a visit, and the three of us were taken on a tour of the sixth floor — the oncology floor. This floor would be a second home for me and Mum for the next three years. I was glad it was colourful and bright.
Once we had returned to the third floor, Jayne, the nurse coordinator who had taken us on the tour, took me into a procedure room and gave me two chemotherapy ‘pushes’ into the drip in my hand. Basically, this involves a relatively small quantity of funny-coloured liquid in humungous syringes being pushed through the drip into my bloodstream. I didn’t have any complaints from the chemo; my only grumble was at the extremely cold temperature of the liquid when it first entered my bloodstream. What, they couldn’t have taken it out of the fridge and let it reach room temperature first? Inconsiderate, I say!
To give this day a melancholic ending, the doctors decided that I would need yet another blood transfusion. Could they not make up their minds or something? I felt sure that if they gave me any more blood it would start spilling out of my nose and ears! Thankfully, nothing gruesome came of this possible overload of blood cells. But they should be more careful — I’m quite sure it’s possible for something like that to happen!
* * *
Tuesday 25 August 2009
The next day was incredibly dull. Mum said I must have been going stir-crazy from spending so long in a confined space. This is probably true — I was very cranky. So cranky that I nearly cried a number of times throughout the day because I really, really wanted to go home. I was just a little homesick. Just a tiny bit. Mum and I sat around all day, waiting for the pharmacist to come and give me all the pills I would need for the next twenty-nine days or so. And, boy, were there a lot of them — so many that I was given a timetable listing each pill’s name, what it was for, when I needed to take it and whether it had to be taken with food. Can you say complicated?! After getting our instructions, it was finally time to make the two-hour trip home. I was so glad when we finally arrived at around 8.30pm. I could sleep in my own crappy double bed, rather than a crappy hospital bed. I could see our dogs, Jethro and Henry, and enjoy real food, not that suspicious-looking hospital stuff. I was in heaven. Home equals bliss.
* * *
Although Peta was in many respects the perfect child, she did cause us some serious concerns. She was admitted to the emergency department at Monash Medical Centre so many times she had her own admission card! Peta was a bit of a devil. She thought she could do exactly the same as her older sisters. On one occasion, I walked into the kitchen to find her wielding my sharpest knife, trying to quarter an orange. She was eighteen months old.
I took Peta with me wherever I went, including the girls’ school, where I volunteered. I had been making a patchwork quilt with Ellie’s class, which was on the top floor of Sacred Heart Primary School in Oakleigh. All of the kids at school loved having Peta there, and attentively made sure the door was closed and kept an eye on her. One day, I looked up to see that the door was open. I made straight for the door — no Peta. Something made me head for the stairs. I looked down, but saw nothing. I kept going. At the bottom of the stairs, right outside Naomi’s classroom, lay Peta, facedown on the stairs. She had fallen from a frightening height and dropped about twenty feet! I scooped her up in my arms; she was black around the eyes and not making a sound. The principal drove us to the Monash Medical Centre. Peta was very lucky — they say babies and drunks fall well, and it appeared she was only slightly concussed and had an enlarged spleen. Phew!
The biggest scare Peta gave us was as a two-year-old. It was school holidays, the day after Madeline’s birthday. Peta was playing with Mad in the bedroom next to where I was sewing. Things had been silent for about two minutes when I got up to investigate. Peta had climbed on top of a beanbag and prised open the cupboard that was built into the wall. She had scaled all of the narrow shelves to the very top and somehow managed to pop the blister packet of Phenergan tablets. I had no idea how many she had eaten. I threw her into the front seat of the family Kombi and poked her to make sure she didn’t fall asleep as I drove the ten minutes to hospital. Peta had her stomach pumped and a nasal gastric tube inserted with charcoal to absorb the toxins. Peta fought everybody — she fought so hard she burst the blood vessels in her face. She survived. She, and we, were so lucky. Peta had swallowed eighteen adult strength tablets. She returned home the next day as if nothing had happened, the little bugger.
* * *
A few days of freedom
Wednesday 26 August 2009
This day was to be a day of rest — only, without the rest, really, as my grandparents had decided to come over from Bairnsdale for a visit. These visits are an opportunity for Grandma to sit at our kitchen table, eating the baked goods she brought for us, and talk and talk and then talk some more. Seriously, does that woman ever stop talking? Meanwhile, Grandpa goes from reading the paper to sitting on our front porch smoking his pipe, then back inside to watch some dull daytime television with me.
It was while I was half falling asleep watching The Ellen DeGeneres Show that I got a blood nose. Mum pretty much instantly started to freak out, as only a mother can. ‘Are you alright?’ ‘Has it stopped yet?’ ‘Do you want some more tissues?’ ‘Here, have a box of tissues.’ She called the hospital repeatedly to ask what we should do. A bored nurse on the other end recommended various things to stop the bleeding, and said that if it didn’t stop we should come in to Melbourne. Grandma just sat there at the table and talked about the time she had haemorrhaged many, many years ago. The bleeding stopped about ten minutes later, which I was grateful for, as I was definitely not keen on going back to hospital so soon after finally being discharged.
* * *
Thursday 27 August 2009
After a lovely quiet night at home, I got up the next morning, preparing myself to go to school. I had no idea how the rest of the school year was going to work. Year eleven — not as important as year twelve, but it’s certainly up there! I was doing History 3 & 4 and Literature 3 & 4 as well as a few other standard year eleven subjects. I had no idea what was going to happen, no clue how many times I would be required to come to the hospital, or how the drugs would affect my body and my concentration. I just knew I had to do whatever I could to maintain as much normality as possible. ‘You can do this,’ I thought. ‘Can’t you?’ I had no idea whether I could or not; all I knew was that I had to try.
School that day was hard. I was smothered by hugs basically everywhere I went, and was so exhausted — both mentally and physically — that I couldn’t last the whole day. I decided it was time to go home at 2.15pm, which was good, as it gave me time to change and get ready for my doctor’s appointment with Larry later that afternoon. Larry is a lovely doctor, but whenever someone says something in our appointments, there is almost always a really long silence. I always want to laugh, but I manage to stop myself, somehow. I’m very proud of that skill, as it’s extremely difficult to master.
* * *
Friday 28 August 2009
On Friday it was time for our follow-up appointment. We were told it would be with John, but I think it was actually his day off, so Mum and I met with Dr Seong Lim Khaw for a brief check-up and discussion about the chemo I was to have that day. Apparently I would have two injections, one jab in each thigh. This was to be followed by a four-hour wait in day oncology. Oh, what a joy. At least I got to watch a few minutes of The Simpsons on the TV in the back procedure room while I was being stabbed by two nurses. I suppose there’s an upside to everything!
* * *
Peter continued to go away for work, as he had done for some years. The girls were used to this way of life and I held the fort. In June 2009, he revealed that he was not coming home. We were devastated
