48-24 hours before it begins again

This is what happens in the 48-24 hours before Dig's chemotherapy cycle.

We start with him already frustrated, fed up, disconnected (having spent several days unwell in bed), and unhappy. He's also suffering hiccups again, intermittently, which are not hilarious, as they should be. They cause reflux and abdominal pain while preventing talking, eating and breathing like a normal human being. Cue bleak mood and expression of weary forbearance.

But! On the bright side! Beautiful Husband Dig character-shares with Luverly Wif Grit, the following unquenchable strengths: a strong streak of bloody mindedness, severe independence, quiet obstinacy, and visions of how things might be, if only we could get there.

Shared motto: We have to be imaginative enough to think of it, then brave enough to do it.*

Step 1. Go to hospital for blood tests. I don't go with him, because the test usually takes only a few minutes, and involves the drawing of blood (I have to avert my eyes, or risk passing out).

Today the process takes two hours 'on account of an Easter backlog'. (He probably just fibbed about that, and crept off to scoff a burger from behind the tyre shop, even though he has been banned from doing this by the hygiene certification rule.)

The blood test, as explained to us, is checking he's fit enough to begin the poison cycle. It might involve a neutrophil check, which is his white blood cell count. Under 1? He's in hospital. A bouncy 3.2? Soon he'll be at the starting line in the oncology ward. White blood cells fight the infections that he's almost certainly about to contract.

Step 2. Start taking steroids. These are teensy-tiny tablets. Swallowing these results in a clear-up of all the things you've ever been suffering from. On the other hand, prolonged use of steroids will turn you into a flobby colander before killing you, so thank goodness these are just a quick chemo blast.

Dig's state of mind at this stage swings between weary chemo-worn routines of I don't want anything, to moments of optimistic outgoingness, the sort of energy that expresses itself in: I could just eat a burger from the van behind the tyre shop.

For my part, the experience is not so much procedural needles-and-pills. Instead, it is all emotional complex stuff. I have already done the change of status from Wife to Partner to Person who stands over there-and I cannot remember her Name; back to Wife and Partner and so on. Now I must add another character type to my portfolio and it is Carer.

Shifting persona into Carer can be hard work, especially for a person who learned from her mother (like many other women, I suspect) bon mots such as: Stop whining and pull yourself together. No-one's going to do it for you. No-one's interested in how you're feeling, you just have to get on with it.**

Being a caring-type person who should use none of the above phrases is an adjustment I make. Some days Dig makes that adjustment easy. Probably because to look at his sorrows reminds me of his needs, his vulnerabilities, and the horrible process he goes through daily. Then time and attention is my day.

But this is how things stand as we edge towards Day 1. For me, a sense of powerlessness, and a great deal of fear. To Dig I give the better part of me. Care and love.


* I recognise this motto could be equally used by Macbeth and Lady Macbeth, but ours is meant in a good non-killing-kings way.

**I don't want to pass these attitudes onto my daughters, but I probably do. Girls, I'm sorry. I blame my mother.