Week 2 – Day 1

Gail's on the ward, lying on her bed dreaming of our holiday in June. It's a week in a cottage out in the countryside near Dartmouth. The week falls in the middle of the two months break in between treatment cycles. While we're waiting for this second week of treatment in the first cycle to begin, she revisits the Coast and Country website to have another flick through the images – the cozy cottage, its homely interior, its modest garden, its unspoilt views. She's holding on to the thought that, soon, we'll be as far away from here as we can be.

It's already six o'clock, the evening approaching, and she hasn't been administered her first dose of IL-2 as yet. I've been with her all day, much of it spent sitting in the now familiar comfy arm chair next to her bed. But, we're not in the same ward as before.

A week ago Gail was in ward twelve on the top floor, aka the 'penthouse suite' as one cheeky mancunian nurse put it. "We only have VIPs staying in ward twelve" she'd proclaim. It's ward eleven, on the third floor, for Gail this time. Each ward has several bays and several side rooms. Each bay has four beds, the side rooms have just the one bed. The bay that Gail is staying on this week is right down at the end of the corridor.

It would seem that Gail is out on a limb here; it's a long way from everything. But perhaps that has it's advantages. Firstly, it's quieter than it ever was in the VIP lounge upstairs. It's more up-together, too. Fresh, sky blue curtains rather than off-white. The bath isn't directly opposite, so Niagara falls won't be turned on anywhere nearby, half way through the middle of the night. This bay is right at the end of the line, so if you haven't got business down here, you ain't going to be passing by. And that feels like a small piece of luxury already.

Despite the clutter of medical paraphernalia and the occasional bleeping of the drip feeders when their fluids run dry, we serenely while away the hours. It's as if we're in a hotel conservatory reading a magazine, the paper, a book, unconcerned at what our unknowable future holds. We chit-chat about this and that and sometimes search out each others hand for that reassuring squeeze. The sun has swung an almost uninterrupted arc past our window seat view since we arrived on ward eleven nearly eight hours ago. And a little troublingly, IL-2 still hasn't made an appearance... Not that Gail is that eager to see its return.

From our window, we watch scores of airplanes soar into the sky and bank into their trajectory, the destinies of their occupants we can only wonder, while we continue to await the arrival of Gail's first £700, 50ml bag of IL-2 of week two. Gail has made the most of this idle time by fiddling with her new bed's electronic position-adjusting controls, whilst reclining gracefully on her state-of-the-art, air-cushioned and almost imperceptibly oscillating mattress. She didn't have this top gadget on ward 12!

It's now 7:30pm and the holiday's over. Finally, the first bag of IL-2 has already been attached and emptied into Gail's veins. The 50ml dose only takes 15 minutes to drip through. All quiet again right now.

It's so quiet. There's one other inpatient in our bay with a visitor. Their talking is a soporific murmur. Gail's got her iPod headphones in now, listening to a meditation, quietly anticipating IL-2's first aggressive sign of invasion when it charges her body with those crippling rigors.

It's 8:42 (I feel like saying, in a geordie accent, "...in the Big Brother House") in the end bay on ward eleven, it's no goals in the Manchester derby, and it's a no-show from those rigors – so far.

It's now after 10pm... Visiting hours finished two hours ago and I've been hanging on in the hope that I could be here for Gail when she goes through her first rigors. The nurses have been empathetic and have let me stay, but now it seems it could be ages before anything might happen. So, unfortunately, the time has come for me to say goodbye to Gail, and to take my leave.

Day Eight..

WE'RE BACK HOME!

Gail was discharged at 2pm today. She did, however, make a rather blatant statement of intent... Knowing the registrar was on her way round at about 12:30 to give her the latest news, Gail was already dressed and packed to leave – by noon! Fortunately for Gail, the registrar was on side, and had a different take on the heart attack, which was the reason behind the extended stay in hospital.

The theory is that Gail had tachycardia, probably caused by hyperventilation. The marker in her blood that suggested she'd had a heart attack was definitely raised high enough to cause real concern for the medics. Enough to take proper precautions. But after a listen to the chest, and a check on the pulses, the sensible and acutely bright young registrar said that Gail was OK to go home.

Sorry about this posting being so late when there wasn't much to report. There was however much to do when we got home. You know that crash back down to earth you get when get back from your holiday... It was a bit, only a bit, like that. What a wonderful relief it is to be back in our home.

