An equation

This last week has been one of those that comes my way now and again: a full working week. 9-5, Monday to Friday. People, I have no idea how you do it. I love, love, love my job, so I enjoyed every single moment of it – especially the one when a delegate awarded me 11 out of 10 – but as it is pretty intense, the danger is that I take my eye off other things. Like my arm.

The new PICC and I have been getting along quite happily, although the last time I had herceptin Jo noticed that my skin is becoming irritated by the coating on the line. I had noticed my skin becoming red and sore but had put it down to wear and tear and the line being rubbed against my arm.

If I’d been paying attention this week, I’d have noticed that my arm was getting redder. But I didn’t. I did notice it getting itchy, though, so tried a smaller dressing. I noticed it getting a little bit sore by Friday, because every time I raised my arm to write on the flip chart I was brought up short by a little ache.

This morning – while I was off being a pop star in a recording studio in Islington, of which much more later – I did notice an increasing ache. Joy had to carry my bag for me. Every time I bumped or raised my arm I winced. When I came home I took the dressing off and there had been quite a lot of weeping under there. And the whole area where the line goes into my arm is red, and hard, and sore.

Alan and I thought the line was either infected or reacting under the skin in the same way it is above. So we called the hospital to speak to the oncologist, and – credit where credit is due – she called back within the hour, and apologised for not calling me back sooner.

I explained what was happening, and said that I didn’t consider this an emergency but neither did i think it wise to wait until Monday before getting in touch. We agreed that I will go into hospital in the morning to get it looked at, unless I develop a fever, in which case we will reassess. (‘Late morning,’ said the oncologist. ‘After ‘The Archers’?’ I asked. ‘Perfect,’ said the oncologist. Only in England.)

Here’s what’s interesting about this (unless you have a particular interest in weeping PICC-based arm nastiness): before I had even picked up the phone to the oncologist, my brain had come up with a quick equation:

x = a + b + c + d + e

where:

a=all of the problems with the drug trial that was a substitute from herceptin

b=all of the problems getting cannulated

c=heart worries

d=[joint aches, muscle pains, cramp, sleepless nights, nausea, diahorrea]

e=now this horribly inflamed arm

mean that x = my thought that maybe, finally, this is the thing that will make everyone say ‘enough is enough’ as far as herceptin goes.

I ran my equation past Alan. His eyebrows said that he’s not convinced that my proof is correct. He’s probably right.

I am getting hot though. I’ll let you know what happens.