Charlie

On Saturday, while I was unpacking the float and Sabina was merrily dancing around me, my husband came over with a little box.  Inside was a tiny baby mouse, still alive.  It's eyes were still closed and it had just enough hair to stop looking pink.  He'd found it in the old compost bin.  (As opposed to the "current" compost bin, which is where all our food scraps go.)

Sabina was fascinated.  I wondered whether the little fella could be hand fed.  So we went back to the house, got a pipette out and tried feeding him with cows milk.  Sure enough, the little fella was keen to drink, and while he probably bathed in most of it, I was pretty confident that he'd had a good drink.

Then we put him to bed in a box, with a hot water bottle.  He shivered for a couple of minutes, then settled down and went to sleep.  Sabina was ecstatic.

When Papa came in she ran over to him and said "Charlie has had a feed and now he's sleeping in his bed.  Do you want to see?"

Papa gazed at me with concern.  "You've named him?"

I gathered that the baby mouse was intended as an interesting farm exhibit, rather than a new pet.  Hmmm ...

As I had no idea how often and how much a little 5 day old mouse needs to be fed, I fed Charlie whenever I had some spare time.  But in the evening I warned Sabina "I am not getting up in the middle of the night to feed him.  He might not make it.  Ok?"  She nodded.  But Charlie made it.  He was a bit cold in the morning, but he made it.  And he had a good feed for breakfast.

For the next couple of blissful days we fed Charlie as often as we could, and he seemed to be thriving.  Sabina had a go at feeding him, and it was wonderful to see just how gentle, careful and patient she was with him.  We stroked him, and massaged him, just the way his mother would.  He grew stronger, and more vocal, and sometimes wriggled with great force in our palm.  He was happiest when held in a gently closed fist.  And he loved having his stomach massaged - he would lie still on his back, with his feet curled up.  Sometimes he had a mind of his own, and it was obvious that one day, Charlie was going to be fast.  Very fast.

We probably spent hours with Charlie.  But they were all blissful hours.  Hours that we looked forward to.  All other tasks got done in half the time, so that we'd have more time with Charlie.  Charlie became our family time, our time out, our escape from the real world.

Then it was time for me to go to work.  While I was very tempted to take Charlie with me into work, and I could even potentially justify that while feeding Charlie for the umpteenth time I was actually thinking up the latest and greatest architecture, it was going to break some serious security rules.  So, Charlie, together with Sabina (who happened to have the day off school), went to my Mum's.

Now my Mum has a huge affinity for all things living.  Everything thrives in her hands and under her care.  But somehow, Charlie didn't survive the day.  All I can say is that my Mum was more interested in the well being of her granddaughter than her granddaughter's baby mouse, and she didn't have enough energy for both.

The little guy got a proper burial in our backyard, and we decorated his resting place with petals.  This certainly gave Sabina a positive way to move forward, and soon she had wiped away the tears and was gratefully hugging her guinea pigs.  But I must admit, that the little guy has left a gaping hole in my day.  Lets just say that the massive enthusiasm to get up in the morning is gone.

I am grateful for the experience; Charlie will be missed.

Captain Hook

Recently we took a holiday at the sea side.  The weather was foul - it poured most of the time we were there, despite being the end of summer.  On one of those pouring days, we nevertheless went down to the beach to see if we could manage a swim.

There was only one other car in the car park, and while my husband and I were busy getting things out of the boot, the couple from the other car were, so it seems, doing likewise.

Slowly, I became aware of Sabina.  She was holding, no wait, more like gently gripping my elbow, while intensely eying off the other car.  There was this edgy feeling coming from my daughter that something wasn't quite right.  I glanced across at the other car.  Indeed, the man was missing half his right arm.  From the elbow to the wrist he had a nice enough looking prosthesis, which ended with ... a hook.

I pretended not to notice anything, and kept myself busy with grabbing towels, boogie boards and other what nots for the beach.  Sabina stepped in closer and closer, ever so gently molding into me, until there was barely enough room for our clothes.  When the man finally moved away, and went for a walk with his partner, Sabina dared to ask.

"Mama, was that ... was that ...", she stumbled.

"Who?  Captain Hook?", I said casually.

Here eyes widened with a stunned, fearful look as she nodded.

"Of course that was Captain Hook!" I responded boldly.

"But Mama, where is his ship?!", the little girl found her voice again.

