It's the official half time call to second base :)

This blog is coming to you live from the chemo chair! Yep, I am tilted back, comfy cosy, under a blanket as it pours outside punching out a one handed blog. My other arm is strapped to a big bag of toxic fluid and I'm choosing to pay it no attention. I still do my visualisation with the giant mop throughout my body but I am less hypnotised by it these days and a bit more matter of fact. Chemo shmemo, Cause Ladies and Gentlemen.....I am half way through this chemo business!!!!

So to describe the Oncology unit and process - I have discovered that an early arrival is highly beneficial. Firstly it is much more peaceful and feels like a more controlled environment. In an hour it will be full of patients like me, along with support people, all needing attention in some form or another. It just means the staff move faster, chat less and the noise level rises. Right now I am only one of 4 being treated and to my pleasure, I am hooked up first and on my way. They warm up my arm with a wheat pack to pump up my vein and then in goes the cannula. It hurt a bit today as the vein they chose was right on the side of my wrist with not much between vein and bone. Ouch! I then get a saline flush, an injection of steroid with the nickname Dexy (as in the midnight runner) and then my giant syringe of Cosmopolitan gets manually injected through the cannula and in to me. The cranberry mop. It looks toxic and as I watch it travel along the plastic tube into my arm, I visualise it racing to every inch of my body - from the tip of my skull to my toe nails and all points in between, seeking out any rogue cancer cells and snuffing them out - obliterated, expunged, eradicated, stamped out and swept away. Gonski.

The staff are dressed in chemical warfare gear from head to toe. Bright purple rubber gloves (and I've noticed my file is purple, my hospital arm band is purple and the big plastic bags they dump everything into is purple so I can only assume it is the official cancer colour in the NSW Hospital system). Either that or the staff have a fetish for the purple dinasaur Barney. Knowing a special Barney myself I can completely understand ;-) But it is certainly in stark contrast that in some weirdly lopsided partnership you sit together, one team member looking like they are entering a nuclear plant holding a giant syringe of something dreadful while the other sits in Lorna Jane pants and singlet top with an exposed arm and gives permission to be injected with it.

There are Volunteers that wander around the room asking if you want a tea, a bun, a biscuit, a tea, a blanket, a chat, a tea. They are generous women who generally have their special volunteer day and they get to know you on a personal level. Occasionally on the quiet, they morph into pseudo nursing staff although to my nervous amusement, they tend to have to lean in close and whisper their medical recommendation or observation to you or alternatively they talk out of the corner of their mouth so as not to be caught crossing the obvious boundary. Its probably incredibly annoying for the qualified nursing staff but i find it comical to watch in a slightly disturbed kind of way.

But really, everyone in this room has your best interest at heart and as you glance around and catch the eye of a fellow patient, there is an immediate connection of empathy and understanding and a shared respect for the staff and volunteers scattered and busy throughout this ice cold room. I may have blogged about this before but one of the surprising aspects of an oncology ward is that it is completely devoid of privacy. There is no quiet space for consultation and as I write this two of the staff are discussing the nausea and diarrhoea concerns for the frail woman sitting two chairs up from me. I want to cringe on her behalf but she seems fine having the conversation - perhaps she has been in that chair long enough she has become immune to the fact her personal health issues are being openly discussed in the presence of strangers. For me, I was horrified the first time I was exposed to an oncology unit and even more petrified during first chemo when i realised my cancer and my treatment and any side effects would be openly discussed in a forum such as this. So much so I asked lovely Kylie from last treatment did she know why the set up is like it is. It seems the overriding reason is the capacity of the nursing staff to monitor multiple people at any one time and so having us all lined up in plush chairs allows that to happen. And given I have been one of those 'problem children' turning a deep shade of purple (I was just trying to fit in with the corporate colour!) during the administering of my treatment, I was grateful to have several staff at my side in a skinny second turning machines off and sorting me out.

So here I am celebrating the half way mark between first and second base by blogging to you. The optimist in me wants to say that when they pull this giant needle out of my arm and I wave goodbye to the lovely staff and leave, I am in fact three quarters done. And I am in terms of chemo treatments. But the realistic Kymmy acknowledges that I still have to endure this cycle and all that is packaged in it (and who knows what that might include) before I can actually say I've only a quarter to go. So, today, I sit at the half way mark and I feel a sense of renewed energy for the back end of the chemo push.