I won't be doing anymore posts this week... Oh, I nearly forgot. As Gail's heart seems to be OK, she will be back in for a second week of HDIL-2 treatment starting on Monday 30th April. And I will continue to do my best to keep you all up-to-date (albeit, late into the night).

Thank you to everyone for following the blog. Your comments (and emails from those of you who weren't able to leave a comment on the blog) were a real motivation for me to keep this going and give you the best account that I could, of this first week of HDIL-2 for Gail.

Talk soon.
F

Day Seven..

I didn't expect to be writing the blog from the hospital today. But here I am, sat in my usual place. My armchair tucked in close to the right-hand side of Gail's bed, she's lying on her side facing me, eyes closed, but not asleep.

We managed a couple of walks around the hospital today. For a theraputic change of scenery. Thankfully, this hospital benefits from some really nice variations of scenery. We went to the Conservatory and sat for a few quiet moments. That's something that's so very hard to find in this, and probably every other, hospital. Quiet. This is a very big place, with many dedicated rooms and spaces: The Relaxation Room, The Conservatory, The Chapel. But when there's people in them, there's noise in them. You can't escape it... we emit noise. We're in a massive complex, it's a gated community the size of a small town, so it's not surprising that there's constant noise.

On a typical week day a thousand nurses, doctors, outpatients, relatives, consultants, cleaners, students, inpatients and the Professor, walk through the labyrinth of corridors, waiting rooms, treatment rooms, wards, and other exotic and mystifying rooms. The main corridor linking the two wings of the hospital, aka the Glass Corridor (shown in these pictures), is like walking the pavements of a shopping mall. Today, however, it's Sunday, and unlike 'open-all-hours' shopping malls, there's not much going on here and there's hardly anyone around. So happily, we have found our sanctuary of peace on this sabbath day, in The Conservatory. We're both sitting very quietly, reverently. The peace is broken when Gail reminds me that we haven't got long, she has to have a new bag of fluids attached. Gail's brain might be fogged with tiredness, but she' got her mind's eye on the clock, (it'll take a lot more than HDIL-2 to cloud her near cosmic sense of time) and she beckons us to leave our haven and return to the bustle of the ward.

One of the Prof's registrars came to visit Gail earlier. She explained that no firm decision could be made on when we could go home (Gail's desperate to get home) until cardiology, oncology and renal meet up tomorrow to discuss her case. Prof would have the ultimate say. And that's pretty much it. We don't know if Gail will be returning for her second HDIL-2 cycle in a week's time. And we don't know how long Gail will be asked to remain in hospital. The registrar made a valid point, she said, looking directly at me "We wouldn't want anything to happen to Gail while you're half way down the M5." It worked. I was sold the insurance policy! But Gail, being a lass born up north in Yorkshire cut in and said that she could self-administer the anti-clotting drug Fragmin. "Just give me the drugs," she said, "I can do it myself, I've done it before, and we can get back to the children". Touché! That word 'children' is a good one to use in situations like this. That coupled with her admirable self-dependency... can't argue against that, surely? Well apparently you can. You can't live life without insurance. Fair enough. We await the judgement from the experts in the morning.

Day Six..

Eleven doses. That's it. Gail's done! She's reached the end of what she can physically endure. Dose eleven proved to be the one that crushed Gail's resistance... Not in mind, but in body. This morning at 7am, two hours after administering the eleventh dose of IL-2, a team of doctors and nurses were surrounding Gail's bed struggling to keep her airways open, and calm her shuddering body. The rigors had taken such a violent grip on her that she was gasping for air – they gave her ventolin through an oxygen mask. Her tongue had swollen so much that it was nearly choking her – they administered a liquid drug into her mouth. She had felt a painful tightening in her chest – they wired her up to an ECG; the doctors wanted to be sure she wasn't having a heart attack.

And all this activity while she shook uncontrollably. Pethidine, the drug used to mitigate against this debilitating, muscle wrenching side effect had been gradually losing its effectiveness over the course of the week. By Thursday, they'd actually doubled the dosage to try to counteract its waning influence over the rigors. But this HDIL-2 treatment has a notorious and intimidating reputation for torturing those 'lucky' few people who hope to be beneficiaries of its promise of a lasting remission.

