I haven't written on my blog for a long time, but now I think I will blog my cancer journey.  Cancer!  The dreaded word! The word which strikes terror in the hearts of men and women.

Having been diagnosed with Ovarian cancer sometime in the middle of last year, I had to make a decision as to whether I went onto Chemo therapy or not. At first, I decided that Chemo was not for me, and that I would quietly and in a dignified manner, go to my demise. One's mind is in quite a turmoil when one is confronted with something as ghastly as cancer, and so it wasn't very long before I reassessed my decision, and with fear and trembling, began the treatment at the end of September.  I thought that I was worth fighting for.

It always starts with a blood test to see how things are and whether Chemo can be administered or not, then one is given a pill for nausea and hitched up to a drip with a whole array of different sized pouches, seven in all, starting with something for nausea. The fifth pouch is the one with the chemo in it, and it takes three hours to drip itself into you. When it arrived, it looked like washing power.  It was all frothy and bubbly at the top.  From that day onward, I referred to this part of the treatment, much to the amusement of the sister in charge as "that washing power stuff."

One is obliged to sign a form which states all that will happen to you while you are on the chemo.  The list is endless. You can get this, and you will get that, and then at the end it says, and you could die.  Every eventuality is covered in that signed form.