It has been a nervous lead up to this point. I've been battling a cold and cough since New Years Day that I just can't shake. On top of that I had a game plan huddle with Boycey last Friday and he told me my bloods (taken the day before) were "disappointingly low". Oh no, I can't bare to disappoint my base coach. In that same conversation he indicated if my white blood cells didn't throw themselves a major regeneration party between now and the day before chemo - Boycey would be calling time out on the game and benching me for another week. I was gutted to say the least. One week delay just pushes this whole experience further from my reach. So i took the initial emotional energy of disappointment and turned it into a personal mission. How do I regenerate blood cells quickly and how can I ensure my chemo proceeds as planned? Well, first of all you tell every person that will listen to you that for the next three days they are to send positive thoughts and if that includes 'a soft shoe shuffle white cell dance' in their lounge room, then so be it. Then you eat lots of good stuff and you drink vegetable juices, exercise (moderately) and you conduct yet another visualisation. For me this consisted of a good white cell kind of wobbling to dance music and as it vibrates, brushing against a dormant white cell, bumping the dormant cell into action so that they both vibrated to music together - multiply that visual by thousands and my whole body is alive with dancing white blood cells. Like one giant rave party that lasted for three days. And it worked!

Yesterday after I gave blood, I figured my fate was sealed. I couldn't change the outcome and I wouldn't know until that afternoon what it was so I would push a new boundary with my first 'run'. It was technically a run/walk really as I'd decided I would run for 10 minutes, walk for 5 minutes, run ten, walk five until I'd kicked over 1 hr. It hurt. A lot. My lungs felt like someone was squeezing them - hard to know whether that's chemo and low cell count or deteriorated fitness. I'd guess both. But what I am happy to report is that there is nothing wrong with my mind. I feel strong, determined to make this happen and as I was running I set small goals and achieved them. Just run to the next corner and you can stop. Now your almost there, just run until track 6 ends, now run until you pass these people etc etc. so that actually I ran longer than 10 min intervals and walked less. During my run/walk two cars passed me and beeped, sticking arms out with the thumbs up sign. I have no idea who either of the drivers were, my sunglasses were splattered with misty rain but also my focus was so sharply tuned to my breathing and my internal conversations. However if your reading this blog and it was you my friend, thank you from the depth of my heart. Your simple act of recognition and support physically boosted me as I ran and I hope you saw my smile in your rear vision mirror.

The rain grew heavier as I got closer to the end almost like Mother Nature knew I needed a lift in intensity to get through the last 15 minutes. So I whipped off my Nike Skull cap (because baldness should never compromise cool factor :-)) and I ran the last section with my exposed egg head and rain beating down on it. It is an amazing feeling. Despite my ailing fitness, I am very happy with my internal strength. You see I am a Capricorn and I am surrounded by Capricorns, my Poppa was one, my Mum and Dad are both Capricorns, my sister is too along with my Fairy Godmother and mentor Wendy, my sister in chemo Nel and my beautiful mate Xanthe who in her late forties is still representing the state for dragon boat racing in a boat full of chicks half her age. So proud of you - go girl. And one thing about us Capricorns is that we never never never give up. Like an old goat, we just keep climbing and we always find a way to our goals. As I ran yesterday I played an old RPM (spin class) release and the final track is aptly named 'Cry For You'. Of course it is about a breakup but as I ran I felt like the song was speaking just to me about my cancer "Forever and ever, life is now or never. You'll never see me again! So now who's gonna cry for you? You'll never see me again, no matter what you do." I cried as I ran the last section but it was a happy empowered cry. And this morning I played the same song for my early morning spin class (love that team) and instead of crying there were cheers as i whipped my dry-fit red bandana off (because baldness should never compromise cool factor - hehe) we climbed a mountain together knowing 2 hours later I would be strapped to this chair. Again, so so grateful for the solidarity, love and support.

I intend to train my body to meet my mind over the coming months. My chemo is officially done for today and the cannula is out of my arm. Half way. Second base just doesn't seem so far. :-)
What the human mind can conceive and believe, it can achieve.
Much love xxx