The Puzzle.

The folks at UCLH have done a pretty good job at decking out the ‘Teenage and Young Adults with Cancer’ centre. There are plenty of activities for patients and their families, which is always what Faisal and I look forward to when we have appointments.

There’s a pool table, which is pretty cool, and almost everyone’s first choice of activity. Faisal and I have no clue how to play and are not very good either. We have no idea what the rules of pool are, so our game involves trying to sink as many balls as possible with the winner being the one who sinks the most (except when someone is close by, when we stop and pretend to examine the play, and make a show of thinking about our next move, when really we’re just hoping they’ll go away and save us the embarrassment of seeing how terrible we are).

There is also a foosball kit, which Faisal and I only play when there is no one else around because of the amount of shouting that almost always ensues whilst playing. Both of us are very competitive, and I’m surprised I haven't sprained my ankle yet, given how much I jump around. Both pool and foosball run the real risk of Faisal and I getting physically violent with each other, so we tend to limit our play with those (on a side not, cue sticks make very good weapons).

And then there are the less violent options, like cards, board games (which may sound childish, but trust me, when there’s a good game of Scrabble or Battleship, there’s no such thing as too old), and video games, movies, musical instruments and books and magazines.

And then I came across a 250 piece Where’s Wally puzzle, which I immediately picked up and insisted with Faisal we finish. He was hesitant at first, clearly in the mood to play pool (I imagine I had done something wrong and he simply wanted the opportunity to covertly attack me with the cue stick), but I managed to convince him, and we set out on the task of finishing the puzzle before we left for home.

We had completed the edges of the puzzle when my nurse called me in for my appointment, and of course Sod’s Law would have it that the one day my appointment was on time, was the one day I wanted it to be late. Nevertheless, we hurriedly completed the appointment and came back to the puzzle, and for the next two hours, I refused to leave its side. Come lunch-time, Faisal tried to convince me it was safe to leave the puzzle to go get some lunch, but hunching over and hugging the table, I fervently refused, frantically searching the room for potential saboteurs (clearly I hadn't learnt from my Lebanese restaurant vomitting fiasco). An exasperated Faisal gave up and set out to finish the puzzle with me as quickly as possible (I imagine he was worried his wife was going crazy), and just as my nurse came to tell me my medicines were ready, Faisal placed the last piece of the puzzle in place. There was one piece missing, of course there was, but we both sat back and marvelled at our creation, smiling with satisfaction at what had turned out to be a very productive day.

Lesson of the Day:
- You're never too old for games or puzzles! So enjoy them!
- Once you start something, don't give up at the first sign of an obstacle. Carry on, especially if it's something you're passionate about. The satisfaction one feels after completing a task, especially a hard task (like completing a puzzle, obviously), is amazing, and well worth it in the end.

The Mistake.

The number of side effects listed on the chemotherapy trial sheet was terrifying. They had everything under the sun – from nausea and vomiting to hair loss and abnormal hair growth (what the?!) to kidney lesions and stones. Everything and anything, although the doctor insisted that was only the researchers covering all their bases. Whatever she said, we all knew it was the only option we had, despite it only being a trial, and not curative.

So I started chemotherapy on 27^th November 2013, and up till this date, have been coping pretty well, thank God. I’m experiencing very little side effects (no abnormal hair growth to report as of yet), although I have noticed if I don’t eat for more than a couple of hours, I start feeling extremely nauseas and light headed, which isn’t a very good feeling at all (not sure how much of that is because of the chemotherapy or because my body is just so used to me eating all the time...). Either way, I’ve learnt not to go too long without eating, and am careful not to push the limit I can go.

And so it was probably my own fault on this particular day, when I knowingly went three/four hours without eating. We had travelled from Northampton down to London for the appointment, which meant waking up at 6am and having a quick bowl of porridge for breakfast. We had made big plans of going to our favourite Lebanese restaurant afterward (an amazing little place in Kilburn called Zaytoon), and so against my better judgement, I decided not to eat until we got there. I was feeling brave. It was extremely foolish.

As soon as we sat down and I had the first sip of water, I started feeling nauseas and light headed. I thought it was a spell I would get over, and so ignoring Faisal’s advice of going down to the bathroom, I stubbornly stayed in my seat. Again, so foolish. As soon as the waitress had placed the crockery on the table, I proceeded to unload the largest volume of vomit onto the plate in front of me. It was gross, and frankly, I'm surprised Faisal is still married to me, after that display. I immediately felt better though, but was then tasked with somehow covering up the vomit (I'll spare you the details of what it looked/smelled like, just know it wasn't my proudest moment). Eventually, I found some tissues which I strategically and artfully placed to cover up any evidence – until the waitress came back with our food and Faisal told her what happened. She was lovely about it though and even gave me free lemonade, although I find it suspicious how every time we’ve gone back to the restaurant, she's nowhere to be found...

