Day 2 Chemo Cycle

Dig's lying-down day, cradling a plastic tube, and a bottle. The bottle, not artisan gin, but chemo-mix, delivered to Dig's arm via tube.

He must carry this apparatus around for 2 days. And nights.

Days, it's easy. The bottle slips into a pocket. Nights. Um. We thought, What? What do we do with the bottle? Where does it go? At first, I was terrified of my sleeptime. I would find myself holding onto the tube, now sleep-morphed into a train carriage strap. Then, grabbing hold of the bottle, slumbered into ticking timebomb, I would throw the lot out the train carriage window. The screaming would wake me up.

Thankfully! (You have no idea how much!) The dreams never happened like that (maybe Liam Neeson came to save the day, just in time). Dig secured the bottle into the crook of his arm, and slept, on and off, slowly growing used to the procedure of holding bottle before 360-degree turning.

But we are not only reminded of chemo by means of tubes and bottles. Dig feels its effects in other ways. Room temperature drinks are best, because with extreme reaction to cold, fridges are human skin meeting polar ice cap. Loss of sensitivity in fingers and toes mean Dig stares at his hands, wondering what happened. And, with extreme dry skin - think heat-grizzled river bed - Pliazon has become our new best friend. Pliazon calls itself a 'regenerating, moisturising and normalising cream'. But that is underselling itself. It is soft relief, a gentle freshness, and a reason to smooth hands over the skin of a loved one.