Saturday 29th November
Well, what an absolute rubbish night’s sleep, sitting in a chair beside my son. It was so noisy, people shouting, coughing and having xrays, meds and obs throughout the whole night. We didn’t sleep properly at all.
Our son had a second lot of paracetamol last night, and more dexamethasone first thing in the morning.
Breakfast arrives, but he’s sort of sleeping. Toast, jam and tea. Morning obs are done, but I’m not sure when the scans have been timetabled, or what happens next.
Just after eleven we accompany our son to the CT scan area. We wait outside until the procedure is complete.
An MRI scan is also carried out after lunch and our son seemingly takes everything in his stride. Maybe it’s better that he doesn’t understand the full implications of his situation.
The results are soon returned, and initial indications do show spread to the lungs as well as in his brain. Apparently this is the best kind of dreadfully bad news. It means the cancer is treatable with chemotherapy. It will be a long and bumpy slog, with stays in hospital, probably three to five days at a time.
The lead oncologist here who deals with testicular cancer is supposed to be amazing. This is a centre of excellence.
A melanoma oncologist, (whom I met last year), has just spent about half an hour talking about the scan results, and the plan of action. Our son will most probably stay in hospital until his first dose of chemotherapy on Tuesday or Wednesday.
He will lose his hair.
There could be at least six sets of chemotherapy infusions.
He understands quite a lot, but is absolutely devastated that we won’t be going to America for our Christmas holiday.
My sister, niece and mother visit this afternoon, and crowd around the bed in the same noisy Admissions Unit. We await a bed in the quieter oncology ward ~ it’s full at the moment.
The consultant oncologist also pops in and explains that chemotherapy will probably begin on Monday.
My husband has been here all day too, but will be going home soon. I’ll be staying again tonight. In the same hospital chair.
I have never felt so hopeless, and so desperately sad for our son.