Peru selection

Today, today, today....
Today is the day I meet the girls we're taking to Peru next summer.
I am running late, so if I'm not careful I'll miss the bus and then miss the train and then miss the start of the GAINING training.
So, t'ra - cross your fingers for a group of nice girls for me!!

Down we go again...

I skived off work today. I was tired and sad and I finally gave in and didn't make myself go to work. I don't think Elaine will approve. But I thought - I'm tired and I have an involved and busy weekend ahead - I'm not going to be fit for anything if I start tired. So I justified it to myself and stayed home. In the afternoon I went back to bed and had a nap. It was odd - I haven't been in bed like that since chemo-days. I have to say, I have a funny relationship with bed now - I do remember and associate it a bit too much with feeling sick, with being sick, with being in pain,... with having cancer.

And at the moment I am feeling even more consumed by the past. It is a about 2 weeks short of a year since I finished my treatment for cancer and I am acting like it was yesterday. I feel ashamed that I am not 'better' - not a better person for not being able to put this down and get on with life. Like a part of me is hanging on to this. But I do feel so sad - you know, that stomach-aching sad; that bottomless pit sad; that weighed-down sad.
And I have to get up at the crack of dawn tomorrow to get to this selection weekend and I haven't finished packing - I have done some, which is good, but not all.
I don't think I'm ever going to feel better.

Stayin' alive!

Apparently, 'if I knew who walked beside me, fear would be impossible' - sadly this just sounds vaguely threatening to me - as if I were being stalked....
But I would debate this - I think fear is one of *the* most human traits. It's part of our animal nature and I don't think it really disappears because we have a belief in a god or other spiritual being. It's an instinct - and I don't think they can be governed by the logical mind.
Am I frightened? Yes, of course I am - but what does that mean? Well, what am I frightened of? The cancer coming back; dying; not getting to do all things I still want to do; my family and friends being sad; pain; having to go through all that treatment again. Why is all this frightening? Well, it seems to me that it is proving just how strong my instinct to stay alive is. But it is instinct - not logic.
I spent far too long today grokking out on Laurie's blog. I just got sucked on in there and was reminded so many times of what I experienced. It's very bad - I shouldn't do it because it confuses me. I get muddled about where I end and where other people's stories begin. A very strange trait I feel.

This is all very dull - I feel it may be time to stop the waffle.
I'd like to say it'll get more interesting over the weekend but I fear it won't (Well, it will for me because I'm going to meet my Peru team but it will mean short and sweet posts late on Friday, early am on Sat and curled up in a comatose heap late on Sunday - never fear! I'm not letting NaBloPoMo get the better of me!!!)

Air and share

I read M. Kennedy's 'Pep Talk' earlier today and blithely thought 'I'm not having trouble thinking of things to write' - but now I've sat down to it; actually, I'm not full of ideas.

I've been looking at my stats recently and I am saddened by the number of people who come to my site by searching for information about portacaths. So many of them stop by and read a few pages and then disappear without commenting. And to each one of them I want to be able to say 'I'm so sorry' that you're in a situation where you need a portacath. I don't want people to have to go through the kinds of things I went through andI wish you would say something so I could know something about you - because otherwise my imagination fills in the blanks.

I 'met' another BC blogger today - Laurie - and I flicked through a few pages at the start of her blog when I wasn't working today. And, as so often, reading her diagnosis story reduced me to tears. And I was interested that she, like me, had written a post about what and what not to say to someone with cancer. I suppose it's not that surprising - it is hard to say the right thing and sometimes there isn't a right thing; but.....interesting. As I say to people I meet who've had breast cancer - I wish I didn't have this in common with you; I wish I hadn't met you because I wish that neither of us had had to go through what we have. But we have. And I'm very grateful to Kim for her comments and her insistance that I am a strong person. I find it hard to see that because I'm the one wallowing in my own head; and I am wallowing at the moment, I am overwhelmed by myself and lost in myself. I'll get out of it - I think Elaine's hope is rubbing off on me; I really do believe I will - but I think it's going to take a while.

The cat-fink

Urgle - it is late - I had County meeting at which I did not distinguish myself. But at least I got a lift home and didn't have to muck around with the tube and the bus.

SO - tonight you get a picture post - you may not want to know what I had for lunch but you definitely want to see a picture of the cat, right? No? Tough!

