Category Archives: Uncategorized

Had a call from Jill (our cancer nurse) this morning informing us that the date for the MRI is on the 23rd June, followed by an appointment with the surgical team on the 25th June. This is excellent news and backs up the fact that the care we are receiving is top notch. I’m so pleased that we aren’t having to wait a long time before moving on to the next phase. Sam is understandably nervous about this next step as it could mean a big change for her, but we have to think positive and believe that the lump has shrunk enough for it to require just a little lumpectomy. They also want to do an ultra sound on Sam’s lymph nodes to check to see what they’re like but we won’t receive a date for that until early next week. We’ve been told that they’ll want to do that scan before the 25th June because it’s very important that the surgeons have that information before any plans are made.

Sam’s feeling a bit woozy today but the side effects aren’t due to hit until tomorrow. The steroids are keeping her afloat at the moment but they run out tonight so this time tomorrow is when she’ll start to feel worse. She’s decided to power through the next 4 or 5 days so that she can recover quicker. Looks like we’d better stock up on the pain killers and get ready for the storm to hit. Sorry babe. Xxx 😦

So that’s it. Stage one complete. I’m actually a bit nervous about the scan that Sam has to have in 3 weeks or so because, whatever the size of the lump, that is what we’re dealing with. No more shrinking. The size will be final.

Today’s chemo went ok. It was all done and dusted in just under 2 hours and Sam finished the chemo exactly the same way she started it….. with a smile.

Of course, not only was she pleased that the chemo had come to an end, she was also looking forward to having the PICC line removed from her arm after 4 uncomfortable months. No more having baths with one arm in the air, no more uncomfortable sleeping and no more irritation from the sticky dressing. The fitting of the PICC line took 45 minutes but the removal took no more than 20 seconds. They just pulled it out like a piece of string.

It was actually a bit weird today because we’ve got to know all the people in the macmillan ward quite well and it felt like we were leaving them. Another part of me, however, would be quite happy if we didn’t have to go back there ever again (no offence to the lovely people intended).

Now, this next bit is not a criticism. It is not a moan about the treatment or a dig at anyone who is involved with anything that we’ve had to deal with so far. It’s just far too entertaining to leave out. I just want to say (before anything else) that the way we’ve been looked after has been amazing. Absolutely amazing. The nurses, the doctors, the consultants, the administration staff and even the fellow patients have all been so welcoming and accommodating that it’s made the past 4/5 months whiz by. However, there is one tiny little alarm bell going off in my head and that alarm bell is dressed smartly, talks smoothly and I’m pretty sure has Marvin Gaye “let’s get it on” playing around in their head (on loop) as they walk around (in slow motion) talking to people. Nurses giggle and patients blush as they receive a little wink and a comforting smile. I am of course talking about the one, the only, Dr GQ Smooth. It’s not his ability as a consultant that’s setting off the alarm because he’s actually supposed to be at the top of his game, nor is it him as a person because he’s actually a really nice guy. Like I said before, its more a style thing more than anything.

Pre chemo was yesterday and the nurse showed us into the office. Dr Silver Fox was sat in his chair looking at his monitor. He turned, smiled and gave Sam a handshake as he said hello. He looked across at me and gave me that welcoming look and then proceeded to ask Sam (smoothly and quietly) about which side effects she had experienced after the last session. She explained about that the joint pains weren’t as bad but the anti depressants made her a bit spaced out for longer. He decided not to prescribe them again but told her to take the few that she had leftover only when she felt the pain coming on and not to take them every day. That way she would combat the joint pain but not have the spaced out feeling all the time. Sam then asked what happens next. He told her that we are now passed over to the surgical team and that we wouldn’t see the oncology department again until stage 3: Radiotherapy. The surgical team will be the ones who will study the scans and decide the next course of action. It’s at this point that Sam said that we hadn’t yet received the scan dates yet. Looking puzzled, Dr Suave checked his pc to see if there was any information from the radiology department. He brought up Sam’s notes on screen and started to go through them. Deep in concentration he read line after line looking for any nugget of information. He got about 3 pages in before Sam pointed out that it wasn’t her notes that he was looking at.

“I’m sorry?”

