my health is being improved by your generosity!

The ‘To-do’ list at Discharge includes a final physiotherapy session on the ward, confirming future appointments with Orthopaedic specialist at ‘complicated fractures clinic’ and of course with my BMT Consultant.

I must say I’m looking forward to a big bowl of green Asian veg, with sesame oil and soy sauce. The hospital fare wasn’t really doing it for me and I found myself humming ‘….hospital food’s gettin me dooooo-owwnnn’ ah la David Gray.

Tell me you don’t find this ‘Moroccan style chicken’ appetising?
(I promise, in that ahhhhh, slop, there is  one piece of chicken! Look closer. It’s down there on the bottom right of the plate!)

Final step was to change the dressing on my surgical wound. Nurse Jaynne – who’s heading for a career in the ADF, did a great job getting this scar across my thigh and butt looking clean and ready to go home.

Puppy cuddles await…

21 Feb

There’s nothing like home. Sure, you can think instantly of the creature comforts such as your own bed, a nice lounge, the ability to be able to grab something from the fridge when you like etc. but for me – the things I’ve missed most are of course my puppies; Ch’i, Lila and Phoenix Hope.
Paul is doing a great job looking after them, but we both are so grateful to our darling friend Krissy, who is again going above and beyond. This crazy, loveable lady goes to visit our girls everyday. She hangs out with them, cuddles, plays and just keeps them company. A beautiful extension of our friendship is how seriously she takes her role of ‘Godmother’ to the girls.

This is a special pic, as Krissy really doesn’t like having her photo taken.

…and not to be left out, my little brother Skype’s in to see I’m ‘following Drs’ orders’.  Crack in’ day in Adelaide – look at the colour of that sky!

Everybody shufflin!

20 Feb

Day One and I’m proudly ON MY FEET WALKING! (Okay shufflin’ – but I’m fully weight-bearing with the slight aid of a rollator. UNREAL!


Mum had just arrived – how cool!

Dr Halliday earlier confirmed operation went well and that it would be only be a short stay in hospital.

When I asked about doing the other side he replied, “I’m not going to hack into your right hip, it really doesn’t look that bad. I don’t know why you’ve got this pain.”

Well, I thought we’d been over the fact that crumbling bone might have something to do with it, but he now seems unconvinced!

He told me that when the cartilage was peeled back, it revealed a mass of crumbling, almost powdery bone-like substance and that the deteriorated bone had basically been ‘encapsulated’ within that cartilage.  There’s no saying that’s not already happening to the other side.

That’s the report from the initial MRI, we’ll see how I recover from this THR and whether there’s been any progression of disease in the right side.

 

Can SO do this..

19 Feb

This is hard core. I’m trying to recall some of the conversations and incidents pertaining to my care and the expected success of this surgery on my left hip (keeping in mind the right will have to be done soon).

Whilst ‘mechanically’, it’s pretty standard, the finer details in planning and taking necessary precautions have involved a lot of people with expertise in several key areas. It’s not solely an ‘Orthopaedic job’ nor is it ‘Haematology’, however big decisions to make this as safe as possible require specialists from both fields.

Apart from my Coke ‘splash’ yesterday, the team set-up a platelet transfusion for me to cover two hours of surgery time + an additional bag. (They have to be agitated, so I willingly took on the role of ‘chief agitator’😜, while I would otherwise have been just laying around watching someone else do it.)

It was a big bag too – 340mls.

  

The Anaesthetic and pain relief was a bit tricky for the team to fine-tune, given my allergies (I can rattle them off quickly now – Codeine, Tramal, Endone, Ketamine and Erythromicin!!)

In Pre-Op, my surgeon said he wasn’t worried about fixing my hip, but was concious of my ‘overall poor health’. A seemingly simple little issue could become a life-threatening emergency for me very quickly. Still, my hips are dead/dying and the left one is broken – this has to be done. Happily, my neutrophils are good and the infection risk is being handled as well as humanly possible.

Food (with GVHD considerations), fluid, oxygen are other elements being taken into account.

My drug-affected recollection is that I tried to smile the whole way through, even when sliding across onto the operating table. It was very noisy when I drifted off to sleep; metallic banging of instruments, people buzzing around and the Anaesthetist holding my hand firmly.  We had discussed doing a nerve block in both hips, so I could enjoy 8-10 hours of reduced pain. The surgeon had agreed and I said thank you before 💤💤

   

NASTY – but alive and I’m in one piece. Those were my initial thoughts on waking.

Navigating my way through the next crucial 24-48 hours is not going to be fun, but I have always found that by being observant, focused and actively involved in my health care, things can be easier.

