The Day After Diagnosis – April 13

(aka “Steroids, Sleep Deprivation, and Swearing at the Universe”)

original post April 2022

“Fuck. Fuck. And more fuck.”

Nobody tells you what it's like to wake up the day after you’ve been told you have Cancer.

There’s a pause. A beat. A strange flicker of peace before your mind boots up and replays yesterday’s bombshell.

Whether it lasts three seconds or thirty, it’s real—and in that silence, there’s hope. Hope that maybe it was a dream. That maybe you misunderstood. That maybe—just maybe—it’s not happening.

Then comes the flood. The memory.The word: Cancer.

“Fuck, I’ve got Cancer.”

That sequence—calm, then collapse—became a pattern. I'd claw a few scraps of sleep together, only to wake with the crushing truth slamming back in. It wasn’t a nightmare. It was real. Loud. Stark. Brutal.

Some of these early memories are already hazy—so forgive the occasional fumble in the timeline. Call it chemo fog foreshadowing.

Steroid-Gate

(aka “I Lied in the Last Post”)

So... remember when I said the steroids were already kicking in? Yeah, nah. That was complete bollocks.

The truth: steroids (Prednisolone) were prescribed to start this morning, April 13. What I’d already been taking was Allopurinol (Allosig)—used to lower uric acid. Apparently, chemo can spike those levels, and mine were already a tad high.

And no, I didn’t even get Gout as a badge of honour.

In my circles, Gout is kind of a veteran’s flex—a high-flying red flag that says, “Maybe ease up on the oysters and Shiraz, mate.”But no symptoms for me. Just a lab result. No street cred. No limp. Just disappointment.

Down the Hatch

Script filled. First morning post-diagnosis. Four x 25mg Preds down the hatch, like I’m swallowing guilt. Greenwood said to take them first thing with food—otherwise, say goodbye to sleep.(Spoiler: sleep ghosted me anyway.)

Also in the cocktail? Sozol, to stop the steroids from turning my stomach lining into confetti. Sozol’s the real MVP in this mess.

Let’s tally it up:

• One drug to stop Gout (which I don’t have).

• One drug to prep me for chemo (which hasn’t started).

• One drug to protect me from the drug that’s prepping me for chemo.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

I Am Shit at Taking Pills

Tablets and I? Enemies.I gag. I dry retch. My throat goes full drama queen.

Then there’s the taste of Prednisolone.Bitter. Acrid. Like licking battery acid off a coin.Why can’t they coat this hellspawn in chocolate? Or arsenic? Something less horrific.

But the taste is just the warm-up.

Enter: The Jangles

These pills hit fast. Within an hour: sweaty, twitchy, wired.

I call it The Jangles—like a caffeine overdose, or that one regrettable night at a club you pretend didn’t happen.

Can’t sit still. Can’t think. Conversations are like trying to juggle fog.Then, after hours of buzzing like a faulty lightbulb: ravenous hunger.

I resisted—mostly. Been on one-meal-a-day for years. But the urge to eat everything in the fridge and the fridge itself? Intense.

Follow that up with:

Sleep? Not a bloody chance.

Midnight: out cold.2:00 am: wide awake.Next night: 1:30. Then 3:30. Rinse, repeat, despair.

Between five days pre-chemo and five days after, I reckon I got 30–40 hours of sleep, max. Sleep and I were on a break.

Trying to Work (Kinda)

Kept working. Sort of.Naps were required to avoid rage blackouts. I stayed upright, mostly.

Now look—I know I can be challenging to live with. But on roid rage? I was extra.

The worst part? Knowing you’re being a grumpy arsehole and not being able to stop it. That’s next-level frustration.

Kerry took the brunt. She kept me grounded—emotionally, logistically, pharmaceutically. I owe her. More than she knows.

The Morning Ritual

Each day started the same way:

“Oh yeah... I’ve got Cancer.”

Not a thought. A slap. A visceral reminder. Every morning for a week.Now? The slap has softened. But those first 7–10 days?Brutal.

Next Up: The Kids

It was time to think about what to tell Carter and Miles.

We didn’t have to. But I wanted to.