It was part way through the lunch period, when I arrived at Gail's ward. I rounded the corner and I was astonished to see her stood up by her bed, just about hanging on to her drip feed stand. She'd called me a couple of hours earlier on the mobile to tell me about what had happened in the early hours. She sounded awful on phone. She'd had a rotten night dealing with dose number ten, compounded with the disturbance of the hourly observations on her stats, she'd hardly slept. Then at 5am and sleep deprived, the time had come around seemingly ever quicker, to administer 'magic potion' (Gail's pet name for it) number eleven, the dose which brought about the frightening and devastating ambush of the rigors. So, I'd expected her to be away with the fairies when I got there. Instead, there she was, a bit wobbly, seeing herself off to the loo. I couldn't believe that she was attempting to make the trip without a helping hand. I clutched her by the arm and slowly helped her across the ward and over to the toilet.

A nurse was waiting for her when she returned. She had to draw some bloods to run some more tests. Later, we were to discover why.

Gail's been itching for a bath for the last few days, but that luxury can only be granted when her blood pressure returns to normal. The upper figure has to be over 100. That's curious. It only needs to be 90 to be ready for a dose of IL-2! So Gail had to wait. It was another six hours before her bath could be run for her. That was sometime after 7pm, which was only moments after we were told the news. A young male doctor called to see Gail and told her, matter-of-factly, that she had had a minor heart attack during the rigors on dose eleven. The blood test results taken earlier confirmed this, the ECG didn't pick it up at the time. The outcome? Gail's got to remain in hospital for another three days while she receives treatment for it.

Our response..?

It only properly sunk in when we had to tell the kids. And, incredibly, they took the news better than we did; whilst we were worrying about us not being there for them, for yet more days, they texted back words of encouragement back to their mum: "We are looking after everything fine don't you worry about us, you're the best person ever, and Kofi [the dog] misses you he's lost at home without you or dad here he's going to go mental when you're home!!!!!xx" Excuse the lack of punctuation in Iona's (she's 15, our youngest, a typical teenager) text message, but she did well with the apostrophes and spelling.

That simple text message was exactly what Gail needed to hear. It was heart-wrenchingly moving for us. Gail melted, tears rolled down her tired face. It was the first time she'd allowed herself to cry in the whole time she's been here. But the most remarkable thing about that text message is how it has re-focused our resolve. It has been an inspiration, it has filled us with a renewed optimism. What's a minor, treatable, heart attack when you consider that real possibility of an extended remission? Compare that to what we might have had to face if we'd decided not to come to Manchester for this treatment? We know that it'll be another couple of months before we discover whether HDIL-2 has done the job; we're not out of it yet. But we are still, and will firmly remain totally positive about the outcome – the outcome that we want.

Day Five..

I arrived a little before official visiting hours started, today. The patient was curled up on her side, asleep. It's really quiet on the ward right now. But then, lunch has already been served and the empties have been cleared away. It's 1:30pm - only half an hour before the 'gates open' to the visiting hoards, who, unlike me, are abiding by the hospital rules waiting until 2pm before descending en masse. So here I am sat on my usual armchair, observing a moment's silence. It's grim outside. Squally showers pre-emptive of the unquiet that's going to drench our tranquil corner.

Gail texted me this morning to tell me that she'd been seen by the Prof's second in command, Andrea, who specialises in the HDIL-2 treatment. So she has seen it all and knows the form. Her reaction to seeing the results from Gail's daily blood tests and hourly stats was nothing short of utter delight. She described her as a double 'A star' patient. Her bloods are as they were on the day before she began her treatment. What a marvel she is!

Reassuring though these praiseful words are, they can have the effect of protecting you from the reality. The HDIL-2 onslaught is taking its toll on Gail's battle-weary body. With every dose, now, she knows what's coming. And the bravery she had in the early stages to declare "bring it on!" has gradually been surrendering to a cringing acceptance that this relentless cycle, nine already completed, is leaving her feeling depleted and sore.

Her body is aching from the violent shaking of the rigors. Her mouth is sensitive and dry and her throat sharp and cutting from the massive swings in temperature, regularly hitting 40C. Her brain is muddled from the disorientating flu-like fevers. And you'd think with this exhausting, grinding routine, her resolve might be waining. Actually, if you know Gail, you'll know her resolve will be the last thing to crack.