The nurses here in Orthopaedics don’t know me as well as the guys and gals in the BMT unit. It took a bit of persuading to make them see I was ready to get up on the day of my surgery…hey, if an 80 yr-old can do it, I can do it!

WOW….. Breath-taking. I remain still, politely ignoring others in the room while I allow myself to soak-in the beauty and power. This simple sequence, which has today led to me being on my own two feet (relatively pain free), is awesome.  Life is….awesome.

   

But ‘I’m’ the patient.

5 Feb

9pm tonight, almost exactly 48 hours after that horrible experience with my ‘roomie’, Boom! Another.

A voice from behind the curtain demands “nurse get me a sleeping tablet – you’re keeping me awake!”  “I’m sorry, what can I help you with?” She asks.

“You, because of you I can’t sleep, you’re in here socialising!” She spat.  The nurse replied “Ahhh, well no.  It’s part of patient care to develop relationships and yes, we have been chatting.” When challenged again, the nurse pointed out it wasn’t that late and it wasn’t unreasonable…also that the patient still had her TV on.  “Yes – and it’s LOUD!” She bit back, “to drown out you and Kate.”

What?! She knew my name and used it?!

“Excuse me”, I said “after the other night, this is intolerable.”

She exclaimed at the top of her voice, “but I’M the patient!”

I took a deep breath, but couldn’t help myself, eventually saying “I guess I could politely point out that I am too”.  As the nurse reminded us that we had to share the room, I painfully shuffled my butt to the edge of the bed to lean over and reach my new crutches. I went to leave and for the first time saw the lady behind the curtain.  I was in complete disbelief that someone could be so unwell, yet find the energy to be so aggressive. As our nurse left, the nurse in charge promptly entered to try and break it up. In a frustrated hobble to the door, I thought to myself, you lady are a seriously nasty piece of work.

Over the past few days I have learned that sadly, her condition is terminal. I am acutely aware of the range of emotions she may be experiencing, fear the one I have overheard her talking about the most. It makes me upset that she appears to be leading such a miserable existence and that her final weeks or months are scarred by this sort of outburst.

As the nurse in charge tried to calm the situation, the woman piped up at me again “You have influence in here…” What?! I said “I beg your pardon?”  She raised her voice even louder, “Ohhh don’t say what, I know what I need to say and I’ll do it in the morning….”

This was bullshit.  I was out.  Unsteady on my feet, I gently swung my broken hip forward and put one leg, then one crutch in front of the other and went to the patient lounge.

Deep in thought over the awful confrontation, and trying to reason that everyone deals with stress differently, I burst into tears when the nurse in charge came in to make sure I was okay. I was shaking.

As I apologised, saying I felt sorry for the nurse looking after us and that I should have left the room without saying anything, the nurse in charge told me she was glad I stuck up for myself. She consoled me with a tub of lime jelly and shared with me some horror stories of abuse and violence from other times in her nursing career. Truly shocking. I now know why there are signs in health care facilities all over saying things like ‘zero tolerance’.

I realised I couldn’t sleep in the lounge and was not looking forward to lying on the other side of the curtain to someone I’m so repelled by. I imagine it might be like being on school camp and having to share a tent or dorm with the class bully.

News travels fast and the rest of the nurses on duty were on it. Many asking if I was alright as my crutches and I slowly clunked our way back to the room.

As I sit here typing away, I’m not so concerned about the tap-tap-tap of my fingers on the keyboard. The smart-arse part of me is tempted to turn the TV on, and crank the volume!

Lights out!

3 Feb

I can not believe this just happened.
My ‘neighbour’, the woman in the bed next door in this 2-bay room has picked a fight with me about having the light above my bed on.
A bit miffed, I asked her if she was actually asking me to turn it off? (It was 9.20pm).  I told her I was waiting for assistance to get to the bathroom (’cause I can’t walk!) and I would switch it off when I came back. I went to the bathroom, had a sook with the nurses and returned, pulling her curtains closed as I shuffled past on my roller/walker thing. I turned off the overhead light, but before my machines were even plugged back in, she went on the attack again.
The light she was now angry about was on the machines providing me with drugs including pain relief!!
Incredulous, I hit the call button for the nurses. As one entered, I stifled tears as this woman told me she ‘couldn’t possibly sleep with the light on, she was in pain and had such-and-such disease.’ This was obscene.  All I could say was ‘do you really want to go there?!’ I covered my head with a pillow as the nurse calmly explained it was a share room, don’t fight, we had to try and get on etc. etc.
She’d had her TV blaring all afternoon, while I had visitors…. No-one complained.  Clearly we are both sick, otherwise we wouldn’t be in here.
As I appealed for a little more respect due to that obvious fact, the nurse exited and my neighbour promptly started snoring!
Sweet dreams💤

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‘Looks okay’.