What a sweetie, right? No! He is a fiend who will lurk under chairs, on sofas, on stairs and suddenly attack. He is your ankle's worst enemy. You have two anyway, so you can donate him one, OK?
He is the terror of cardboard boxes, which he shreds into a state of collapse.
He adores the printer and likes to stick his paw into where the paper goes in because there must be something good in there to be making those noises.
He is also a huge Creature Comforts fan - he races up to the television and stares at it, entranced when we put the DVD on.
So, I present to you - Maxwell the cat-fink!

Proms

De voila!
The Royal Albert Hall.
I've sung here.

I never got round to telling y'all about it though - what a zizz eh?

I not only sang here, it was for the Proms and it was a premier.

Get me, eh?

It began when a friend forwarded me a link to the Beeb site asking for singers to apply for something called 'The Voice Project'. They were looking for London and Glasgow-based amateur singers to take part in a collaborative performance with The Shout of a new piece by Orlando Gough.

I filled out the form and didn't expect to be selected - but in the end I received an email inviting me to take part. I was very excited; especially since morale was at a low level then (what, as opposed to now, you mean?)

The rehearsals started a month before our proms (we did 2 concerts) with a weekend workshop with 3 members of The Shout: Carol Grimes, Adey Grummet, Melanie Pappenheim; and they were great - really fantastic.
They not only had incredible voices but were really enthusiastic and innovative in their singing. And what was really exciting for me was that I had met and worked with Adey Grummet before: at an Opera North summer school when I was 15 - and she was just as energetic and entertaining as I remembered her. She was also very kind when I went up to her and rambled about how she wouldn't remember me but we'd met before and I'd really enjoyed working with her then and now. She was kind enough to say that she thought I looked familiar - I suspect that may have been a kind white lie; I think I look quite different than I did then - curly hair and all....

The piece was really interesting and very compelling as well. I was part of the 'London Rabble' and the parts we were singing were mostly nonsense/made up words with a vew 'verses' - the choirs were singing the comprehensible parts with The Shout filling the solo/small ensemble sections.

The Shout were utterly fantastic to listen to - they did a couple of other pieces during the concert and I was just enthralled to listen to them - one of the pieces 'Stand' was just *brilliant* and I had it running round my head for days afterwards - I woke up in the night with it running round my head. I would love to sing like that; as part of something like that.

It was quite a bizarre experience being in the Royal Albert Hall - people who had sung their before kept saying how huge it felt and how seeing that many people could be a bit unnerving so I was quite surprised when my reaction to standing on the staging and in the promenading space was that it felt a lot smaller that I expected. So I thought that maybe once it was full of people - then it would seem bigger - but no, it seemed smaller again once there were audience in it - it just brought the levels and layers closer down towards me. I wasn't nervous, I wasn't freaked out; but neither was I excited by it. And that is a big sign for me that I am obviously not really 'well'. I ought to have been excited or proud or happy or at least faintly pleased - but I just wasn't. Perhaps that's why I haven't written about it before now. I felt 'dead' - like I do about so much now. Like I've never come out of the anaesthetic - I'm still numb.

How I've changed

This picture was taken the day after my birthday last year. Two weeks after I had been told I had cancer and 3 days after my first chemotherapy treatment. In that time I had cried, been sick, barely eaten, had my hair cut (it was down past my shoulders before).
I look at this photo and I see the tiredness in my eyes; the 'deadness' - it's like I'm not there. And although, at this time, things were tough - I had no inkling of just how tough they were going to become. Or, indeed, how much sicker I was going to look by the end. I don't have many photos of me once my hair came out and I started to look really ill - really like a person with cancer. By that point none of us really felt like taking pictures - we didn't want to remember that time; we didn't want to be in that time.
Today as I type this - I am sitting in exactly the same place in my flat, with the same blanket over my knees. What's changed? A lot, a little, nothing? All of the above? Probably.
Some things have gotten better, some have become worse.
I loved this haircut and I wanted it back - but now of course my hair is different again. I can't keep up!

Lack of pictures

Today I am attempting a knitting post - if I can get the blinking pictures off my miniscule and rather pathetic camera, that is.

OK - so that is what I was going to do - but the computer refuses to find the camera - I loathe you, computer! I wish you to know this - ::deep loathing::
And I was going to show you the sweet little baby sweater I've just about finished - it's just waiting for a zipper since I decided I didn't like the toggle button fastenings from the pattern. It has a hood - very sweet. And is destined for Ffion - my best friends 2 week old daughter; who I have yet to meet since she's all the way away in Wales.... :( Hopefully I'll see her before Christimas though - I do want to see her while she's still little. I missed her birth by a matter of days since I was visiting the day before my friend's waters broke - Ffion decided to make an early appearance - by two weeks. She's obviously a performer, like her parents! ;)

Ah well, that's it for today since I've been scuppered and have wasted all this time faffing around with the camera - it's bedtime and then some!