"Well, no one, not even the pirates, can sail in foul whether like this.  So they've probably dropped anchor somewhere just out of sight, and the pirates have come ashore", I explained as though this was common knowledge.

"But Mama, why didn't he take me and hold me for ransom?", asked Sabina.

"Pirates aren't silly you know.  I was here, and Papa was here, and the life savers are here, and even the Police are here.  He can't exactly grab you and get away with it, can he?  You're very lucky, you know.  You're probably the only child that has seen Captain Hook and got away with it."

On and on it went.  For the next two days.  Captain Hook this and Captain Hook that.  We got a lot of mileage out of Captain Hook.  And I believe that Sabina, now back at school, is still getting plenty of mileage out of Captain Hook.

Run Guinea Pig! RUN!!!

My daughter received a DVD of "White Tuft, the little beaver" for Christmas.  The DVD is fantastic, filmed in the Canadian forest, with no visible human intervention whatsoever.  That's right, a real river, with real beavers, wolves, owls, lynxes, you name it.

Living in Australia, my daughter had never heard of beavers before.  So the start of the movie was littered with questions.  What are these animals?  What do they do?  Where do they live?  What do they eat?  And of course, what are they called again?

Then the part came in the movie, when White Tuft, the little beaver is being chased by wolves.  Earlier on, we were told that White Tuft's father was taken by wolves.  So the danger was obvious.

And, what are they called again?

At first Sabina tried to run off the couch in fear for the little beaver.  But, curiousity drew her back to the screen.  Yet, she couldn't watch the little fellow being followed by these wolves.  So in the end, she just screamed "Run guinea pig!  RUN!!!"

(Come to think of it, there are many similarities between the beaver and the guinea pig.)

Two arenas

My husband and I cannot agree on where the arena should go.  You see, our land is undulating.  Steep in some places.  And the main hub of activity, the house, the shed and the driveway is up on top of the ridge.

Initially we planned for the arena to go on top of the ridge too, next to the driveway.  Opposite the shed.

Then we lived at the farm for a while, and we realised that we live in a really windy place.  The wind really howls on top of the ridge.  In fact, just where the arena was supposed to go, there is a bit of a saddle, and the wind is just merciless through there.

On one cold, windy day I headed down into the amphetheatre paddock - so called because it has steep sides, that surround a flatish area at the bottom.  Up on the ridge it was winter.  Down in the amphetheatre it was summer - balmy warm with a mild breeze.

So it was decided, that maybe, the amphetheatre was a better place for the arena.  We had the area dug out and flattened.  Then it was left to rest and settle.  It cost us a small fortune.

 

Then, my daughter started riding, and I got thinking.  How could I possibly be riding down in the amphetheatre arena, while my daughter was fiddling with her ponies up near the shed?  Or, how could I possibly let her ride alone in the arena (down in the amphetheatre)?  Then of course, should I ever teach people at my place, how could I have them arrive, while I was teaching a lesson in the amphetheatre?  And even if I didn't teach anyone, but I had another child, how could I ever walk a pram and a horse down to the arena?

It became quite obvious to me that the arena needed to be on the ridge, next to the driveway, opposite the shed.  By this stage I had got over the wind.  It turned out that the "top" arena (as it started being called) was better for riding in the early mornings (as it got the sun earlier).

My husband, on the other hand, is still gazing at the small fortune we have spent on flattening the area in the amphetheatre, convinced that the "bottom" arena is the "right" spot.

So on the one hand, it appears that we cannot agree where to put the arena.  (Just like we cannot agree whether to cook with gas or electricity).  On the other hand, one could say that we have two arenas.  Unfenced and unfinished, but two arenas nevertheless.

Chipped tooth

I have chipped a tooth.  About a quarter of one of my molars has come off.  It's a big chunk.  As big as one of my daughter's milk teeth.

There is no doubt that chemo has been a major contributor to this occurrence.  I feel totally depressed.  Not "tears" kind of depressed.  Just depressed.  For a while I feel like I'm in a bubble, removed from the outside world.  The sounds have gone dull, and life is moving in slow motion.

I tell my daughter about the chipped tooth.  She looks in my mouth and exclaims "oh mama!"  I don't even have to point her to the tooth in question.  It's that big.

"Mama, do you have the chipped bit?", she asks.

"Yes."  I show her the chip, and she examines it with great interest and care.

"Well mama, you can put the chip next to your bed, and the tooth fairy will come and take it, and give you a dollar for it."