“Really? Oh, ha, wrong person. I’m going crazy”

And with that he logged out of the screen. He smoothly shuffled Sam’s notes and then re-entered her details into the pc. There were no details of any appointments made for any scans and he looked puzzled as to why not. He put the requests in again and said that if we hadn’t heard anything in a week then we should call the nurses and chase it up. I asked if Sam would need any top up sessions because of the dosage being dropped for each docetaxel session, but he said this wouldn’t be needed as they only really like to give 6 sessions overall. Sometimes they will do 8, but only on very special cases.

I’ve been a little concerned about the length of time that they’re going to wait before performing the surgery and to be honest, I would rather they got it out sooner rather than later (I mean, just get the little fecker out now!). I decided to seek reassurance from Dr Laidback that the intended timeframe is the right one.

“With the surgery not being planned for another 4-6 weeks, is there not a chance that the tumour will grow again in that time?”

He looked at me, turned his head slightly and replied

“I don’t know…… You’d have to be pretty unlucky if it did”.

And with that, he turned back to his computer.

Come on Doc!! Where’s the reassurance?? Where’s the “Don’t worry Mr Lester, it’s standard procedure and you can be reassured that we will do our utmost to get this tumour out in the quickest time possible”. I suppose we just have to trust the professionals and know that they deal with this kind of thing all the time. It’s just in a situation like this you want to be steered in a certain direction and not left to let your mind run away with you.

He checked Sam’s lump before we left and was pleased with the size (or lack of it). He said there was a little bit of thickening there (whatever that means) but overall he was happy.

Our time with the oncology department is over for now. We don’t see them again until just before radiotherapy. Stage two begins and we are now passed over to the surgical team. They will study the scans (when they’re done), decide what happens next and then hopefully we’ll get a few more clear cut answers about the next step. 🙂

So that’s it. Her worst fear confirmed. The eyelashes are now gone. She’s taken it quite well considering that it was the one side effect she was dreading the most. To be honest with you, I didn’t really notice they’d disappeared (maybe that’s just a man thing) until her eyes kept weeping as we were walking along the street. I suppose you just don’t realise how much protection your eyelashes give until you until they’re not there anymore. The left eyebrow is now the only thing left standing as the right one made a dash for it a couple of weeks ago.

Final chemo this week then. Well, that’s the plan anyway. I’ve got this niggling little feeling that they may want her to do some top up sessions due to the fact that she’s had 60% less dosage than their original plan. We’re apparently booked in for various scans at the end of June to get the update on the shrinkage (as long as Dr Laid Back booked them) but I expect we’ll have more details of those on Thursday at the final pre chemo. Talking of Dr Smooth, I did ask if we could possibly switch back to our original consultant but it looks like she’s somewhere else in the weeks that Sam has the chemo. Hopefully Dr Dynamic will be more lively this week as we have our appointment before lunch.

Another little nugget for Sam on Thursday is that she gets to say goodbye to the PICC line after all this time. They’ll remove it as soon as the chemo session has ended so she won’t have a tap attached to her arm anymore. No more bandages or irritated skin from the dressing that they use on her and no more weekly appointments to get it cleaned.

The side effects of the last Docetaxel were a bit different to before. There wasn’t as much joint pain because the anti depressants did their job of blocking it, however they did bring something new to the party. Previously Sam had 4 days of extreme joint pain that really did stop her in her tracks, but as soon as the 4th day passed she was back to normal almost immediately. This time round the joint pain was gone but what she did have was this feeling that she was outside of her body looking in for at least 10 days. On top of that her taste buds were more messed up and the fatigue was definitely worse. She’s now having the dilemma of whether to take the anti depressants or not. Should she put up with the joint pain for 4 days and recover quicker or be away with the fairies for twice as long? Either way, all she has to do is go through this 3 week loop once more and be as comfortable as she possibly can.

Sam has been one of the bravest people that I’ve ever known during this part of her life. Not once has she moaned, not once has she made other people feel uneasy around her (even when she’s been in pain) and not once has she spent hours laid in bed feeling sorry for herself. I personally don’t think I would have been able to hold off on that last one (but maybe that’s just a man thing) 😉

Sometimes it feels like we’re living our very own version of groundhog day, but instead of re-living one day over and over (and trying to get it perfect), we’ve got our very own 3 week loop that we have to get right. After every session we have to take note of how Sam suffers and then make sure we get the medicine to counteract the nastiness so we can get it perfect the next time. The first session of docetaxel completely knocked Sam for six. It took her a good 4 or 5 days for her to find her feet but once those days were out of the way she recovered quite well. I mean, don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t completely fine but she was a lot better than she was in the first week. One of the new side effects that she developed this time was thrush (upstairs and downstairs) and it drove her crazy. She’s never had it before so it really caught her off guard. Everything had picked up by the final 3rd week and Sam had got all her energy back, her skin had cleared and she was infection free (much to her relief).

