The End, Finally.

“Well done!! Didn’t expect anything less.” “Yeah, I knew you would, no big deal.” “So, when’s the party?” Just some of the replies I received after telling my family I had passed my final year exams. Not that it was a big deal for anyone else, but for myself – well, it was huge.

You see, two weeks before my final year exams, I was diagnosed with a very rare type of cancer. It was incurable. If someone had told me then that I would complete my university education, I would have laughed. Actually no, I probably would have wailed and thrown tear and snot soaked tissues in their face. I did that a lot, back then (everyone was on guard). A lot of people deterred me from starting my education again; they told me to concentrate my time and energy on things that ‘really counted’.

Of course, what ‘really counts’ to someone, may not be that important to someone else. And so, after a break of about two weeks, with Faisal's support, I started my Psychology degree again. I didn’t attend university as much as I did before the diagnosis, or sit and study as much, but I soldiered on. I sat exams at different times from my friends so finished university a month after they had graduated (which consequently resulted in them being blocked on whatsapp. It had to be done, them with all their end of exam celebrations and graduation preparations!)

Poor Faisal bore the brunt of the majority of the side effects associated with the decision – he helped me around the house as best he could (although I’m pretty sure he purposefully messed things up so I wouldn’t ask him to do them again). He also helped me cook, and he’s a pretty good cook - when he’s in the mood (again, pretty sure when he’s not in the mood he purposefully messes up so I get frustrated and send him away from the kitchen).

But we got through it. Results day for me wasn’t like everyone else’s – I wasn’t glued to my computer screen, or whatsapping my friends as soon as the results were out. I was actually shopping with my older brother, eating a Gregg’s pastry, when I thought ‘You know what, let me check if my results are out.’ And they were. And I was ecstatic – I had achieved a First, and the chaotic few months had paid off.

Lesson of the day:

- It’s one of the biggest clichés in the book – but that won’t stop me from using it: Hard work pays off. Determination is what got me through my degree, and although it was the hardest thing I had ever attempted, it was well worth it in the end.

- If something is important to you, take a stand for it. Listen patiently to others, but at the end of the day, do what you want. We all live our own lives and we must make our own decisions when it comes to what we feel is important.

- I’m pretty sure Faisal is an evil genius, with all his cunning antics around the house. Keep an eye on your men, ladies. They’re not as innocent as we think. 

The Biopsy.

The biopsy was the first kind of procedure I had ever had, and I was (understandably?) terrified. The idea of going under anaesthesia and having someone poke holes in me made me feel very uncomfortable; I was convinced something was going to go wrong and I would flat line (I blame watching too many episodes of House, you addictive show, you). A biopsy is basically a small procedure in which a doctor inserts a long needle into the locale of the tumour, and extracts a sample (or couple of samples), of the tumour for examination. I spent days fretting over the small details, reading and re-reading articles online and talking to people who had had surgery before, but on the day, I felt as unprepared as ever.

I had the procedure at The Royal Orthopaedic Hospital, and was luckily the first person on the doctor’s list. The doctor who was going to do the procedure was Indian, and apparently, upon seeing I had brown skin, made the assumption I didn’t know a word of English. Clearly, my British accent wasn’t posh enough for him (thanks for that, Hounslow), and no matter how often I told him I was from London, he relentlessly carried on speaking in Hindi. He did an especially bad job of attempting to explain the procedure to me – to the point that I was actually looking forward to being put under anaesthesia. Was this his evil-genius plan all along? Bombard me with Hindi so I look forward to the procedure? I may never know, but it sure did work!

Waking up from anaesthesia is one of the strangest feelings ever. It’s like waking up from an unsatisfying sleep – all groggy and disorientated – multiplied by about x30, and so naturally, Faisal thought this was the perfect time to start taking pictures and recording videos of me. He actually does this quite often – he has pictures of me hunched over a toilet seat in the middle of a vomit and also at the hospital with needles stuck in my arms. Very mature for a grown man (!)

I had to get over the effects of the anaesthesia before I was allowed to go home, and so the rest of the time in the hospital was spent recovering, during which time I became a bit of a diva (to hear Faisal tell it). I lay in bed doing nothing myself –I crossed my arms and refused to walk and so was wheeled around everywhere, Faisal fed me, and when he refused to tie my shoe laces for me so that I could wake up a little and get home quicker, my older brother did them (whilst I smiled smugly at Faisal). When I did arrive home, Mum had made my favourite meal for dinner, my younger brother topped up my plate and glass whenever I made an attempt to move and my older brother brought down blankets and pillows for me so I didn’t have to climb the stairs. Not at all diva-like behaviour if you ask me...

Lessons of the day:

- If the time and manner is appropriate – say what’s on your mind and ask for what you want. I’m pretty sure if I had clearly told my Indian friend I would prefer if he explain the procedure to me in English, he wouldn’t have minded at all. He’s a doctor working in the UK for god’s sake, I’m sure he knew English just as well as I did.

- When going into a potentially embarrassing situation, confiscate each and every phone which has a user prone to taking embarrassing pictures of you.  Hide it, and hide it well. 

The Worst thing about Chemo.

So I’ve just come back from the bathroom – I was there for a good 20 minutes. (And yes, I had my phone with me. Let’s just admit we all do it). I had gone in prepared for a long visit, for there had only been that kind for the last six months or so.

You see, there are many things about having cancer that suck. The pain, the increasing number of tablets, the frequent hospital visits etc etc. And yet, there is one thing that people don’t talk about – and that’s the monstrous effect of chemo on your digestive system. Charming topic of conversation, is it not?