Lessons of the day:
- Know your limits. Don't push your body into doing something it is not capable of - the consequences may be extremely, extremely embarrassing. 

The Radiographer and His Daughter

“So, is that your husband sitting in the waiting room?”

“Yep, we’ve been married four and a half years now.”

“Long time. Where is he from?”

“India, originally.”

“So are you Indian too?”

“No, I’m Pakistani.” 

“My daughter wants to get married to a Turkish guy. We are Egyptian. I don’t know what to do. What’s it like being married to someone from a different country? How do you manage? I don’t know what to do. She’s my eldest. Everyone marries Egyptians in our family. I don’t know what do!”

The Radiographer poked the needle in me again, exasperated. I flinched and clenched my teeth as he tried again to find a vein. Not an easy task in my case; apparently I have very difficult veins to find – either that, or the staff at UCLH are just not very good at finding them. ‘Calm down, man!’ I thought to myself, ‘I know you’d rather be poking sharp things in your daughter right now, but spare me, please!’ I quietly cried inside.

Once again, I found myself in a position I did not want to be in. Maybe I have one of those faces, but for some reason, most doctors and nurses I come across seem to think I am the person to spill their life stories to. Now, don’t peg me for a sucker, I know pity-talk when I hear it – and no, they don’t talk to me out of pity. Doctors and nurses come across thousands of patients, and to them, I’m just another name on a list. So I put it down to my baby face – in particular, the baby cheeks which refused to go away even after I reached and left puberty.

And so he tried again, whilst I explained to him just how similar Faisal’s and mine’s family backgrounds were. Clearly he wasn’t too happy with the explanation I gave, and poked another needle in me – this time, without the ‘sharp scratch’ warning. This one finally drew blood, and the rest of the CT prep was done in silence. When he’d finally finished, I gathered my things and scurried off back to my seat.

‘Darn you and your chubby cheeks, Naaila,’ I thought, not for the first time.

Lessons of the day:

- When someone is in a position to poke sharp things in you, tell them what they want to hear. Just trust me on this one. 

The Parking Ticket.

Walking toward my car and finding that piece of paper wedged between the windscreen and windscreen wiper was probably one of the worst feelings ever. The paper which I’m referring to is a parking ticket/fine. It was outright depressing. And annoying. And angering. And made me want to cry.

Now, imagine those feelings at the end of a particularly long and tiring day, which involved blood tests, delayed doctor’s appointments, scans, stale lunch and a badly made coffee. I cried a little on the inside. And then, like any rational person upon receiving a parking ticket, I went through the five stages of grief. Denial – ‘No, this couldn’t be happening to us, we paid for a ticket!’, Anger – ‘Screw London! Don’t these heartless people know I have cancer?!’ (Not for the first time, I was using my illness to try and get out of a sticky situation), Bargaining – ‘I’m sure if we phone them up, they’ll understand!’, Depression – ‘Why oh why God is this happening to me, what did I ever do wrong?’ and Acceptance – ‘Screw London! And screw UCLH! And screw this darn parking ticket!!’ (Okay, maybe I was still a little angry...?)

So my nurse suggested I should get a Disabled Badge. For those of you who are unaware of what that is, it’s a card which gives you certain perks when driving or parking in certain areas. Of course, you have to be considered ‘disabled’ to actually own one, and although the thought made me uncomfortable, the rational part of me understood that I should apply for one (a little background information – the main tumour, which is bigger than the size of a tennis ball, is located in my left pelvis which means I cannot walk long distances without hurting).

And so I am now the proud owner of a Disabled Badge. I may not consider myself disabled, but my nurses and doctors sure do. No one would think so, looking at me, and I hide it well, but much like the dosette box, the card is something I grudgingly have to accept as part of my life now. And when I’m in a particularly bad mood, I abuse the card and scandalously defraud the government as payback for the ticket I was given. That always cheers me up.

Lessons of the day:

- Crying upon receiving a parking ticket is perfectly acceptable. Don’t feel like you need to hold in your emotions at this terrible time.  

- Publically admitting your defraud the government may not be a good idea. Only time will tell.

- Google NCP car parks before leaving on a journey where you may be stuck with expensive car parking. They are a great alternative to the usually extortionate parking charges in and around London.