Night night

November holidays

The fireworks are going like mad again even though Bonfire Night was last weekend - they seem to have been going on for weeks because it was Diwali a few weeks before too. I like fireworks - I have fond memories of Bonfire Nights at the top of the garden of some friends. Fireworks and sparklers and hot soup and baked potatoes in the fire and sausages in buns. Until they moved away, anyway. Then we used to go to the public display at St Chads and have chips from Bryan's Chip shop on the way home - my fingers would be freezing because I'd taken my gloves off and the chips would be boiling hot and burn my mouth. And I would tuck one hand round my dad's arm which would keep in a bit warmer.
The bonfire would be built of old branches and old bits of wood or old doors or planks or, I remember one year we burnt an old desk. But before you lit it you would always take the bottom apart a bit to check for hedgehogs who like to snuggle down in the pile of wood and would get burned alive if you didn't scare them away - poor things.

It's amazing how loud and bang-y the fireworks seem to be now. Sometimes when I hear them just for a moment I think it was a bomb - especially living in London, you worry about these things. And I wonder if this is a tiny bit what it was like for my grandparents living through the war. Banging and flashing in the distance if you were lucky - rather closer if you weren't lucky. I wonder if my grandparents ever felt entirely comfortable with the experience of Bonfire Night after the war. I remember my grandma getting rather upset when my brother and I watched whichever James Bond film ends with the massive fight in the submarine bay. My grandma spent at least 2 years of the Second World War without hearing from my grandad who was driving around the Middle East and was injured. I mean, can you imagine that? Not hearing from your husband for over two years and not knowing where he was or how he was? I find it mind-boggling - I have so much respect for the men and women who lived through that time and I am so grateful that I do not have to go through that.
Don't forget tomorrow when at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month we will be silent and remember those who did not come home to their families; to their wives, to their children, to their friends.

Green grow the rushes oh!

p.s.

How do you feel about the green? Too much green?
Green is my favourite color and I'd love a verdant, leafy look to my blog but that would require knowing a heck of a lot more about this blogging lark than I do. Maybe one day when I'm not doing a trillion and one other things I'll work it out......

SO, green, comments please.....

Tears before bedtime

It's been one of those days where tears before bedtime are inevitable. Or in my case, tears before dinnertime.
Still grieving apparently.
It keeps catching me by surprise. I keep thinking I'm done with the crying and then it starts again. I keep thinking I've accepted my lopsidedness; my scar but then the grief gets teased out and the tears come again.
I think I've finally found my anger though - I'm left being angry with the cancer because there is nothing else to be angry with. How dare it come into *my* life? How dare it take *my* breast? How dare it grow in *my* body? And it will never be gone - even though the growing cancer has gone (I hope) - its repercussions and its memories will never be gone. I cannot define myself without it. You try it - you try looking at yourself with a scar like this - or any major scar. For better or worse, it's you and you (I) have to accept it and you have to get on with living life - but you don't like it, the whole way you feel about your body changes. I don't like the way I look, I don't like the way it feels to have one breast, I don't like the diagonal scar - although it's as smooth as silk after all bio-oil it's had put on it. I don't think I'll ever be comfortable - I think there will always be an underlying hatred of it, and it's hard to hate yourself.

In other news, want to see a picture of the new house?
This is the back of the house. Doesn't look like much really, does it? But it is nice....I promise. More pictures when we get some furniture in it.

Why I smell of chlorine

Today I was very good and went swimming. I was less good when I ate a lot of cookies - which mostly tasted of cardboard anyway....

It's a shame that I'm not a better swimmer because I am a bit of a liability in the pool. I am one of those wimps who doesn't like to put their faces in the water - I panic. Guess what!! Something else I'm fearful of! Drowning at the swimming pool! I'm a challenging woman! (See! AJ was right!)

Fortunately I managed to go in the middle of the day before it got busy and/or full of kids swimming lessons. Unfortunately one of the people there was one of those terrible splashy-crawl swimmers. Poor style!! I shouldn't comment since I mostly do a bad breast stroke or a frantic doggy-paddle - but at least my swimming style doesn't cause other people to end up choking on my wake. Grrr.

