NB: These posts are written from notes I made at the time. Some days they are reflections; some days they are simply a record of getting through the next hour.
After a dreadful night dozing on the sofa, I woke around 5:30am feeling weak, exhausted and nauseous. My throat was painfully sore – possibly from all the retching during the night – and swallowing, even water, was becoming difficult.
I took my temperature. It read 37.6°C.
One of the things I’d been told repeatedly was not to ignore a raised temperature after chemotherapy, so I rang the emergency SACS number. Their advice was immediate: go straight to A&E. They would let the hospital know I was coming.
My husband drove me in, and thankfully I was seen very quickly. Because of the risk of sepsis, there was no hanging around. A cannula was inserted and blood was taken for what felt like every test imaginable. I was started on intravenous antibiotics while the team investigated what was going on.
I still felt very hazy, with stomach pains, aching legs and a throat that felt swollen and tight.
Eventually I was shown to an empty treatment bay, essentially a room with a trolley and a sliding door to separate it from the rest of the emergency unit. I noticed that the trolleys lining the A&E corridor had all been rebranded as “Lodges”. Apparently, nowadays, a trolley parked outside a treatment bay is no longer just a trolley — it’s a Lodge, so the trolley outside Bay 13 becomes Lodge 13. I couldn’t help smiling – there’s something wonderfully British about trying to make a hospital corridor sound like holiday accommodation.
That said, I can’t remember which bay I was in, but I do remember deciding that I didn’t particularly want to spend any longer in my temporary accommodation than was absolutely necessary.
After a couple of hours I was seen by one of the chemotherapy nurses, who believed my symptoms were most likely side effects of the treatment rather than an infection. The stomach pains were probably caused by the filgrastim injections stimulating my bone marrow, while the sore throat was thought to be oral mucositis. My mouth had been uncomfortable for a couple of days, although thankfully I hadn’t developed any significant ulcers.
The advice was reassuring: continue the antibiotics for seven days, use co-codamol if needed for the pain, rest as much as possible, and try not to keep poking at my mouth – good advice, even if easier said than done.
I was discharged later that day.
Unfortunately, the drama wasn’t quite over.
As we were leaving the hospital, I suddenly realised the dressing where my cannula had been removed was completely soaked through. Blood was running down my arm, onto my clothes and dripping onto the floor, much to my husband’s alarm – and, I suspect, everyone else’s in the waiting area.
I knocked on the triage room door, where someone immediately applied pressure, replaced the dressing and reassured me that everything was fine. Within a couple of minutes the bleeding had stopped. They were far more concerned about me than they were about the trail of blood I’d left on the floor.
Sadly, I suspect my brand-new comfy trousers haven’t survived the experience.
Back at home I still felt very woozy. My legs ached as though I had flu, climbing the stairs in our four-storey townhouse felt like scaling a mountain, and even a small pot of yoghurt – although pleasantly cool – tasted of absolutely nothing.
The sofa became my home for most of the afternoon.
One thing I was genuinely grateful for: after days of oppressive heat, the weather had finally cooled down a little. Sometimes the smallest mercies really are the biggest.
By bedtime my temperature was still hovering around 37.6°C, and I was hoping tomorrow might finally bring a turn for the better.
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