We had our pre chemo appointment last Wednesday and it turns out the change of oncologist (from the last time) wasn’t a one off. When Sam missed that week of chemotherapy because her blood count was too low, it looks like we also fell out of sync with our original oncologist. Now usually this wouldn’t matter because I suppose they’re all part of the same team, but the change in tone is rather jarring. You see, our original oncologist was a young lady (25-35) who had a clear direction that she wanted to go in. When we would go in for our pre chemo appointments she would be “Right, we’re going to do this, then this and you should end up with this”. When they found a trace of cancer in one of the lymph nodes, she was the one who insisted that Sam have the CT scan to see if anything was going on anywhere else. She said that she liked to know what she’s dealing with so she can make informed decisions from the very start. Our new consultant, however, is an older man (50-60) who, if he was any more laid back, would be asleep. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a really nice guy and he has that George Clooney vibe about him (I’ve made this assumption from the giggles you get from the nurses when you mention his name) but once you’ve got used to one style, it can be hard to adjust so quickly to another (especially when it’s something important like this is). When we walked into his room on Wednesday he welcomed us, sat us down and asked Sam how she was doing (in the calmest most soothing laid back voice ever). Sam explained the symptoms that she’d experienced since the first docetaxel and he sat and wrote prescriptions for each side effect. He extended the amount of steroids that she would take after each session so they would keep her afloat (energy wise) for longer, some anti depression tablets for her joint pain (??) and some tablets to stop the onslaught of thrush. He then sat, stared at his screen, then turned to Sam and asked

“So, is the chemo working?”

“Umm, you tell us doc, you’re the one in charge ”

“I mean is the lump shrinking?”

“Really??”

Sam asked if she would have another MRI after the final chemo to check the progress of the lump and he sat, stared into his screen, smiled, tilted his head and said calmly “Well I’m sure we can book one of those for you”. He was so laid back I didn’t know whether he was winding us up or just had a big lunch before the meeting. The other weird thing was that we’ve always had a cancer nurse with us in every meeting that we’ve had (part of the process apparently) but this time there wasn’t one. (Was it something we said??)

The second docetaxel session went ahead as usual on Thursday without a hitch and so far the extended steroids and anti depression tablets (??) are doing their jobs well. Sam hasn’t been as grounded as she was last time but she’s still all over the place (as far as energy levels and aches and pains go). I think it’s just a case of getting through this first week and then hopefully she’ll start to pick up again next week in time for her FINAL CHEMO SESSION on the 12th June!!! 🙂

I wrote this post 5 days ago, but I’ve been sat on it trying to decide whether to post it or not. I’ve decided to post it because I want people to know that even though you can have the worst, most horrendous experience that you can imagine happen to you, there is always a time where things will start to get better. I always wanted this blog to be about honesty and I said way back when I started it that I wanted to share every step with you. This is one of those steps. It just happens to be running parallel with the other “experience” that we’re currently dealing with.

It’s crazy how one single event can change everything you know in the blink of an eye. Thought processes and everyday routines are changed forever. If you actually take a step back and take your time to think about it then you could actually drive yourself insane. The only way to get around it is to keep your mind moving and not stopping to actually think about the details. Of course, what happened is nothing new in life and it’s nothing that hasn’t affected millions of families before us. It had just never happened to our family…….. until now.

It’s Saturday 11th May 2013 @ 0710 and we’re awoken by the telephone ringing. There’s only going to be one of two people calling us that early in the morning and it’ll either be mine or Sam’s mum. I suspect it’s my mum as we had a slight disagreement the evening before and she’ll either be calling to apologise or to give me 2 barrels.

You see, my mum is like our Peggy Mitchell. She’s the head honcho, the numerous uno, the big cheese. If I’m honest with you, I think every action we do in our lives (myself and my brother) is probably influenced by my mum in one way or another. It’s not because we’re mothered or anything like that, it’s just purely because she is the head of our family. She’s 64 years old, Iranian and just over 5ft, but don’t let the small size fool you. She’s like a pitbull when she wants to be and she would kick our butts if we ever stepped out of line (no matter how old we are). I used to call her my little brown magical munchkin when I was at school because, to the astonishment of my friends, she could magic anything out of anywhere. If we needed trainers, they were there, money for going out, there you go. If our friends came over to the house, then dinner would be made for them and they would be looked after as if it was their own home.