3 Feb

Test results are a big deal, especially when they can show definitively whether there is ‘active Leukaemia’ in a person who’s had a Bone Marrow Transplant to get rid of the potentially deadly cells.

The first signs I had something really wrong (following my Breast Cancers), were; bone pain, unexplained bruising and fatigue.  Below are some shots of my bruised bod over just the last few days.  You can argue the bruising is caused by low platelets, high-dose steroids or Heparin (it’s to thin the blood and reduce the chance of DVT, I’ve been having it injected into my belly since being laid-up with these troublesome hips).

My most recent Bone Marrow Aspirate/Biopsy was performed last week and it’s been a real effort to keep things under control.  It’s a pretty standard test, but it does take the lab a while to process the information gained from taking some bone marrow from the top of the hipbone.

A new Dr I hadn’t seen before had the pleasure of delivering some good news last night – telling me casually that it ‘looks okay’.  

……….I guess there’s nothing more to say really. 

    
  

Sharing it around.

31 Jan

Writing about my experiences is an interesting experience in itself.  The majority of people are very encouraging (many suggesting over the years that ‘there’s a book in it’).

Sharing bits and pieces on social media is one thing, but the blog is a little more detailed and the prospect of a book – much more so.  On occassion I receive some lovely feedback, which really does warm my heart and spur me on to write or share more.  Whilst marking my ‘1st Birthday’ last week, a complete stranger took the time to send the message below.  It made me stop and really think about just how many are involved in keeping people like me going.  I was pretty chuffed that by sharing on Insta, this person could feel my gratitude and saw fit to reach out.  I can’t tell you how many hundred times I’ve walked along the corridor, past the lab in which my donor stem cells were processed.  The scientists and people working there just as important to my survival as the awesome team of Doctors, Nurses and Allied Healh staff.

 
To all, another great big, heartfelt thank you for your work.  And thank you to my friends and family who helped celebrate this one year milestone in a variety of ways – including cards, delicious doughnuts, beautiful natural body care treats and the old favourite – cup of ice!  I wasn’t expecting to be back in hospital, but you guys have made it a more pleasant time. 

   

5 C

30 May

I could write a book on this experience (and one day I just might), for now – I’m exhausted, but needing to try and ‘collate’ the four and-a-half months I’ve had in Ward 5C getting ready for and having my unrelated anonymous donor Bone Marrow Transplant.

The chemotherapy regime I’ve been on this time in preparation for transplant is FLAG: FLudarabine, High-dose Cytarabine (Ara-C) and Granulocyte colony-stimulating factor (G-CSF).

There’s been some horrible experiences and some hilarious.

I’ve had fluid on my lungs, pneumonia, and felt like I was drowning in my own body.  I’ve needed breathing assistance, suffered the humiliation of incontinence and worn an adult nappy.  I was moved to ‘Room 1’ which is pretty much the last stop before people check out – permanently.  Those nights the ICU Doctors came to see me.  I didn’t want to be moved to ICU, I felt safe in 5C, they were experts at looking after transplant patients.  It was certainly a challenging time.

There have been no less than five occasions where one of my treating team has stood at the side of my bed and delicately explained that I ‘might not make it through the next 24-hours’, so if I needed to say anything important, now was the time to have those conversations.  Thankfully, I’d prepared Mum and Paul for this likelihood and they were comfortably aware of my ‘final wishes’.

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Some of the drugs made me hallucinate. I was watching lavender grow from the ceiling and seeing faces in the bare white painted walls. I was talking to people who weren’t there. I was texting Mum saying I know she’s in the corridor outside taking about me and to just get her gown and mask on and come in.  Mum was at work – on the Gold Coast!

Who knows what I was saying to the Drs and nurses during this time.

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I did have a bit of respite a couple of times, staying in a unit nearby where I got to sleep uninterrupted (no obs or beeping machines), and eat what I wanted – which unlinke my pre-chemo diet was really unhealthy – chips, pre-prepared frozen meals etc.

Before too long though I was headed back to hospital.  A few times I woke in the early hours with spontaneous vomiting and a dangerously high fever.  Going through the Emergency Department was necessary – but so exhausting.  They had to take blood from my line, as well as two peripheral sites which means more needle sticks.  I’m trying to avoid any unecessary processes on my arms, as I’ve had lymph nodes removed from both sides as part of my breast cancer treatment and am therefore at greater risk of developing lymphodema – an irreversible, painful swelling of the arm.  So, I have my blood pressure taken on my leg and try to avoid those extra needle sticks when I can.