I hate water up my nose and down my throat and I really haven't got the hang of it.
I can't help it, I come from a family of reluctant swimmers.

My one memory of swimming lessons as a child is in the very baby pool at Holt Park and as far as I remember we were just striding across the pool - water at thigh-height.

It obviously was of limited success. I gained my 50 meters certificate at school and that was an effort. And I'm still not the most confortable of people in the water.
Plus, I now wear the most blah swimsuit ever - black, polyester, high necked, low legged, tummy control. Because of all the pockets and lining for keeping my prosthesis in place I feel like I'm in a strait-jacket or an iron suit (whatever one of those is...)

This is obviously not me and the snazzy beach background takes away from the drabness of the suit itself....it's streets away from the turquoise, flowered bikini that I used to wear (topless) when I worked in Chania. Just another thing that breast cancer has taken from me, besides the pound of flesh. Well, several pounds-worth I should think.....

So, in an effort to improve my swimming, I bought a book. Stop laughing. It's not that funny. Yes, I bought a book in order to get some swimming tips. No, it's not waterproof; no, I didn't take it to the pool with me.
I know it sounds silly - but it's called "Swimming without stress: lessons for land lovers" - sounds like me, yes? And it's based on Alexander Technique; which sounds good to me and it's about being confident in water and releasing and swimming without tension. Sounds like just what I need.
Sadly, I didn't get on well with my attempts to practice breathing into the water. I fear I may actually require someone to be there, in person, to tell me what to do and to haul me out when I half-drown myself by panicking in the water (which I'm sure is half the reason the water spouts up my nose - unless it's some magnetic thing.)
I have to get the hang of this swimming thing. I'm a pisces, for heaven's sake! It's embarassing! And I do like being in the water, as long as noone else is making ripples or waves.
So, if there are any London-based swimming teachers who subscribe to this sort of teaching/swimming method, please drop me a line. I might be prepared to shove a little cash your way if you'll help me out. (What're the odds of that, eh?)

Coping and processing, after the fact

Where do people go? They do seem to drift away and I, for one, have actually found the year since I finished my cancer treatment at least as difficult as the year of cancer treatment. I have felt like I have been completely de-constructed. During the rush of fear and panic while I had cancer and was being treated for it, I didn't have the time or ability to do anything other than just cope; just scrambling through each day. When I finished my last Radiotherapy treatment and they sent me off out into the world to get on with life again, I felt *so lost*. And then, then I started to have the time to mourn and grieve and process what has happened to me. To work out who I am now. And I am grateful to be here, grateful to be alive - but I'm still working out who I've turned into.
Other people don't see the inward struggle - they see that you've finished your treatment and they see that as the end. They've wanted you to be better for so long that they move you into the 'better' category. I haven't worked out how to say - I may not have cancer anymore, but that doesn't mean I'm 'fine'.

Crud

Can't do it.
Can't concentrate.
Don't want to be at work.
Don't want to do this work anymore.
Want to leave.

So why the crap don't you? I hear you say.

Because I'm chicken. And hopeless. And useless.

Crud.

The Devil Wears Prada

Leading on from my lack of the right kind of shoes I went see "The Devil Wears Prada" yesterday.
I would not know Prada if it came and bit me on the ankles and I certainly couldn't walk into a shop selling it because I would be far too intimidated by all the smart people and certainly couldn't walk out again if I bought shoes without going arse over tit.
This film annoyed me a great deal.
Mostly because this film was trying to pretend that it was telling some great moral tale about how being fixated on fashion and how you look resulted in unhappiness; sadly, for me, it failed. Because despite the fact that, yes, she did give it all up because she recocognised it had changed her into someone she didn't like - the fact remains that there were lots of undercurrents.
For example: dressing prettily and being fashion-concious gets you a man with lots of money and influence
Fancy shoes and clothes mean people respect you
So on and so forth. And these things were there in abundence in the film and I don't think that last 20 min turnaround was enough to negate those messages.

Grrrr.

Years' mind - September 29th

This is a little of a cop-out post because it's actually what I wrote for the Pink for October site but I think I'd like to share it here because I did take some time over crafting it. It's not a pretty story - but then, so much isn't.

September 29th 2006:

One year, seven months and 3 days ago I sat in a small room in an NHS hospital and heard the words “I’m sorry, it isn’t good news, it is cancer.”