Before Gail has her TENTH dose, her stats have to return to acceptable levels, as they do before every dose. The blood pressure in particular has to climb back up from fading lows like 78 over 48 (one of last nights readings – gasp!)  to a minimum of 90 for the upper (systolic) figure. The time it takes for Gail's systolic pressure to recover is taking longer, therefore the time between doses is getting longer. At the beginning it was every eight hours, now it's getting closer to... ten hours! Considering everything, that's still an incredible achievement. To put this into perspective, most people aren't able to reach double-figures by the end of their week stint on HDIL-2, Gail still has one day to go! I apologise if I am gushing about the virtues of my wife. I am so very proud of her.

The blood pressure reading in the picture on the right was the latest one taken at about 7:30 this evening. The upper figure is 98 – well over the minimum of 90... Which means, it's time for dose number ten. A 50ml flush with glucose first, then by about 8:30, Gail will climb into the roller coaster and off for another assault on the body and senses. Interestingly, though, this roller coaster hasn't been a sickening ride for Gail. Not once has she felt sick on this. Many complain of sickness as a major side effect. One other much feared side effect that has mercifully remained elusive for Gail, is the hallucinations.

As the tenth IL-2 bag is about to be suspended on the drip feeder, the time has come for me to say goodnight to Gail and leave the ward. A basic but comfortable hotel room awaits me. A rough and punishing ride awaits my heroine wife. I love her so much.

Day Four..

The Prof called in to see Gail this morning. It was his first visit since she began the treatment. He was genuinely surprised when he noted that she hadn't yet skipped a dose... Six on the bounce. A consultant accompanying the Prof picked up Gail's toothpaste tube that was lying on the top of her personal effects cupboard. She was particularly interested and impressed by Gail's choice because of the natural anti-bacterial properties of the propolis contained in it. This discussion lead onto Gail's favourite subject... She went on to talk about how she's trying to complement her treatment by eating the foods that would be most beneficial to her while she's administered IL-2.

Then, in all seriousness, the Prof suggested that Gail might like to write a guide to help patients through the ordeal of this treatment. Knowing Gail as we all do, we know that she doesn't need a second invitation when it comes to helping others.

Gail's father and brother came to visit today. They were on their way back to Gloucestershire from a working trip in Scotland. And coming to Manchester was only a small detour in their 1,000 mile round trip. It was a welcome visit and one which I think gave them real encouragement on how brilliantly Gail's coping. And this isn't just my observation; another nurse not directly involved with her care had to double-check that Gail was the HDIL-2 patient. She'd seen how well Gail was looking and had begun to wonder if she'd got it wrong. When she checked Gail's Observation Board at the end of her bed, she couldn't believe it.

I might be a bit biased about Gail's amazing ability to deal with this, but now I know that she really is amazing. I sat with her when she had another one of those rigors earlier today. It's tough to watch. Her lips go blue and her fingers are a pale yellow, drained of any colour. She convulses uncontrollably. Until the Pethidine cuts in, she gives way to her body's natural reaction to Interleukin-2 penetrating her core, its receptors programmed to search for its brothers-in-arms, the white blood cells, specifically the T cells, then to instruct this gallant army to differentiate between the good and the evil. With this, now innate, knowledge the T cells give the power to the immune system to seek out and negate the bad guys, while minimising the impact of friendly-fire. Well that's the theory, told in a rather swashbuckling style. I know that the outcome isn't always a perfect ending, but right now I am feeling very optimistic.

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Tonight, I left the hospital comparatively late. The nurses don't seem to mind too much that I'm staying behind well after visiting hours is over. I'd been quietly sat in my armchair right beside my wife, writing the blog. We'd talk about how things were going and I'd listen intently to her account. Although it's always an honest account, it's never a negative one. "I'm here to do a job" she says. And she's going about it in the most professional manner.

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Day Three..

Hubby reporting... Came back to the ward this morning. I sneaked in at 10:30 and dodged the heavies at the ward's reception desk (visitng starts at 14:00 officially). I turned the corner into Gail's ward and saw her lying motionless, eyes closed. Then, as if she knew I was there, she opened her eyes looking directly at me. Big smiles! A sigh of relief from me.

