Last chemo

When I started chemotherapy last September third to be precise, I never thought I would get to the end of my sentence. A stretch of eighteen weeks seemed an eternity. Then it was stretched another six weeks when my original chemo didn't work and I was switched to a new regime. Then another two when my neutrofils dropped below a certain amount. But here I am, better than I thought I would ever feel. I did three yoga classes last week (and then lay down for the whole weekend), but hey! Three yoga classes, count them! And now I'm through. I had my last chemotherapy session yesterday. I feel astounded I have passed the finishing line. And that I've passed it because the chemo worked. Amazing.

I have become a woman who sleeps with her head wrapped in a towel. Specifically, I'm a menopausal bald woman who sleeps with her head wrapped in a golf towel. Who knew that the quick dry sports towel was the exact size to fit around my cranium, leaving a tiny tuck in that secures it just enough for me to drift off into sleep, or at least a hormone lite sleep, which finds me up and down, asleep and awake, throughout the night.

Good news!

The last week has been spent worrying, worrying, worrying about my scans, which I had on Tuesday in preparation for meeting the doctor to see if I would continue with the course of toxic pink Doxorubicin. After attending Life: The Festival of Death at the South Bank last week, I did feel that I had covered myself in case the news was bad. What I hadn't expected, or prepared for, was really good news but, guess what? The chemo is killing the cancer!