We saw the consultant (or a consultant, at least, I don't think I'd ever seen her before) today. Eventually. There was an hour's wait first. Of course there was.
Was it worth the wait? Well, she told me that last week's CT scan showed no improvement in the abdominal growths and, in fact, it showed up a new one (or an established one that'd grown; Judy and I heard different things) on the pelvis, from which I think we can take it that the current course of chemo isn't working. I'm going to have another three-week course of one dose of poxytaxel per week, starting today, and then I presume they'll try something else. At least, I hope they will. There isn't really a lot of point, but I suppose they have to at least look as if they're trying.
The consultant also wanted me to have a blood transfusion; that's scheduled for tomorrow. I also have to have yet another ascitic drain, which should be in the next couple of weeks, assuming the Churchill doesn't fk it up. About as welcome as a cup of cold sick, that one, it is hurty hurty HURTY, but it has to be done before I go POP and die fast and messily instead of slowly and drearily.
So no. Not really worth the wait at all. Next time I am going to demand to see the alternate universe consultant, the one who sings her diagnoses in Disney songs ("The pharmaceutical industry thanks her/Its profit margins depend on cancer") and scatters pixie dust far and wide.
That will be far more satisfactory.