She had had two HDIL-2 doses since I left yesterday, one last night and one early this morning... And she's still beaming. It's now 3:30pm, and the nurse is here to give Gail her next dose. "Bring it on!" she said when asked if she felt ready for her fourth consecutive dose; all of which now means I'm going to witness Gail going through... the 'rigors'! A rigor is an episode of shaking or exaggerated shivering which can occur with a high fever. It happens about two hours after the dose has been administered. Firstly, you start to feel really cold, then your teeth start to chatter, then your entire body goes into convulsions starting with the legs and arms. Gail said that no matter what you do you can't stop shaking - until the Pethidine starts to take effect. Within 20 minutes, it's all under control; then sleep takes over...

I'm looking at the bag containing the HDIL-2, hanging from the drip feed. It's only 45ml of fluid! Now, I thought it was going to be loads more than that; why? Because of another of the side effects that was described to us... "Fluid will leak through the veins and into the body making you bloat out". Apparently, you can put on loads of weight from the amount of fluid you take onboard.

You see, the HD bit of HDIL-2 actually means High Dose (not High Definition as was my misconception). So when you think high dose you imagine bucket loads of this fluid being poured in through a funnel, but it isn't like that.

So where is all this excess fluid coming from? It isn't from the HDIL-2. It's the saline solution... That bag (in the background) looks like about a litre's worth. Saline is really important as your fluid levels must be kept up. That's because it helps regulate the blood pressure, which tends to drop suddenly at around the same time as when the rigors set in.

I'm getting quite knowledgable in this treatment ; )

It's now 6:30pm, Gail's had a light tea - leak and potato soup followed by a tuna salad. She still has an appetite. I watch her eat; a jumble of fluid filled pipes and taps dangle from her right arm as she tucks into her food. She's doing really well. She doesn't have that grey hospital look that you'd expect either - she looks flushed, like she's just been out in the sun for half an hour. Earlier, a little while after the rigors had died down, nurse came around to check on Gail's vital signs, blood pressure, temperature, pulse rate etc. All were settling down nicely. Then she stopped and took a look at Gail and said "you're looking too well to be going through this treatment." A sentiment I echo.

Day Two..

It's time for hubby to take over the blog... So here I am. Gail's in, and hooked up, and is in the middle of her first dose of IL-2. I'm writing this from Gail's bedside. She's right next to me and she's still smiling. From where we are - on the 4th (top) floor, and with an enviable spot by the expansive window, we have a great view across the rooftops of Didsbury. The ward is light and airy - we can even open the windows... that's a top perk - believe me!

Gail's half way into her first dose of IL-2, and it's everything as we were when the IL-2 tap was first turned on. She has a little raised temperature, perhaps, and a little aching in her bones, but that could be from all this lying around ; )

Actually, one of her many symptoms will be aching limbs and joints, just like having the flu. She's just been given some tablets to help ease the aches and pains. But she's not in any real discomfort right now.

Early days, I know.

The thing that has struck us both on our first day, is the unbelievable commitment these nurses have to their job. The nurse dedicated to Gail's care is on a 14 hour shift. 14 hours! She started at 7am. That's a long haul to 9pm. Just learned that for 13 of those hours, she's on her feet. Apparently, the secret to achieving this feat? It's all in the shoes she wears.

Next IL-2 dose is at 10pm. Let's see what tomorrow brings.

Day One..

Day one, a morning packed full of tests and the all important full body CT scan and results. Not quite as straight forward as I had hoped as when we arrived at 8am, all my details on the system referred to a lady in Manchester who happened to have the same birthday. After many phone calls and computer searching they finally straightened things out. 


However, saw Prof who gave me the all important news that there was no spread- no additional tumours so smiles all round! You always brace yourself for the worst, but nothing had grown further which was such good news. 


Whether my meditations each afternoon and guided imagery were helping, or my very strict diet and alkaline approach had colluded to stop things in their tracks, we will never know, but Franco and I both feel that I am playing my part in my own recovery. 


Well, in order to receive the IL-2 doses, I have to have a PICC line put into my upper arm (a fine tube which is fed through a vein across my chest and into the top of my heart). As the CT scan involved drinking a contrast dye to light up my insides, Prof explained that my first dose of Interluekin would be delayed until Tues am. This was to enable the body to clear the dye. Anyway, went through admissions and up to visit the ward, and much to our delight we were told to come back Tuesday at 8am. It was like we were given the night off! A bonus night of freedom, albeit with PICC line hanging out of my arm!