I give her a doubtful look.

"The dentist bill to get this fixed is going to be much more than a dollar", I whinge.

"Mama, but that's always a dollar more", says Sabina with enthusiasm.  "A dollar, is always a dollar."

Tooth fairy runs out of time

I went up to my daughter's bedroom to wake her up.  I opened the door, and slowly crept in.  The sight of the slightly bloody tissue made my stomach sink.  Oh no!  My daughter had obviously lost a tooth last night, after we had bid her goodnight.  And of course ... the tooth was still there, waiting for the tooth fairy that never came.  We (as parents) were about to be in big trouble.

I quickly averted my gaze, as my daughter stirred awake.  Immediately, she looked at her bedside table.  She saw the tooth still lying there.

"Mama!  Look!", she screamed with disappointment.

"Oh sweetness, what's that?  Did you lose a tooth last night?"

She nodded.

"Mama!  But the tooth fairy didn't come!  I stayed awake waiting for her to take the tooth, and she never came.  And then I got bored and fell asleep.  I really wanted to see the tooth fairy!  Oh mama!"

(Oh dear!)

"Well, you know, I'm thinking, maybe the tooth fairy ran out of time.  I suppose she's got a lot of teeth to pick up, and because you lost your tooth so late in the evening, she just couldn't fit you in any more.  I think you should leave the tooth just there, and maybe the tooth fairy will come tonight", I responded, hoping it will be good enough.

Part of me wanted to scream "there is no tooth fairy, get over it kid!  You're seven now.  Reality check!  Hello!"  But I just smiled, holding that thought to myself.

"Mama, I really wanted to see the tooth fairy", the little girl said sadly as she got out of bed and headed down for breakfast.

xxx

That night, after my daughter fell asleep, the tooth fairy picked up the tooth and left a dollar.  The little girl was all smiles again the next morning, still believing in the tooth fairy.

Still showering

I would just like post an update - I am still showering in the garden of the Gods.  Yep, come around at the right time, and you'll see me starkers under the outside shower.  (This almost happened to one workman!  He should be so lucky ...)

The thing is, I keep trying to find weather situations that will make me hate the outdoor shower for ever.  But I can't.  So far I have showered in rain, wind, cold weather and warm weather, and I've always walked away feeling fantastic, and loving the experience.  Which might just say something about how indulgent the simple shower really is.

I have actually found that showering on a warm, but windy, day to be the worst.  Cold and windy was fine.  But warm and windy ... I don't know.  Not my cup of tea I guess.

Famous Five

When I was young, about 10 or 11, I read the Famous Five series by Enid Blyton.  I loved it.  I loved the books so much, that I spent my own hard earned pocket money on the books.  Then I kept the books, hoping one day to read them to my children.  That time has arrived!

After reading two of the Harry Potter books to Sabina, I decided she was a bit too young to continue with the rest, and we needed to veer off at a tangent.  I reached for the first Famous Five book, and coaxed Sabina through the first chapter.  "Mama, it's boring!".

I must admit, after Harry Potter, the first chapter of the series left a lot to be desired.  In fact the first entire book was littered with the overuse of certain words, as well as some strange sentence grammar.  Not incorrect, per se.  We just don't seem to "talk" or write like that these days.

By the second chapter she was hooked.

We finished the first book, and there were squeals of delight when Sabina discovered that we also own the second book in the series.

By the end of the second book, she had managed to defiantly hide her cousin in a "secret passage" to stop her from going home.  She was hoping that the grandparents and other cousin would happily leave without the hidden girl, and they would be able to continue playing together.

New pergola

And ... did I say "pergola"? (see last entry)  Oh, my goodness, I have totally forgotten to write that we have finally torn down the old eye sore of a pergola,

and put up a new one.  Outdoor entertaining, here we come!

Garden tidy up

For 2 years I pretty much haven't touched the garden.  Before I found out I had cancer, a lot of things already weren't right, and I just didn't have the energy to jump in with the shearers and clippers.

Then last year I was all chemo.  Then this year has been all recovery from chemo.  And in the meantime we've had two bumper seasons of rain.  The garden grew, and grew and grew.

Today I finally decided to curb this growth.  To control it.  To bend it my way.  I jumped in among the shrubs with the shearers and went mad.  Wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow, full of clippings, departed the garden.

