I suppose it’s obvious that while I continue to take osimertinib, the failing drug, my pain levels will increase. I’m used to the ongoing niggles the illness shares with me. Occasional pain radiating from where I assume tumours sit. A bit of referred sciatic pain in my right leg. And I’ve experience much worse pain in the months that preceded diagnosis as the disease rampaged unchecked through my body.
The final night of an Anglesey week that had me feeling as loved up as is humanly possible ended with a significant uptick in pain. A small area of my pelvis started hurting like hell. Tramadols, naproxen and paracetamol flew down my body to attack it. But by morning I awoke with the feeling that a horse had kicked me very, very hard.
Watching Oldham, lose again, didn’t help with that feeling despite being joined by an old mate John who’d popped over from Melbourne to catch the match. We had arranged to meet up in Adelaide for the Ashes but this illness caused me to cancel.
Last night the horse kick pain hit again. Cancer pain loves the night and I’m now well and truly tramadolled up again to help manage the situation.
The problem with tramadol is that it can space me out a little bit. But it’s milder than the morphine tablets I have and, for now, I rarely need them during the day. So they can numb the pain. Assist sleep. And allow me to enjoy the daytime better.
I need to be on good form today. I’m being introduced to Rachel’s eldest son. She’s returning the compliment of last week’s birthday bash where I introduced my lovely range of natural and inherited offspring to her. There’s a little trepidation that goes with meeting the kids it seems. A reminder of meeting my step children a quarter of a century ago.