This was two weeks before my 28^th birthday. I sat and I stared at a metal cupboard in the corner and I thought “Goodness me, I hope I wake up soon because this is the worst nightmare I’ve ever had. This can’t be true because I. could. not. cope. with this.” But then, it was true and so I said “Well, that’s a bit of a bugger, isn’t it?”

So, from that point the journey went on: through AC and Taxotere chemotherapy, through “febrile neutropaenic sepsis” with IV antibiotics and a 5 day stay in isolation, through a portocath insertion that initially refused to work, through a mastectomy, extensive ‘jollying’ physiotherapy, through radiotherapy, Tamoxifen and Zoladex. Through uncertainty, fear, pain, tears (alright, hysterics) and depression, the journey wended its way. Wound its way through to a day one year and 18 days ago when I came round from anaesthesia knowing (hoping) that along with my breast, the cancer had gone.

The two, interlinked – something I loved with something I hated; something safe with something deadly; something that was part of me with a thing that was invading me without pity.

I spent the intervening time – six months – trying to assimilate what it meant to have cancer; trying to learn how to be someone with cancer. Someone with no hair, no eyelashes, no eyebrows; someone who could barely walk round the block; someone whose collection of medications made them look like a pharmacy – or a drugdealer (anyone for domperidone? I have enough to last a lifetime but, sadly, they didn’t work for me!); someone living with a lump that was trying to kill them.

And then, (now), then(now) it was(is) gone and I had(I’m having) to learn that too – how to be a person without cancer, how to be a person who *had* cancer. Do I still have cancer? They tell me I don’t, but how do they know? How can they know that there isn’t a small cell lurking somewhere in me, just biding its time? In four years – if the cancer doesn’t come back in the meantime – I’ll “officially” have beaten it. My risk will be no greater than anyone else’s. How will I feel then?

My fear is that I’ll never believe it’s gone and will live the rest of my life with a mental scar as prominent as my physical scar.

Why, thank you!

Ooh - thank you for all the comments - I think that's a personal record! I should ask y'all questions more often....

My dilemma over commenting isn't really resolved but thank you for the excellent advice. I'll think on't!

Depinked and rules

Oh - I forgot to say - we've de-pinked!
You probably will have noticed this fact. I feel so much better for not being bright pink but feel that the subtlety of the plain white-ness - i.e. no colour at all - looks a bit dull now. And I'd like to think I'm not as dull as all that.
But I don't really think much of the other colored designs on offer at blogger so I don't know what to do..... Any ideas?

I also wanted to say that I will be making a policy of commenting on at least one new blog each day for the duration of NaBloPoMo - because it's nice to comment, isn't it?

But what is the etiquette with commenting?
When someone comments, do you write back and say 'thanks for commenting' and then do they write back and say ' no problem, you're welcome' - at what point does someone *stop* responding? Or don't you respond at all in the first place? I don't know the rules - help!

Luce Irigaray and Feminism - who are we?

Today's epistle is on Luce Irigaray and feminism and the role and identity of women.
Or, it would be if I knew anything other than what I read on Wikipedia about her; but I think I may need to know a bit more about what she thought.

Today I have been thinking about my identity as a woman or my lack of identity as a woman. I abhor all 'girlie'-ness and somehow feel it is a sign of weakness. Being female is to be weak and vulnerable; it does not comand respect. And so I am not allowed to plan a fantasy wedding or pick out my children's names or look at engagement rings. I am not allowed to wear dresses or make an effort to look pretty. If I wear makeup or dress smartly I feel like I have to put myself down. I hate to cry and be emotional or irrational.

Imagine how this confusion over my female identity has been affected by the loss of my breast.

You must understand that this is in some strange instinctual part of me that I feel this. It is not what I logically believe to be the case and it is not the way I think women ought to feel or what we or I should believe.
I believe in equality. But somewhere underneath I am undermined by myself. And I have no idea where I have learnt this from. Not really. In a roundabout way - I think I've always tried to behave in a non-'girlie' way and somehow that has had the effect of teaching me that to be female therefore must be 'bad'.

Apparently, Luce Irigaray started to say that that women could/should be equal for what they were, which is different to men. But that society did and does not recognise that. I believe that the 'third wave' feminists are the women out there who are saying that feminism is actually about choice - it is about choosing which elements of femininity to embrace. Which, I think, is what some 'mommybloggers' out there are saying - especially SAHMs who counter the arguments that they are undermining the work of feminists gone-by who fought to get women out of the home and into the workplace. That actually, being a feminist is about having the choice - of choosing or being as female as you wish.

