At first it went unnoticed. Silent tendrils of smoke licking at the walls, and small flames creeping their way through each room. By the time it was caught the inferno had a firm grip and was raging uncontrollably, wreaking immeasurable damage throughout the place I called home.
As I write, it's day nine (which, the eagle eyed amongst you will have spotted, means that I start my DIY G-CSF injections today. Fuuuuuuuuuu-), and so time for a recap of day 8. Which, if I'm being honest, was a total bugger of a day.
Yesterday my parents and I attended something referred to as a 'Confirmation of Consent' meeting with my absolute babe of a Nurse Specialist, Theresa. Sadly this wasn't some sort of disruptive feminist workshop, but a medical appointment about chemotherapy. The point of the session is to run through your cancer treatment plan, its side effects and risks, answer any questions you may have and then finally get your permission to start poisoning you for your own benefit.
Instead I have been wading my way wide-eyed and babbling incoherently through myriad conversations about my fertility. Basically, am I ever going to want to grow some sproglets inside of me one day? Because [spoiler alert], cancer and its subsequent treatment might make my chances of natural conception as likely as Trump winning an honorary ACLU award.
It's easy to look back and think 'why didn't I notice earlier?' (you know, before my cancer got to Stage 4), but the truth is that hindsight is 20/20 and when you're actually living through these symptoms they feel so unrelated and random.
Annoyingly, I now have to use a crutch because they're worried that the cancer has weakened my hip/pelvis/leg on the right side enough that I could quite easily fracture something like my femur. I really detest crutches - they are gangly, awkward and make my hands hurt. But use them I must I suppose - it's probably less cumbersome than having a fractures femur.