The truth is, that the worst consequence about being on chemo (in my opinion) is the vicious cycle of constipation – increase in laxatives - diarrhoea – decrease in laxatives – constipation. It’s never ending, and it’s a pain in the arse (pun intended).

Anyone who’s experienced either state will know what I’m talking about when I say it’s one of the worst things EVER. It’s legitimately soul crushing. No, this isn’t me being dramatic. Spending those long moments alone in the bathroom, hoping no one important calls you so you don’t have to answer them whilst sat on the toilet, straining to hear the video you’re watching because you’ve put the audio so low in the hope that no one outside hears, etc etc: these are all real world issues.

And now you all know the truth. So beware, the next time I whatsapp you, I may well be in the middle of a very important battle, the outcome of which will probably be reflected in the response I give.

Lessons of the day:

- The last six months have resulted in the accumulation of a lot of material with regards to remedies for constipation, both natural and medicinal (diarrhoea, on the other hand, stops when I stop taking the laxatives). The main ones which I have found to work for me are listed below:

Natural:

1. Honey

2. Green Tea

3. Fibre (in the form of brown, seeded bread).

Medicinal:

1. Lactulose (which I am no longer on)

2. Bisacodyl

The Dosette Box.

“I’m not an old woman!” I remember heatedly saying down the phone. “I do not need a dosette box! I think I can remember my own medicines!” The excuses came one after the other, until I could think of no more. Faisal listened patiently, as he always does.

You see, he had ventured into Boots (the local pharmacy), and had come across the selection of dosette boxes they had in store. What’s a dosette box you ask? Google it, it’s kind of difficult to explain. I had only ever seen my Nan use them, and the idea of me having to depend on them was a stark reminder of just how many tablets I had to take, and how often.

So when he strolled into the house with the box, I grabbed hold of it and started shouting and waving it in Faisal’s face like a crazy old woman. After I had exhausted all reasons and accused him of never ever listening to me, Faisal took the box from my hand, put it away in the cupboard, and reassured me it was only for emergencies, and that I did not have to use it if I didn’t want to. “Good!” I humphed, and that was the end of that.

Come night, I began the tedious task of aligning all my medication. The process usually takes a good 5-6minutes. Faisal was in the other room studying. Come next morning, I set out to do the task again. And then that night. And then the morning after that. Chemo hadn’t even started, and I was already feeling the strain of the boring task.

So one night, I tiptoed my way to other room, made sure Faisal was busy, crept back into the kitchen and picked out the dosette box from where it sat. I turned around, opened and closed the slots, studied the design like I actually had a clue on whether it was a good one or not, and finally gave in. I filled the whole box in about 15minutes, after which I hid it in a cupboard I knew Faisal wouldn’t look in, and quietly made my way to bed.

I managed to keep the facade up for a good few days before Faisal noticed that I had caved. He walked into the kitchen one day and saw me having my tablets out of the box, smiling merrily to myself at how easy the task had become. He caught me out like a deer in headlights. Our eyes met across the room - and not in the romantic way. I refused to break the stare or look embarrassed – I would not give him that satisfaction. So I carried on looking at him, unblinking, until finally he smiled and walked over to the sink and pretended to be busy. “Yeah, you better walk away” I thought to myself as I followed him with narrowed eyes.

Lessons of the day:

- Never be the first to break a stare, no matter how embarrassed you may be. Nothing good can come of it. 

- You should probably listen to someone who has experience in a certain field - be it medicine, administration, accounting or whatever...but at the end of the day, make your own decision. Experience is what differentiates wise people from smart people. Being smart is all well and good, but being wise is on a whole other level.  

The Introductions.

My husband sits opposite me, eating his dinner, rolling his eyes at every complaint I make.
"Writing a first blog post is hard." "Can you write my first blog post?" "You're a terrible husband for not helping me through this tough time."

I've typed and deleted about five different beginnings now, so you know what, we'll just have to make do without one. No witty, quirky or funny introduction to break the ice - let's just go straight into who I am and what this blog is about.

My name is Naaila. That's pronounced 'Ny-la' for all those furrowed brow people attempting to decode that. I'm 23, married to a pretty great bloke, and have no kids, although not by choice - you see, this thing called 'cancer' got in the way of that. You may have heard of it; it's this pesky little thing which decides to interfere with life plans.

I was diagnosed in January 2013, and up till a few weeks ago, didn't publicise the news - why bother? People would be sympathetic for a few moments, and then life would happen - and no one would remember. Not that I mind - in fact, in my experience, I've found those moments to be rather uncomfortable for both parties. And the messages and calls. Oh boy, are those awkward.

So why bother publicise the news now? Well, a few reasons actually. You see, I've been through a fair bit since the beginning, and have learnt a lot in this last year and a half. What's that phrase? 'Experience is the best teacher...' or something along those lines. Yes, that applies. So why not share lessons? I've also been extremely bored recently. The diagnosis has meant that I am unable to work, and there is only so much shopping, painting, photographing and whatsapping a girl can do. Also, I've been feeling rather creative lately - I've always loved writing, and the hubby insists I'm pretty good at it, so why not?

My life isn't exactly the most interesting one - it's pretty normal, actually - I tend to stay at home a lot, I visit friends and family when I can, I pursue certain hobbies (which I'm not very good at) and I travel down to London to visit the hospital every three weeks.

So nothing too exciting, but I will attempt to write when I can, share what I can and most importantly, teach what I learn.

And who knows, with a hint of artistic license, writings on cancer and other stuff may even make for some interesting reading...