Today is the first day of Bowel Cancer Awareness Month.
At the beginning of my blog, I wrote that I took Steve to the hospital within half an hour of his first symptom. I've since learned that this isn't completely true. I took him to the hospital when he had an explosion of blood going to the toilet after a weekend at the Isle of Wight Festival - the first symptom that I was aware of. I now know that he'd actually noticed small bits of blood going to the toilet in the months previous to his diagnosis, but it only ever happened after a night out, so he had always blamed alcohol and thought nothing more of it.
I have often written about the incredible support I have found through various charities and Twitter. It breaks my heart that since September, three of these lovely people have sadly passed away from this horrible disease.
It is so important to be firm and assertive with your doctor if you think something isn't right. In our case, we were lucky that Steve was admitted as an emergency and had the necessary medical attention immediately. I've heard of far too many people being dismissed by medical experts and their illnesses therefore becoming more advanced, and in some cases, incurable.
I'll keep it short for today but if you have come across this blog and it has made you think twice about a symptom you or someone you know has shrugged off, please don't ignore it. Even if it only happened once. It may be nothing, but it may be something. And if it's something, the sooner you know, the better.
That's it for now. Lots of love as always. Xx
@GinaParker21
Showing posts with label blood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blood. Show all posts
Monday, 1 April 2013
Sunday, 20 January 2013
Chemo #4
Hello!
I'm actually quite glad to say the last few weeks have been relatively uneventful.
After Steve's last chemo session, he was extremely apprehensive about having any more treatment, and I had a lot of sleepless nights worrying about what might happen if he didn't complete the course.
However, thanks to some of my amazing Twitter friends, I was able to convince him that we would get hold of some different anti-sickness drugs so he could carry on. I'm amazed I even managed to put the idea into his head because for 2 weeks he had been so against returning to that hospital.
Three days before chemo #4, I went with Steve to his "pre-chemo" session. Usually, this is a very quick height and weight measure, a blood test and then a short chat with a doctor to make sure he's healthy enough for the upcoming dose.
Neither of us like to cause a fuss, but I wasn't going to let Steve get that poorly again when I knew there were other solutions available - different drugs (Emend has been highly recommended), syringe drivers (this would go into Steve's hand on the morning of chemo and stay in for around a week - a district nurse would come out at the same time everyday to replace a 24 hour 'cartridge' releasing strong anti-sickness medicine) and other things. But every time I mentioned this to the doctor, he completely ignored me, turned to Steve and said "I'll just reduce your dose of chemo."
We weren't happy with this! I tried telling the doctor how sick Steve had been and that if he happened again this time, he would not come back. The doctor insisted that reducing the dose of chemo would mean this was unlikely to happen again, but I wasn't going to risk Steve getting that sick and then refusing to go back.
It took me a good half an hour, but by the time we left, a new plan had been put in place. The doctor still insisted the dose be reduced, but he would prescribe Emend for every session from now on, and in case this didn't work, a syringe driver would be on standby for every treatment so that 24 hour anti-sickness could be given if necessary.
I've been told by lots of people how effective Emend is, so I was quite concerned that the dose was going to be reduced - If the new anti-sickness was as good as everyone said, would the dose need to be lessened?
It didn't matter anyway because we got a call the next day to say another doctor had looked over the new plan and agreed that there was no need for the chemo to be reduced as the new plan would almost definitely be enough to ensure the sickness didn't happen again. And with the new drugs, chemo #4 was a success! No sickness, no feeling of sickness, and even the rest of his side effects seemed to disappear a few days quicker than they had on previous treatments. Yay! :)
A few days ago, I was thinking about Steve's operation and it suddenly hit me how far we've come. I felt like bursting into tears! It physically hurts to think about when I first saw him after surgery, hardly conscious with a blood pressure cuff on his right arm, a cannula in his left hand, a drain coming out of his back, a failed epidural also still attached, a catheter, and boots on his feet that puffed up constantly to prevent blood clots. I never missed a visiting hour, although during the evening ones, the ward staff often let me stay late because Steve seemed much happier to them when I was there. Coming home to an empty house knowing that he would be there on his own, uncomfortable and wide awake all night, used to break my heart (and I'm holding back tears now just thinking about it!) - the hardest part for me was not being able to be there when it was all I wanted. Even if I couldn't do anything, I just wanted to be there to talk to him and hold his hand and it devastated me that I couldn't.
When I think now about the fact that we're half way through chemo and planning our wedding, it makes me wonder where all that time went! People ask me how we even get through each day, and for me, the honest answer is adrenaline. We have to get through each day together because the alternative is not an option for us.
I really believe that the heaviest burdens are placed upon those who can handle their weight, and when I say this experience has taught me things about myself that I never knew before, that's exactly what I mean and I know Steve feels the same.
Thank you so much to everyone who has advised different things for us and encouraged me to be persistent with the doctors, you have been lifesavers.
Lots of love to you all.
Talk soon!
Xx
I'm actually quite glad to say the last few weeks have been relatively uneventful.
