I don't know whether to laugh or cry

For new readers, many of us carers try to make light as best we can of our dreadful situations. The following post is written in that vein. Underneath the banter is very frightened wife trying to live with the knowledge that her husband is terminally ill. In the last episode, our gallant leading man (LM) was bravely fighting shingles, and a related eye problem. Now read on. The eye problem is abated, and the shingles have responded well to treatment. GP has assured him that any residual soreness will pass in a few weeks. LM decides he is fit enough for a weekend visit to the grandchildren. Leading lady (LL), mindful that the three month check up is looming, and as usual paranoid with worry at what they might be told, is glad to have something else to think about. So, on a sunny Friday morning they journey south, arriving in time to collect grandchildren from school. After a thoroughly enjoyable weekend, they return north to await the dreaded appointment. In her more rational moments, LL reflects that the amount of bad news she can expect is limited by the fact that no new scans have been done, and, following the pattern of previous checks, any prognosis will be limited to what can be heard by applying a stethoscope to G’s chest. The day dawns. LL wakes with familiar sick feeling in her stomach, and tries to keep busy until it is time to leave. LM always insists on arriving an hour before his appointment, so all too soon they are heading off to the hospital. Disaster. All car parks are full. LM joins the queue for spaces and grunts “I told you we needed to get here early”. LL grits her teeth and says sweetly, “just as well we are then”. Eventually they find a space, and check in at reception. There are numerous questions to answer, and the process takes longer than checking in at the average airport. The next obstacle is the clinic check in. LL wonders why they need to check in twice when all details are computerised. Could this be an NHS job creation scheme? They find seats and wait. And wait. And wait. Eventually a nurse bawls across the waiting area for LM to come and be weighed. He returns, and we wait some more. An hour after the appointed time, LM is called to the consulting area. The oncologist literally wrote him off when UK chemo finished, and passed him over to a respitory consultant. Today we are not granted an audience with the great one, but are ushered to the presence of his registrar. The poor man seems at a loss when he looks at LM. He has only read the diagnosis page of LM’s records, so is obviously stunned to see such a healthy specimen before. He asks how LM is feeling, and when his chemo finished. LM replies November last year. The registrar is perplexed, so LM patiently explains about his treatments in Germany. The light dawns. Registrar confirms LM is looking well, and suggests a follow up in three months. Then, LM asks if CT and MRI scans can be ordered so copies could be sent to Professor Vogel in Germany. Registrar has to consult the boss, who while perfectly pleasant has always been highly sceptical of the Prof’s methods. When pushed, the consultant agrees to a CT scan, the first for a year, but an MRI is a big no no. LL shows admirable restraint, and refrains from pointing out that surely, since the only last UK CT scan was none over a year ago, it might be time for another. The consultant declines to listen to Gary’s chest, saying that it would not tell him anything! Yes, you’ve guessed it, he looks well therefore, he must be well. Come back in another three months. So, now the star players wait for an appointment for a CT scan. The MRI will probably have to be done privately. The professor has asked to see scans in early April, Will the NHS deliver in time…….Wait for the next (thrilling) instalment.