Saying goodbye

Today was hard leaving behind the girls, everyone trying to be brave but on the inside feeling the wrench of 'Goodbyes'. Drove up the motorway-as busy as ever and arrived in Manchester this evening. Looking forward to our visit to Greens restaurant tonight, knowing that hospital food looms on the horizon.


Main thoughts are about tomorrow's scan and results. Trying hard to get my head straight for what lies ahead. So many people sent good wishes today, a huge 'thanks' to you all. x

Getting ready

Saturday spent getting everything ready. Keeping positive but with an element of fear of the unknown. Leaving Sunday to start Monday. Meeting Prof and having my PICC line in, then off for CT scan to discover how the tumours are and if they have spread, grown or changed. Waiting for results is always hard. Have booked a table at Green's restaurant in Didsbury for Sunday evening. A fantastic veggie restaurant run by celebrity chef Simon Rimmer. Hopefully not a Last Supper!!
Its going to be hard driving away from home and my girls, but like we said today we are all in this together and we each have our part to play.

The story so far

Welcome. I've started this blog so that my many friends can be kept up-to-date with the next stage of my battle with kidney cancer.


Here's a quick catch-up...
I was diagnosed with cancer of the kidney in November 2011. After a long ten week wait I had a radical nephrectomy on January 16, 2012. From the histology, the tumor was classed as grade 4 and, at a whopping 10cm, you can imagine how grateful I was that my fabulous surgeon was able to do the op laparoscopically. There is only one thing more shocking than being told you have cancer, and that is being told you have secondaries. My follow up scan 6 weeks later revealed lung mets on both sides with numerous spots. I was advised by my consultant in Cheltenham that I would be prescribed Sutent, a type of chemotherapy, to try to keep it stable. Prognosis? On average they give you a couple of years on it before it becomes ineffectual – then what?


As some of you will know, I've been researching my cancer and the possible treatments available for it with the painstaking meticulousness of a prospector panning for gold. Knowledge is power and when death stares you straight in the face, you would do anything to hang on to life.


Through my research I found two cancer forums, one here in the UK and one in the States. Both offered invaluable info and support and more than anything, the word we all cling to - HOPE.


The treatment everyone on the forums was shouting loudest about was HDIL-2: High-Dose Interleukin-2. A tough treatment done widely in the US but very hard to find in the UK. For some it has even offered long term remission, for others it doesn't work. My research showed a glimmer of hope. I was pointed in the direction of Professor Robert Hawkins, of the Christie Hospital in Manchester (UK) one of our top renal specialists and I fought hard to get a referral up to see him.


The day of my consultation with 'the Prof' (as he is fondly known by his staff and those who have been treated by him), was a glorious cloudless blue. It felt like the first day of summer – in the South of France. It was also the day when I knew that this was my chance to try to regain my life. It just felt right... I knew that, as tough as it sounded, this was the treatment I had to try.


Through this entire process I have discovered I have an indomitable determination to live. I have found reserves of energy and positivity I never thought I had.  So much of this I owe to the incredible support I have been receiving from my family, friends and people I've encountered out-and-about and online. The journey so far has been – both painful and inspirational. I have witnessed the very best of human kindness, and a love and care I thought only existed in dreams.


A phone call Thursday confirmed that I had passed all the stress tests and that my tissue type matched the required profile... So I was offered the one bed that would be allocated for HDIL-2 treatment – starting Monday April 16th. 


This news filled me with excitement, gratitude and dread. I scrambled to book up accommodation for Franco (my husband); organised my daughters to ensure their week 'home alone' would be as straightforward as possible; got the shopping in, and tried to remember everything else that would be needed to ensure 'week one' of treatment in Manchester would go as well as it could.


Back to the treatment, (for the squeemish of you, look away now as I explain what I am about to put myself through). A week as an inpatient receiving 8 hourly doses of HDIL-2 through a PICC line right into my heart. The treatment is known as immunotherapy (or bake, shake and flake – as it's known in the US!). Basically, it's trying to kick start my own immune system into killing the cancer cells. During this time the side effects I can expect are the rigors, fever, flu like aches and pains, nausea, vomiting, hallucinations, skin peeling, headaches, water retention, weight gain, low blood pressure and a risk to both my heart and lungs. Not very jolly – but the alternative? After week one, I have a week back home, followed by a second week back in hospital, when this is repeated all over again. Then I am back home for 2 months, after which time, I'll be scanned and then the cycle starts all over again. This could continue for over a year if treatment is showing to be working.