Timmy and Me: Turns Out Chemo is Fucking Tedious

A real-time account of a very boring afternoon

It’s like the first day back at work after a long holiday. My last course of chemotherapy tablets and radiotherapy finished a month ago and today is my very first intravenous chemo treatment.

They weighed me as soon as I got here, which quickly extinguished my hope that the cancer diet had in any way counteracted my actual diet of pasties, sausage rolls, and whatever snacks we buy for the kids.

Then they took my blood pressure — surprisingly fine — and within a minute they had sat me in my chair on the ward and jabbed a needle into the back of my hand.

I told them I was left-handed so they should pump the chemo into my right hand. However, I have since realised that I actually hold my phone in my right hand which is making writing this a bit of a pain in the arse.

On either side of me are half a dozen identical chairs. A lot of very frail men and women with face masks pulled up the front of their bald heads. Walter White is nowhere to be seen. Not for the first time I feel something of a fraud. I’ve got cancer but it’s not proper cancer. I feel fine. I’ve been bald all my life, I’m not like the others.

Nurses are hurrying around doing I’m not sure what. I’ve got a big bag of tablets in front of me that represents most of my calorific intake for the next few months. One box of tablets to fix the cancer and 4 boxes of tablets to fix the side effects of the first box.

There’s a Union Jack hanging from a disposable glove dispenser about eight feet in front of me. I don’t know if the gloves are particularly patriotic or if this is just a very British chemotherapy ward battling the evil foreign cancer, like Suella Braverman wading through the surf at Dover with her mouth frothing, ready to pounce on the exposed jugular of a desperate asylum seeker.

I really wish they would put a radio on, this is boring as shite. Honestly, I would listen to anything. I don’t care what shit the charts are vomiting up nowadays, if the alternative is listening to my I.V. chugging along then they can put absolutely anything on.

The battery on my phone is getting drained fast and I’m doing the mental calculation to see if it will run out before the treatment ends. I’ve got 3 text conversations going as well as writing whatever this is. I really don’t want to have to put my phone down and just listen to the I.V.

And I really don’t want to have to talk to the other patients.

‘You OK?’

‘Not really. I’ve got cancer.’

‘Same.’

‘Good chat.’

Fucking hell this is tedious

I can’t believe I’ve got to do this 3 more times. Cancer is so fucking boring.

2 and a half hours I’m sat here. It had better be worth it. If I see my consultant in a couple of months and he says the chemo isn’t working I will put my head through a shut window. I have sat here far too long and shat myself far too many times for it to be for nothing.

They’ve told me I’ve got to wrap up warm when I leave the ward so I’m having my partner bring me an extra hoodie when she picks me up. Apparently, if the cold wind gets to me I can get a tingling in my hands and feet and my throat will feel like it’s closing up. It means I won’t be able to go to football this weekend, but it also means I’ve got an excuse to get tucked up in bed and let someone else do all the housework.

Swings and roundabouts.

The bag of chemo liquid is nearly empty now, it will soon be time to toddle off home. Timmy had better be shrinking or I’ll reach a hand in there and rip him out myself.

This could have been the start of a beautiful friendship, but he has definitely outstayed his welcome.

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