Sam answers the phone downstairs and I can hear her talking to someone. She walks into the bedroom with the phone in her hand. “It’s your dad and he just keeps saying your mum’s gone and I don’t know what he means”. She hands me the phone and I hear a faint and wobbly voice on the other end. It’s a conversation that will never, ever leave me.

“Hiya dad, you ok?”

“The paramedics are here…….”

I can still hear it in my head today. Dad’s wobbly distressed voice trying to find the words to say, only to find them repeating over and over.

As I run into the bathroom to put on some clothes, Sam keeps asking me what’s happening, what’s happened? “Dad said mum’s died but he must have made a mistake, he must have it wrong”. As I struggle to find my trainers I keep trying to have a conversation with Sam, but at the same time I keep going through scenarios in my head where he must have got the wrong end of the stick.“Maybe something has happened to mum that required paramedics and dad is in the garden. He thinks she’s died but she’s really ok inside the house. Either way, he’s got it wrong and he’s confused about what’s happened”.

A combination of Starsky and Hutch driving and no traffic makes sure that it only takes 5 minutes to get across town to their house. The whole journey is a bit of a blur as all I’m thinking is “He’s got it wrong. I’ll get there and mum will be stood in the kitchen saying that she’s fine and dad has just overreacted about something”.

As I pull into the cul-de-sac I’m greeted by 2 ambulances and a police car blocking the road. “Shit, shit, shit, no, no, no, no” is what I’m actually mumbling to myself as I get out the car and run toward the house. I run into the garden and straight into the kitchen at speed making Toby (the dog) bark and the 3 paramedics and policeman (that are stood in the kitchen) jump. I look into the front room and I can see dad stood (or more crumpled) in the corner of the room on his own, his face absolutely distraught and all he keeps repeating is “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry”. The first paramedic looks at me and says “I’m very sorry, there’s nothing else we can do I’m afraid”. I walk past them and toward my dad and I look to the end of the room. I can see mum on the floor with another paramedic next to her, but for some reason I just go straight to dad. I take him in my arms and he just absolutely sobs into my shoulder. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” is all he keeps repeating. I’ve never seen my dad cry before and even though this is the most horrendous situation ever, it catches me off guard. I keep telling him he’s got nothing to say sorry for and I get him to sit down. I then walk over to mum. Nothing prepares you for this moment and you just don’t know how you’re going to react. She just looks like she’s sleeping on the floor. I stroke her cheek and try to give her a little pep talk to make her wake up. I think the fact that dad is so distressed and that there are four people, just stood in the kitchen looking like they’ve wandered into the wrong party, is the main reason that I don’t get too hysterical. Dad comes over and sits with me next to mum. After a bit I get up and walk over to the paramedics to thank them for their efforts. The policeman asks if it’s possible for me to identify the body as my dad is in a bit of a state. I say it’s fine and he says he’ll get the paperwork ready. Rob (my brother) runs into the garden with Mandy (his soon to be wife) and he looks at me for reassurance but my face and body language tells him a different story to the one he wants to hear. They go into the front room and go straight to mum and dad.

The paramedics have done everything they can and are given the all clear to leave by the policeman who is sat in the front room. They all leave one by one. I then sit at the table with the policeman and we begin the identification………

Life. Changed. Forever.

I still can’t believe it’s been one year since she’s been gone. It seems so quick but at the same time it seems like forever. Dad’s still struggling big time. Luckily he’s decided to keep working because I think if he retired like he’d planned to, he would go stir crazy. All of mum’s things are in exactly the same places they were before that day. He feels guilty that she’s gone and there was nothing he could have done to prevent it. I think as soon as he finds his feet then we’ll all start to fall in line but unfortunately he’s still very rudderless. He is slowly getting better though. I saw my mum everyday and if I didn’t manage to see her then we’d speak on the phone, so it’s been a real struggle in that respect. Crazy little things that you realise are gone forever. Her Sunday lunches, her Iranian cooking and kebabs on a Thursday. Gone. She missed my brother getting married and Charlie being born. In some ways it’s lucky she missed Sam’s diagnosis and struggle because I know it would drive her nuts and she would be worrying 24/7. It’s still really hard trying to adjust. It’s almost like she’s just away on holiday and will be back at some point.