Finally, I straightened up and surveyed my work.  The wild jungle of shrubs now showed some semblance of order and manicure.  The pom pom trees were no longer submerged in shrubs.  There was a visible path between the bamboo shrubs and the ground covers.  The rock garden was no longer encroaching on the rose garden.

Neatness reigned again.  I put down my tools, took off my gloves, sat under the pergola, watched and appreciated.

The last treatment

Finally the day of the last treatment has arrived.  I rock up to Day Oncology armed with the usual survival kit - mobile phone and book.  In addition, I also carry a thank you card.  A thank you card for all the nurses and other staff who have looked after me, and treated me like royalty for over a year.  In a funny kind of way I know I will miss them.

The nurse asks her usual set of questions, then proceeds to find the vein.  I feel the little sting, and I know she's got it.  But then, she loses it.  Nope.  Second try.  All good this time.  Just a sufficient reminder why I don't want to come back.

Other than that, the treatment is as uneventful as ever.  Towards the end I get a funny feeling, as though my body has just had enough of the drug.  Before I know it, the drip has finished, and I'm checking out ... for good.  Yay!

I wish I could jump up, click my heels and depart in a whirlwind of celebration.  But I can't.  I feel tired and hungry.  I just want to go back to my mum's house, eat a nice lunch, and then flop into bed and fall asleep.

The celebrations will just have to wait till I have recovered from treatment.

In the meantime, I would just like to extend a huge thank you to my parents, my parents in-law, my husband, my daughter, and all my friends who have been extremely supportive, understanding, and helpful throughout this time.  You've all made the journey truly worthwhile.

The shower, the man on the moon, and me

As I have previously mentioned due to current bathroom rennovations, we are using a temporary outdoor shower.  The shower possesses a light, and tonight was my very first nighttime shower experience.

My expectations of this shower are now so high, that when I saw the slugs on the shower base I almost ran the other way.  Nothing a quick brush with a shoe can't fix.

So, I turned on the shower after all, and jumped under the hot water.  Remember?  The hotter the better.  Then I slowly looked around.

The garden of the Gods was consumed by darkness, and the shower light cast a strange, yellow glow.  The hot water, turned into steam, which rose mystically around me.  My gazed followed it up.  That's when I spotted the moon.  Half of it.  Pale.  Cold.  Gazing at me without a single blink.

I brought my gaze back down to earth, staring at the steam making strange shapes in the darkness.  It was a very peaceful, healing experience, full of meditation and contemplation.  Who knows, maybe a thousand creatures were watching me, but as far as I was concerned it was just the shower, the man on the moon, and me.

Go West ... ern

Our pony club declared that they were having a "Western Day".  The kids were going to experience everything Western - Western riding, videos of Western horses, etc.  Of course, we were encouraged to dress up too.

I have no idea what possessed me.  A Western shirt and a bandana would have done just fine.  But no.  For some reason, I, not my lovely daughter attending Pony Club, but I ... I got all carried away and decided that I had to make some chaps for Sabina.  Initially I had visions of brown leathery chaps, but imagination very quickly took me towards pink chaps with tassles.  (I LOVE tassles.)  For two days I was like a whirlwind possessed (or should that be tornado possessed?).

Two days - that's how long it took to buy the material (and tassles), surf the internet only to find that free patterns for chaps are hard to come by (but x-rated sites are not!  sheesh!), create a pattern out of paper ("Mama, I'm not going to wear those, they will rip"), cut the material (oh, do be careful, there's no going back), and then stitch it all together (they fit, yay!).

The final product was a hit, but it took me a week to recover from my whirlwind effort.

Showering in the garden of the Gods

This entry was supposed to read something like this:

"Husband has organised bathroom rennovations, which means that all showers in the house have been decomissioned. So he fixed a temporary shower outside. Then, as the weather got colder and wetter, he organised a business trip to Canberra, where he can sit in a hotel shower to his heart's content, leaving us to tremble in the elements."

That's how it was supposed to sound. However, before I had time to air my honest views, I have managed to shower under the above mentioned outdoor shower three times. Twice was enough to change my view forever.

You stand, at the back of the house, under the spray of hot water. Make it as hot as you like. The hotter the better. Right in front of you is the veggie garden, getting soaked in the grey water. At your eye level is the blooming rose garden - lucious green, with splashes of colour. Beyond the rose garden, there is more rich greenery. And if you're really lucky, the face of a cow or a horse peers at you across the fence.