After Steve's last chemo session, he was extremely apprehensive about having any more treatment, and I had a lot of sleepless nights worrying about what might happen if he didn't complete the course.
However, thanks to some of my amazing Twitter friends, I was able to convince him that we would get hold of some different anti-sickness drugs so he could carry on. I'm amazed I even managed to put the idea into his head because for 2 weeks he had been so against returning to that hospital.
Three days before chemo #4, I went with Steve to his "pre-chemo" session. Usually, this is a very quick height and weight measure, a blood test and then a short chat with a doctor to make sure he's healthy enough for the upcoming dose.
Neither of us like to cause a fuss, but I wasn't going to let Steve get that poorly again when I knew there were other solutions available - different drugs (Emend has been highly recommended), syringe drivers (this would go into Steve's hand on the morning of chemo and stay in for around a week - a district nurse would come out at the same time everyday to replace a 24 hour 'cartridge' releasing strong anti-sickness medicine) and other things. But every time I mentioned this to the doctor, he completely ignored me, turned to Steve and said "I'll just reduce your dose of chemo."
We weren't happy with this! I tried telling the doctor how sick Steve had been and that if he happened again this time, he would not come back. The doctor insisted that reducing the dose of chemo would mean this was unlikely to happen again, but I wasn't going to risk Steve getting that sick and then refusing to go back.
It took me a good half an hour, but by the time we left, a new plan had been put in place. The doctor still insisted the dose be reduced, but he would prescribe Emend for every session from now on, and in case this didn't work, a syringe driver would be on standby for every treatment so that 24 hour anti-sickness could be given if necessary.
I've been told by lots of people how effective Emend is, so I was quite concerned that the dose was going to be reduced - If the new anti-sickness was as good as everyone said, would the dose need to be lessened?
It didn't matter anyway because we got a call the next day to say another doctor had looked over the new plan and agreed that there was no need for the chemo to be reduced as the new plan would almost definitely be enough to ensure the sickness didn't happen again. And with the new drugs, chemo #4 was a success! No sickness, no feeling of sickness, and even the rest of his side effects seemed to disappear a few days quicker than they had on previous treatments. Yay! :)
A few days ago, I was thinking about Steve's operation and it suddenly hit me how far we've come. I felt like bursting into tears! It physically hurts to think about when I first saw him after surgery, hardly conscious with a blood pressure cuff on his right arm, a cannula in his left hand, a drain coming out of his back, a failed epidural also still attached, a catheter, and boots on his feet that puffed up constantly to prevent blood clots. I never missed a visiting hour, although during the evening ones, the ward staff often let me stay late because Steve seemed much happier to them when I was there. Coming home to an empty house knowing that he would be there on his own, uncomfortable and wide awake all night, used to break my heart (and I'm holding back tears now just thinking about it!) - the hardest part for me was not being able to be there when it was all I wanted. Even if I couldn't do anything, I just wanted to be there to talk to him and hold his hand and it devastated me that I couldn't.
When I think now about the fact that we're half way through chemo and planning our wedding, it makes me wonder where all that time went! People ask me how we even get through each day, and for me, the honest answer is adrenaline. We have to get through each day together because the alternative is not an option for us.
I really believe that the heaviest burdens are placed upon those who can handle their weight, and when I say this experience has taught me things about myself that I never knew before, that's exactly what I mean and I know Steve feels the same.
Thank you so much to everyone who has advised different things for us and encouraged me to be persistent with the doctors, you have been lifesavers.
Lots of love to you all.
Talk soon!
Xx
Friday, 14 September 2012
How it all began...
Firstly, I want to talk about Steve's diagnosis and the time leading up to it.
We'd been at the Isle Of Wight Festival in June this year - my first festival and one of the muddiest there has ever been. It was supposed to be a Thursday-Monday trip, but Steve took a slightly drunken fall on the Friday and sprained his ankle. He didn't have the strength in his ankle to walk through thick, knee-deep mud so by Sunday morning we'd decided to come home.
My instincts were telling me we needed to get home ASAP. I've never really paid attention to instincts before, but there was something about this one that made me feel very uneasy.
Sunday was fine - we got home, had nice hot showers and a hot dinner, watched a film and had a good night's sleep - until about 6.45am, when Steve got up the go to the toilet. I was half asleep when he came back into our room and told me that he'd just lost about a pint of blood on the toilet.
Straight away I sat up and told him we needed to go to hospital right away. I didn't know the symptoms of bowel cancer, and at this point hadn't considered that cancer could be the reason for this "episode", but I knew that something like this is your body's way of telling you something isn't right.
There was no way Steve was going into hospital without putting up a fight - "Forget I said anything", "I'll call the doctor if it happens again", "I'm not having anyone examining me". Within half an hour, we were at Bournemouth Hospital A&E being seen by a doctor.
Steve was examined by a few different people and had bloods and blood pressure checked. Everything looked fine, so we were both anxious when we were told he'd be staying in hospital overnight.
