Actually, it's the other way round: they are going to give me some. But I anticipate myself ...
When last seen, we (that's me, as usual) were in a miserable, grumpy sort of mood. There had, in fact, been actual tears - not many, but a few - and this is rare, because we may be a bit daft but we are not, in general, a big wuss. With a view to posterity (hi, posterity!), perhaps I should note: the week directly following chemo does seem to be a bit rotten, incorporating any combination of mopiness, twinges, fizzy fingers, trashcan mouth - other than language-wise, which is SOP and about which nothing can be done - and other things which, with apologies to posterity, I have now forgotten as they were all of a week ago. Oh, yes, chemobrain, but that too is SOP these days and I've stopped worrying about it. After all, how many people would be bothered if they couldn't remember Clement Attlee's name? That's what I thought. Mrs Attlee, perhaps, and exactly nobody else, and I imagine Mrs Attlee is probably dead by this time.
So! We are altogether less mopy now, and so I should jolly well think, given that almost every single person I know, with the notable exception of anyone from my present workplace*, has now been by the house and brought me something, some of them several times. Most of the things they have brought have been cakes, cookies, pie, and other items of that ilk, which may account for the fact that, while other cancer patients fade away to a big-eyed, frail shadow of themselves - like those bloody awful tramp-child artwork posters you used to get in the 70s, because nothing is more romantic than an underage street person - I retain the general outline of a prize-winning pumpkin. With, unfortunately, IQ to match. (Note: this does not mean that cookies, etc, are by any means unwelcome, far from it.) Lynn gets a special mention for coming for several days - several days during the course of which she barely saw me at all, because I couldn't get out of bed for most of them - and for repainting the downstairs loo (Judy dropped the mirror when she was putting it back, and broke it. Hah. Seven years' bad luck? BRING IT THE FUCK ON!) (the new mirror is fish-shaped, to go with the somewhat piscine theme of the downstairs loo ... hey, I just thought, I could change its name from the current, rather boring 'the Blue Boudoir' to 'the Piscine Chapel', though it still has nothing on the Comedy Bathroom upstairs. Anyway, it was a very cheap mirror and had a bit of a scratch on it, so Judy's stuck a dolphin sticker over the scratch. You know, as you do.) Tina gets a special mention, too, for bringing me a stick. It would've been an orchid, but the flowers fell off. It made me laugh, anyway, hence the 'special'. Father Christmas, in the far more attractive shape of my lovely sister-in-law Michelle, sent me a silver Troll bracelet, so now I have the excitement of looking for beads I can afford. And then there were the lemon cupcakes which Judy sekritly conspired with someone at Fat Club (I know, the irony of it all) to bake ...
I did manage to muster up the energy to bitch about idiotic Facebook memes, especially cancer-consciousness-raising ones that do nothing of the kind, and also about the general butt-ugliness of cancer hats. By pure serendipity, I managed to sort the second problem (nothing will ever sort Facebook idiocy, and you will break your heart trying) - I found an Irish site, BlueRoseWaterford.com, which makes exactly the hats I had been looking for. This has been a public service announcement, and you are most welcome.
In real, ie cancer terms, last week was very quiet, all I had to do was go and get pre-clinic bloods taken. This week ... this week should've been quiet too, but it looks as if it might get interesting. Clinic was this morning; the Churchill was on its usual super-efficient form, with an hour's wait, but it's getting so we expect that and think ourselves lucky if we're seen the same day. It did seem a little alarming that almost nobody was getting called in, and more worrying yet that the few people called in by the senior consultant never seemed to come out again - we thought perhaps he was harvesting their organs - but we did get seen eventually, and by Dr Nicum herself, no less. Dr Nicum has her name on the hospital writing paper, so clearly we are impressed. We ran through the standard 'how I felt after chemo' routine (see above), she scribbled things down, looked at her notes, and then said "How would you feel about a blood transfusion?"
Puzzled, is actually the answer, since she asked it kind of out of the blue and it took me a moment to realise she was suggesting I should have one, but it may be a good idea given that my red cell count is quite low, at least according to the chemo nurse. It might help with the tiredness. It might even help with the breathing problem, which would be nice - for Judy as much as for me, she must be awfully tired of the gasping noises I make from time to time. For that matter, it'd be nice to be able to walk to the corner shop without having to stop a good half-dozen times both there and back. It's a five-minute walk, this is silly!
So, first, and with no apparent sense of irony, they took yet another blood sample, or at least they did once the phlebotomist came back from lunch (more waiting. Yes). And now, once again, we are waiting, this time to find out when they'll call us in.
That is, I am, and that's where things get complicated: Judy's just gone up to London for a conference and will be away overnight, and she'll also be away on Thursday. I probably could get to the hospital by bus if I had to; back again, too, although I suspect that would be far less amusing. But getting a lift there and back would be favourite, even though it would mean poor Judy being stuck in the Churchill for yet another six-hour stretch. Chemo #4 is next Monday (stand by for mopiness, everyone!), so, really, if they could schedule me for this Wednesday or Friday, that would be ideal. But I don't think they do it as an on-demand service.
And no, they can't do it at the same time as chemo - one drip in each arm. We asked.
Big news of the day is that now I have to stay alive until June: Bruce Springsteen is touring on the back of a new album! I'm not thrilled that it's Hard Rock Calling again, but I can't really gripe lest someone ask if my diamond shoes are too tight.
They are, in fact, but I suppose that's the least of my problems.
* Rebecca and Christina, I don't mean you, you're ex-YBP and, as such, A Breed Apart.