The key is to make the shower as hot as you can possibly stand it, just towards the end. Get your body really, really hot. Then turn the water off. Your body is so hot, that even a light drizzle at 12 deg C feels pleasant, and you can afford to slowly amble towards your towel.

Some might call it "toughing it". I call it "showering in the garden of the Gods".

One more point. So far, I have only showered during the day. But, my husband has installed a light in the outdoor shower. (As you do.) I am yet to try the night time experience.

V/Line

A strange set of events led to me catching the train from Warragul back into town.

My husband dropped me off at the station in Warragul, which was crowded with school kids. They were obviously catching the country train on their way home from school.

The train was quite long, and so most of the carriages were close to empty. I settled into a couple of adjacent seats. But I could have quite easily occupied 8! The rowdy school kids must have gone another carriage, because it was quiet in ours.

The train hooted along, flashing past green paddocks with grazing fresians, and stopping at all the country stations along the way. As we got closer to the city, the paddocks became smaller, and the cows were replaced by horses, the barbed wire by post and rail. Part of me wondered why we couldn't have bought a nice horse property here, part of me knew. The state forest.

When we joined with the suburban train track, the train really started zooming along. I sat in my seat, reading my (Harry Potter) book, glancing out the window occasionally. Just in time to spot the down boom gates, and long queues of cars waiting for my royal carriage to pass. The train driver hooted the horn regularly just to let everyone know, that this train was coming through.

I found my journey "rejuvenating".

I disembarked at a suburban station, and caught the bus home. The bus trip was not "rejuvenating" per se ... "entertaining" is probably more appropriate. There was some lout at the back giving non-stop commentary ... on everything. Everything that caught his attention, be it the ad for zero coke, or the driver that didn't give way, or the sign on the local primary school. And of course, as we drove via the University he got stuck into the uni students as well. But with good humour, and he knew when to stop.

It wasn't a short trip, but I arrived home extremely refreshed, and with a smile on my face. Now to the best part. How much did I pay for all this pleasure?

$3.80.

Harry Potter and the Family Wizards

My reading of the Harry Potter books to my daughter, has not only started a trend. It has started a cult-like following. It all started when my daughter arrived at the table one lunchtime and announced "Mama, I hope I will be in Griffindor".

We are not ones to gape for long, and I replied "I'm sure you will be. After all, I was in Griffindor".

Sabina took my response in her stride, as though it was obvious that I had gone to wizarding school, and turned to Papa.

"Papa, what house where you in, when you went to Hogwarts?"

"Ravenclaw", replied Papa.

Jokes aside though, when you start digging deeper, how do you explain the picture of my mum with a black cat sitting on her shoulder? And why do we have wizard's robes and hats hanging in the upstairs bedroom?

It also doesn't help that we have a guinea pig named Ginny, and a horse name Lilly.

Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

So, I have successfully read "Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone" to Sabina. But, where did I get the book from? Well, I borrowed it from a trusted friend. Of course, she happened to have the whole set of books in a box, so she lent me the entire box.

Having enjoyed the first book, I quickly moved onto the second book. I ... moved onto the second book - not the entire family. I didn't want to start a trend, so I read the second book in secret. But, of course, inadvertently, at some point, I left it visible. Well, eyes started sparking, and mouths started watering, when the remainder of the family saw the second book lying around, my bookmark clearly somewhat through the book.

One pleading look from Sabina, and I was roped into reading the second book out aloud. We've had an absolutely brilliant time reading the second book as a family. There has been much discussion about every chapter, what happened yesterday, what clues have Harry, Ron and Hermione missed. We also have a good laugh at George and Fred's antics. (Sabina runs down the corridor screaming "Watch out! Heir of Slytherin coming through".)

My favourite moment was when Sabina actually worked out some of the clues, before they were given away in the story.

So ... it appears ... that I have started a trend after all.

Home stretch

It's another treatment day today.

I waltz into my doctor's office thinking that I have three more treatments to go after today. But not so. It turns out that, after today, I only have a mere two treatments left.

I am on the home stretch. In fact a lot further down the home stretch than I thought.

If I was waltzing going into my doctor's office, then I must have been doing a polka on my way out.

Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone

An innocent post on my own blog about Harry Potter has led to a series of chain events, which have culminated in me reading the book to my 6 year old daughter. While reading the book, I especially focussed on the quality of reading, rather than getting through an entire chapter in one sitting. Having watched the movies, I imitated the voices of all the various characters - getting pretty close with most of them, except for Hagrid.