On Tuesday 26th July, following a flexi-sigmoidoscopy (long flexible tube with a camera on the end to look inside the bowel), Steve was allowed home. We were told "a number of polyps" had been found and would be sent off for biopsy and that we'd have the results in about 2 weeks. A week later, Steve got a call to say his results were in and he had an appointment on Friday 6th July to discuss them.
This is when he was diagnosed.
Steve had never even considered that he could have cancer - he said that not ONCE did the possibility cross his mind. He thought his diagnosis was "a number of polyps" and that this was the reason for his bleed.
Having dealt with my mother's cancer for 8 years and therefore recognising a lot of the medical terms used by doctors when they were referring to Steve, I had suspected from quite an early stage that this bleed was a sign of something a lot more sinister than we'd previously thought.
I hadn't been allowed the time off work to go with Steve for his results, so his parents went with him. Steve's dad had suffered from pancreatic cancer a few years previously and both parents also had their doubts about the diagnosis, although they never told him that.
Steve and I work for the same company, and he was due to come back into work around 4pm, after collecting his results. 4pm came and went... I was clock-watching and looking at the door, waiting for him to walk through it and tell me everything was fine, although deep down I knew that this was not going to happen. After what seemed like hours, I saw the Mike, the company director (and a very good friend of ours) come into the office and have a hushed conversation with one of the managers - I remember clearly thinking "They're going to tell me that I need to go home now, because Steve has cancer." I went light-headed and woozy, I saw my manager's face appear in front of me and I heard "Gina, Steve is at home, you need to go. Mike is going to take you."
I was silent for the 5 minute car journey home because I was trying to prepare myself for what I knew I was about to hear. I walked into the lounge and my heart broke. My 6ft 2 boyfriend looked at me with terrified Bambi eyes and said "I've got bowel cancer." He fell into my arms and all I could manage was "I know, but it's going to be okay."
We'd been at the Isle Of Wight Festival in June this year - my first festival and one of the muddiest there has ever been. It was supposed to be a Thursday-Monday trip, but Steve took a slightly drunken fall on the Friday and sprained his ankle. He didn't have the strength in his ankle to walk through thick, knee-deep mud so by Sunday morning we'd decided to come home.
My instincts were telling me we needed to get home ASAP. I've never really paid attention to instincts before, but there was something about this one that made me feel very uneasy.
Sunday was fine - we got home, had nice hot showers and a hot dinner, watched a film and had a good night's sleep - until about 6.45am, when Steve got up the go to the toilet. I was half asleep when he came back into our room and told me that he'd just lost about a pint of blood on the toilet.
Straight away I sat up and told him we needed to go to hospital right away. I didn't know the symptoms of bowel cancer, and at this point hadn't considered that cancer could be the reason for this "episode", but I knew that something like this is your body's way of telling you something isn't right.
There was no way Steve was going into hospital without putting up a fight - "Forget I said anything", "I'll call the doctor if it happens again", "I'm not having anyone examining me". Within half an hour, we were at Bournemouth Hospital A&E being seen by a doctor.
Steve was examined by a few different people and had bloods and blood pressure checked. Everything looked fine, so we were both anxious when we were told he'd be staying in hospital overnight.
On Tuesday 26th July, following a flexi-sigmoidoscopy (long flexible tube with a camera on the end to look inside the bowel), Steve was allowed home. We were told "a number of polyps" had been found and would be sent off for biopsy and that we'd have the results in about 2 weeks. A week later, Steve got a call to say his results were in and he had an appointment on Friday 6th July to discuss them.
This is when he was diagnosed.
Steve had never even considered that he could have cancer - he said that not ONCE did the possibility cross his mind. He thought his diagnosis was "a number of polyps" and that this was the reason for his bleed.
Having dealt with my mother's cancer for 8 years and therefore recognising a lot of the medical terms used by doctors when they were referring to Steve, I had suspected from quite an early stage that this bleed was a sign of something a lot more sinister than we'd previously thought.
I hadn't been allowed the time off work to go with Steve for his results, so his parents went with him. Steve's dad had suffered from pancreatic cancer a few years previously and both parents also had their doubts about the diagnosis, although they never told him that.
Steve and I work for the same company, and he was due to come back into work around 4pm, after collecting his results. 4pm came and went... I was clock-watching and looking at the door, waiting for him to walk through it and tell me everything was fine, although deep down I knew that this was not going to happen. After what seemed like hours, I saw the Mike, the company director (and a very good friend of ours) come into the office and have a hushed conversation with one of the managers - I remember clearly thinking "They're going to tell me that I need to go home now, because Steve has cancer." I went light-headed and woozy, I saw my manager's face appear in front of me and I heard "Gina, Steve is at home, you need to go. Mike is going to take you."
I was silent for the 5 minute car journey home because I was trying to prepare myself for what I knew I was about to hear. I walked into the lounge and my heart broke. My 6ft 2 boyfriend looked at me with terrified Bambi eyes and said "I've got bowel cancer." He fell into my arms and all I could manage was "I know, but it's going to be okay."
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