Not a fan of confrontation, I struggled with some of the side effects of certain medication.  Some made me quite agitated and I found myself fighting with people. Most of the time I caught myself and was able to stop, but there was one particularly awful exchange with my beautiful nurse Lettie.  We’re friends now, but when she found me crawling on the floor looking under the bed for my little dogs Ch’i and Lila things turned ugly very quickly.  I was crazy out of my mind on Ketamine (I can not believe people take this as a ‘party drug’!) and didn’t like her telling me to go back to bed, that she’d spoken to Paul and the girls were okay.  It was a little white lie that didn’t work.  I got right up in her face and told her as much.  Paul almost got a phone call at 3am!  It took the amazing Pete to resolve the impasse.  Boy was I pissed though.

Then there was the ‘incident’ with my central line.  Again, I blame the drugs.  I’m convinced I tried to get out of bed to go to the loo and tripped over the pole, accidentally getting caught up in all the tubes and dislodging the central line as I fell to the floor.  Others argue I ripped it out of my neck/chest, then as I bled, tried to stem the flow and clean myself up by using rolls of paper towel!  I honestly do not know.  What I do know is my nurse Tash yelled quite loudly as she entered the room ‘ Kate! it’s a fucking blood bath in here!!’.  It was, not only was I bleeding a lot (especially with extremely low platelets), I’d also snapped the food line, so there was stinky, sticky white glue-like fluid mixed in with the blood all over the floor.  There was so much it had spread through to the bathroom and when Tash and another nurse Ness started the clean-up we could hear their shoes squelching through the mess!  After making sure I was okay, Tash sat me on the end of the bed and told me not to move.  She tells the story much better.  This one will go down in history.  Dr Katherine came to remove part of the line still hanging from my chest.  I had surgery the following day to insert another line.

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Breaking down

Sweets Syndrome, Mucositis and central line yanked, then properly removed.

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Some of the complications I’ve experienced include CMV, Sweets Syndrome, Graft Versus Host Disease (GVHD) of my skin and gut and cataract.  More detail on them some other time.  Namaste.

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First round of FLAG

11 Nov

Today November 5, 2014 started with the hardest of goodbye’s to my girls Ch’i and Liliana.  I stifled cries the entire way to Brisbane.

After checking in to the Royal Brisbane and Women’s Hospital, I had surgery to insert a Hickman’s Catheter (with it’s own ‘serial number’ and identification card:-), it has three lumens to administer chemotherapy and other drugs, take blood, give blood and platelet transfusions etc.  It was inserted through the jugular vein, then goes to the heart.  After all those surgeries to get my chest/’breasts’ looking as good as they could, I now have a couple of ‘bullet holes’ where this central line has been inserted!

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It was time for food, before my first round of chemotherapy, which was to last five days.

This was my first meal after surgery and last before chemo started – not exactly gourmet…..

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No time wasting here.  Later that night came the heavy stuff..

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I couldn’t sit still, so went to the entrance of the Bone Marrow Transplant unit and Skyped my brother Dave as the first lot of drugs went through.

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It wasn’t long before they took hold.

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I needed a blood transfusion.  First one I’d ever had.  (I’m A+)

And I learnt how to Skype the puppies!

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Sleep wasn’t easy in a shared room…..As awesome as 19 year-old Ash was, there’s no joy in sharing a room and bathroom when you’re having chemo. There was no escaping the fact that we were both sick.  To be frank – it’s disgusting.

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Here I am showing off my new jarmies from my friend Lyndall..

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Paul and I wondered what the hell was in store next..

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I willingly demolished the crappy hospital food (most of it).  Must be the steroids.

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I found myself laughing hysterically with my Mum – I’d made it through 5 days of heavy-duty chemotherapy!!!

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I Skyped my husband and fell asleep while doing so…..

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I began to learn the language of haematology…….

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Also had my first platelet transfusion.

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Had the dressing changed on my central line.

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And had the stitches removed from my back.  (You’re the best Bec!!)

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Couldn’t help but do the thumbs-up with my Mum, Cousin Matt and his wife Jodie.

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Work up

28 Oct

The latest results aren’t overly fantastic, in fact they’re pretty shit.  It appears my MDS is progressing quickly.  There’s every chance (and it’s my ‘gut feel’), that it has already ‘transformed’ into AML, but the only way of telling that is through another Bone Marrow Biopsy, which will be done later this week as part of the ‘work-up’ for my transplant.

My work-up includes preparation for full body radiation as well as things like getting a baseline reading for my heart and lung function, a check of my skin (and removal of anything suspicious – luckily I only had one little spot on my back which had to come out), eyes and dental health etc.  you know, before every part of my body is affected by the transplant process which includes some heavy-duty chemotherapy.

There was something like 18 appointments in three full-on days!

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Script I wish I wasn’t writing

14 Jun

KC MDS IMAGE