But I can't be a woman - I haven't got the right shoes.

Playing with my port - 2

And so they left me and my family came back and I was feverish and shaken and so scared. I had been nervous about the use of the port before she'd tried and now I was convinced that it was faulty and they'd have to remove it and put another one in. And it would probably have to be on the other side and then I'd have two of these scars (a matching pair!) and try explaining that to people.
My parents had rung David to let him know what was going on - poor soul - I think he must have been so scared - he wasn't in London and couldn't get down to see me that day.

After a while, Keith came by - he was his usual cheerful self - nothing seems to throw him. He massaged my legs and feet which was strangely reassuring. I think it's a human-touch thing - it's comforting and reassuring to be touched. We are tactile beings and we need to feel connected. Keith offered to lend me his CD player and a couple of relaxation CDs after I told him what was going on - he could see, anyone could see, that I was in a total state.

Eventually Ivy comes by - she's another reassuring sort but she explains that the chemosuite is really busy so we'll have to wait until things have quieted down a little.
So we carry on waiting - it's amazing how much you wait.
And the sun moves round and streams through the window and it gets hotter and hotter and I was already hot to begin with! One of the nurses finds a fan which stirs the air around a little.

Finally Ivy comes back - this time my parents are allowed to stay in the room. She has me lay down and she starts to feel the whole area around the port - trying to feel where it is and how it's lying - I am like the proverbial board, and so tense; I grip my dad's hand and he tells me to squeeze, hard. Every time Ivy presses or touches the area it's all I can do not to writhe and wince. It hurts, my shoulder is so stiff and I don't want anyone to touch it - but I let her. Once she thinks she's found the right place she puts the needle in - when the needle is put in it goes through the skin and punctures a silicone rubber bubble covering a chamber which connects to a catheter which is connected to a vein. The bubble is self sealing, so when the needle is removed, it seals over.


Unfortunately because mine is so new, I'm still bruised and sore so the pressure of the needle going in presses the base of the portacath back into an already sore spot. The needle goes in, but again, nothing is coming out. I'm freaking - I have this foreign object inside me - freaks me out already and in addition, it's faulty, it doesn't work, it hurts, it's all bad, bad, bad!
Ivy tries to move it around, pushing it down, moving it around slightly - it's excrutiating, every time she does it a shot of pain goes through my shoulder - I am brave, I lie there and take it and squeeze my dad's hand and try not to gasp too much but I can feel it catching and grating. My mum stands at the bottom of the bed - holding my foot. I think she must have found it very upsetting - it's hard to see your child in pain and not be able to help. After about half an hour Ivy says that it seems to have been put in quite deeply, that the stitches are in the way and that it's quite swollen. She thinks the problem is that these factors are preventing the needle from going far enough into the port - she wants to try a 1" needle. However, she'll put some Ametop cream - a topical anaesthetic cream on the area to try and decrease the pain somewhat. The cream has to be on for 45 minutes before it really takes effect so Ivy goes away for her lunch.

I can't remember that time really - other than a feeling of sheer and utter panic - I often described the way I felt last year as 'twanging with anxiety' and that's what it often felt like - I was so wound up and tense with anxiety that I felt like the vibration and sound and tautness of an elastic band stretched out as far as it will go. I was at snapping point for a year - I never knew if I was going to completely lose the plot from one moment to the next.

Ivy came back, she cleaned off the cream and put the new needle in - it still hurt. I think it was the underlying bruising and pulling of the stitches that hurt more than it was the needle going in. This time a little bit of blood pulled back out into the syringe but not much and it was hard going for her - it still wasn't really working. Ivy did move it around a little more, with no better results. Eventually she said that she wanted to stop - she could see how much it was hurting me, it wasn't working properly - probably because it was swollen and the stitches were still in. She would put in a cannula for the antibiotics and we'd try again another time. She didn't want to hurt me any more.
She redressed the portacath site and stuck my hand in hot water to bring up the veins and put a cannula in the back of my hand. Which she did beautifully, without a hitch, so that I barely felt it - why couldn't they have done that in the first place?
Nightmare nurse came back and injected the first lot of antibiotics into me - it felt cold in the back of my hand and up my arm but hopefully they would start to do their job.
They still had no idea where the infection site actually was.
This is part of the view I could see from my room.