Miss you mum. Xxxx

In the 20 years that we’ve been together I’ve seen Sam give birth 4 times (3 natural and 1 through the sunroof), have an ulcer on her eyeball (through the use of contact lenses), have umpteen throat and eye infections, a sentinel lymph node biopsy and the FEC treatment, but I have never seen her complain, moan or stop once. She would just keep going no matter what. Docetaxel, however, has completely stopped Sam in her tracks. They weren’t wrong when they said that it was a nasty little bugger. They warned her that her joints and bones would ache and there would be some fatigue, but I don’t think Sam expected it to affect her so much.

“I feel like all my bones in my legs are being crushed bit by bit and it’s spreading up through my body”

That’s how she described the way she was feeling yesterday. She hasn’t been able to move off the sofa all weekend. Her face is red and swollen, she looks like she’s heating up all the time (either that or she’s drinking a lot of whiskey without me noticing), her eyes are starting to get really sore and swollen on one side and her skin is starting to really dry out. I think it’s safe to say that she’s not had the best bank holiday weekend so far. They say that this is only supposed to last a few days after the treatment, so hopefully she’ll start to feel better as the week goes on. We keep checking her temperature and so far she’s holding up ok.

One of the other main jobs is making sure that we keep an eye on how many paracetamol and neurofen she’s taking because it’s easy to lose count in a situation like this. I think we’ll make sure we get something stronger for the next session of Docetaxel though because so far nothing else has touched the pain.

The only advantage (If you can call it that) we can take from this weekend is that at least Sam is armed with the knowledge of what to expect the next time round. She can request certain medicines to help combat the side effects and maybe make things slightly more comfortable. She just has to make sure the list includes lots of eye drops, moisturiser, some big ass pain killers and a cocoon to wrap herself in for at least 5 days.

Had pre chemo today and Sam’s bloods are good enough for tomorrow’s first Taxotere (or docetaxel as it’s also known) session to go ahead as planned. She’s a bit nervous because she’s sort of got used to the side effects of FEC over the last 9 weeks and now it’s back to the unknown. Each chemo session will now only last an hour instead of the 3 hours that we’ve become accustomed to with FEC. The oncologist has warned Sam that fatigue and achey muscles and joints will play a major part in the side effects this time round, although he’s hoping that the side effects will be much less because of the lower dosage that she’s scheduled to receive. They’ve apparently dropped the dosage by 20% so that her bone marrow doesn’t suffer again.

He had the MRI report this time round and he’s said that the tumour has definitely shrunk in size. Only problem was he couldn’t tell us by how much because they never actually wrote any measurements in the report. The tumour has split into 3 parts. One part is barely able to be seen, one part has fragmented and the last part has shrunk quite a bit. It would have been nice to have known measurements and there’s still a lot of questions that the oncologist couldn’t answer, but ultimately it’s great news that we’re on the right track.

In the meantime, tomorrow is back to reality, so let’s see what this new chemo brings to the party shall we.

Yesterday the doctors got the results back from the microbiologists. They were testing Sam’s bloods to see if it was growing any kind of infection because earlier in the week they had found something that indicated that this was the case. However, after 3 days of waiting, it came back clear. I think if it had come back positive then she would have a much longer stay.

The next step was to check the blood count again to see if it had risen in any way. The day before her count had been 0.43, but if there was any chance of her getting discharged then it had to be 1.00 or above. They took the bloods in the morning and by 2pm the count came back as 1.01 (phew!). She had passed the test by the skin of her teeth and luckily for Sam the doctors decided that it was a positive enough of a rise to let her come home. I’m a little worried that they may have let her out too early, but they said that as long as she keeps an eye on her temperature, takes her antibiotics for the next 2 days and rests then she should be fine (mind you, that’s what they said last week).

So we now have a very weak and wobbly (but happy) Samantha laid on the sofa with a blanket over her (and anyone who knows her knows that she doesn’t do this very often). Believe it or not she’s actually done as she’s told and rested completely. Miracles do happen. She’s being a very good patient today, although that may just come down to the fact that she’s got absolutely zero energy.

We’ve got another pre chemo review on Wednesday where we should have the MRI report and they’ll also do another blood count. Hopefully this time her count would have risen significantly and the treatment can continue without any more hiccups. It’ll also be with a different oncologist (for some reason) so it’ll be interesting to see what his take is on everything.