Sabina loved the book from the first sentence. She was totally mesmerised by the story, and plagued me to read not just in the evening, but during our afternoon siesta as well! Towards the end of the book, when Harry, Ron and Hermoine go down the trapdoor guarded by the three headed dog, Sabina was on the edge of the bed, screaming at me "No mama! They can't go down there!", and "Oh mama, what are they doing?", and "No stop! Don't go down there! Oh mama." I could hardly get a word in edgewise.

I would also like to note, that my husband was an avid listener as well. Whenever he missed an official reading session, he would catchup in his own time. (An unusual activity for him, as he is mainly an avid map-reader.)

We all thoroughly enjoyed the book, and found it a fantastic family activity.

Roast Chicken

"Remember Aussie Sundays, when the chook was worth the wait ..."

Yes, that's right, I've taken to roasting chicken. It's become our regular Saturday night dinner. Why is it that when you cook the different bits of chook separately they come out average? But when you roast the whole bird it comes out juicy, tasty and with crispy skin? Finger licking delicious! We fight over every bit - the wings, the drumsticks, the thighs, the breasts and the wishing bone.

It's also a fantastic family meal, as we argue over the different bits, and trade with crispy skin. The interaction is fantastic, and the kids just put it away.

I pulled a very simple recipe off the internet one day. It goes something like this.

Ingredients
1 chook
1 lemon
salt
oil

Method

1. Preheat oven to 250 deg C.
2. Wash chicken and pat dry with a paper towel.
3. Cut lemon in half, and squeeze some of the juice over the chicken, and some inside the chicken.
4. Sprinkle salt inside the chicken.
5. Put the lemon back together again, and stuff the chicken with the lemon. Tie the legs to hold lemon in place.
6. Sprinkle salt on the chicken.
7. Pour oil on chicken.
8. Rub salt and oil into the chicken.
9. Place chicken in deep, ovenproof dish, uncovered. Chest up. Use bottom shelf in oven.
10. Roast at 250 deg C for 30 minutes.
11. Reduce oven to 180 deg C and roast (uncovered). Roasting time depends on weight of chicken - allow 1 hour of total roasting time for each 1kg of chicken. So if your chicken weighs 1.5kg then you would roast 30 minutes on 250 deg C, and then a further 1 hour on 180 deg C, for a total roasting time of 1.5 hours.

Timing
The best part about roasting chicken is the timing. Here is how it works.

• Sabina and I go for a horse ride, and return tired.
• I leave the little girl with the ponies (she is now old enough for this) and I rush back to the house, preheat the oven, get the chook sorted, and put it in the oven.
• I then rush back to Sabina, crackers and dip in hand.
• Sabina snacks while I unsaddle the ponies.
• I zip back, turn down the oven.
• Then, together, we put the ponies away.
• Then we head back to the house.  I now have one happy child, who has now regained enough energy to play, or help set the table, while I get some veggies ready.

Caveats
Almost forgot. And then we got the electricity bill.

Irritable

Chemo affects your brain function. You experience different problems such as forgetfulness, mind dullness/fogginess, and so on. One of my biggest "brain" issues is irritability.

When I was in the middle of chemo, I was very very irritable for at least two days. I used to bark commands left, right and centre. People around me, usually my closest family, thought their head was about to be bitten off all of a sudden. The irritability came and went, but it was worst just before mealtimes. (No surprises there - mealtimes delivered much needed nutrients. The irritability is just a sign that the brain is low on something).

Now, months after chemo, I still get bouts of irritability. They come at me out of nowhere, make me feel like a very irritated sabre toothed tiger, and I never really know how long they will last. 5 minutes? Half an hour? An hour?

It's really very hard to describe just how irritable I feel, but it's nothing like I've ever felt before I had chemo. Normally when you feel irritated, you feel irritated by something - and if you can remove the source then your irritability goes away. Sometimes you cannot remove the source, but you can remove yourself from the situation. Once again, problem solved.

My chemo irritability is nothing like that. It's not caused by anything. There is no reason for it. I can be in the most peaceful setting, and all of a sudden I just feel very ... very ... very irritated.

At times like these, I usually try and sit in a nice quiet spot, and just think to myself that it's not going to last forever. Sometimes, I have a snack too. But most of the time I feel too irritated to be able to organise a snack. I feel too irritated to be able to ask someone for a snack.