No, Churchill Hospital, please pay attention. This is your arse. This is your elbow. Do you think you can remember that for five minutes together?
What have they done this time, do I hear you ask? What they did this time was send me a pre-chemo consultant appointment for 2.50 pm next Tuesday (one of those appointment times that may as well be called 'or any time we can manage to fit you in'), when I have chemo booked for…
If I should die unexpectedly - which isn't entirely out of the question, which, I suppose, means it wouldn't really be unexpected, but wotthehell - then please do not judge me too harshly on the evidence of my underwear drawer. I do sometimes fold my pants neatly, but other times I just think "Why?" and "Wherefore?" and "Inasmuch as which?" and then it all goes to hell.
My wardrobe…
It's Monday, it's the 13th, the Olympics are over, and it's raining. Today never stood a chance, really.
Still, it might have been improved if the district nurse had managed to come and do my bloods and dressing change ("Which part of 'weekly' do you not understand?"). We managed to persuade them to come out just in time to get the blood samples up to the Churchill in time for chemo…
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…
The past week has somehow managed to be tedious beyond belief and also more-than-verging-on-the-shambolic, in more or less equal measures. I'm sure it ought not to be this difficult to arrange basic, routine medical maintenance; and I'm also certain it shouldn't be up to the patient to do so. However ...
Monday morning we were up bright and early, or at least early, in order to get to the Churchill for…