Our first challenge though is to get past this weekend without Sam stepping foot into her favourite hotel/hospital. I don’t think her digestive system can handle anymore jacket potatoes.

Wish us luck……. 😉

.

Saw the oncologist today for the pre chemo appointment. She showed us a chart of Sam’s white blood cell count and it didn’t look healthy. Basically her white blood cells are in freefall and so far they’re not showing any signs of going back up. If they keep dropping then her treatment in the hospital will radically change. All of this means that tomorrow’s 4th chemo session is postponed because there’s literally no way her body would handle it.

The dosage of chemo that Sam’s been on has been pretty high and the oncologist said that her body handled the first 2 sessions pretty well. Her bone marrow carried on producing white blood cells like it should do afterwards, however, after the 3rd session it took a bit of a beating and hasn’t quite recovered yet. She’s being pumped full of grade A antibiotics every 4/6 hours and being given the injections to jump start her bone marrow again. Once the white blood cells start to rise then there’ll be no stopping them. They’ll also lower the dosage of future chemo sessions so that she doesn’t get into this situation again. I was worried that this would mean that any future treatment won’t be as effective as it was on the previous dosage, but they assured me it would be fine. They said that the tumour would react in the same way that the bone marrow does, so if that’s getting a kicking, then so will the tumour.

The results from the MRI weren’t available for this morning’s meeting so we’re none the wiser there I’m afraid. The oncologist did bring the pictures up on the screen but we all just sat and stared blankly at them (oncologist included). It just looked like a bunny rabbit to me. Hopefully there will be a full report attached to the pictures when we have another review meeting next Wednesday.

Oh yeah, had that chat with Maddy and Harry today about what they’d do if anything should happen during the night. Without the blink of an eye or any prompting from me, Maddy said she would call 999 whilst Harry would call Mummy, nanny or grandad. They said that they would also shut Rosie and Charlie in another room so they would protect them from seeing anything. They then continued to finish their breakfast without even asking why I’d asked them. It was almost like they’d already discussed it between themselves.

“Wait….. What?” Now I don’t know whether to be relieved because they both know what they’d do, or even more worried because they’ve already worked out a plan of action just in case.

I’ve really got to cut down on the kebabs.

Two people on Sam’s ward have died since she’s been in there. I didn’t know who the first one was, but the second one was an older lady who was in the bed opposite. Her husband was always visiting her and you could see that they were very much in love because he’d do absolutely everything for her. Apparently she had a cardiac arrest during the night. She was resuscitated successfully but the outlook didn’t look so good. The nurses were desperately trying to call the husband to come in, but with it being 0300 there was no answer. Their only option was to get a police car to go around and see him. When I got there this afternoon to visit Sam the bed was empty and made up. She was 93 apparently, but didn’t really look. All I know is, her husband must be completely lost. If you’d seen how they were together then you’d understand. It almost reminds me of the first 10 minutes of the Pixar movie “UP”. So, so heartbreaking.

Seeing someone you love in that environment does weird things to you. I woke up at 0200 this morning and had this micro panic whilst trying to get back to sleep. I had this thought going round and round in my head. “What happens if I go to sleep and don’t wake up? I’m the only adult in the house. Will the kids know what to do? What would they do? Would they panic? It’ll be horrible for them”. I had this plan that I was going to sit Maddy and Harry down and explain to them what they should do if that situation should ever happen. It was a good plan only let down by the fact that I forgot to do it (I’ll make sure I do it tomorrow).

I also learnt a valuable life lesson today. I learnt that it’s a good idea if you remember to put a nappy on your 3 year old who, even though doesn’t wear them in the day, would still maybe need one at night. Let’s say there was a little accident at around 0430 this morning when she sat up looking puzzled at her wet legs and wet bed. It’s bad enough that she’d wet the bed, but the killer detail was she’d snuck into our bed without me knowing and was asleep next to me.

Sam’s still in hospital. They kindly let her leave the ward to go and have her MRI scan (which hopefully we’ll have the results of tomorrow). They didn’t want to discharge her today because they’re still not sure where the infection is and what’s causing her blood count to drop. The oncologist said it’s really weird for a blood count to drop again once it’s started rising so they’re confused. They said that Sam has possibly just been unlucky. Something weird is going on though.

We’ll find out tomorrow whether the chemo session will go ahead as scheduled on Thursday or whether they’ll delay it for a week to let her body recover. Hopefully though she’ll be all good, get discharged and everything can stay on track.