One thing nobody tells you when you get sick - or, at least, nobody told me - is that cancer smells. I mean literally in this case, although, obviously, figuratively too. It doesn't matter how often I bathe, I can't get the smell out of my skin. Judy says she doesn't notice, but I'm acutely aware of it.
This means that I have to do laundry more often - I may be living my life mainly in my nightie, but I do not have an inexhaustible supply of nightdresses and knickers - and also change the bedclothes more regularly. (Which reminds me - the missing pillow case I was wittering about on Warped the other day? It never did turn up, god knows where it's gone.) And all of that, of course, just makes me even more tired than I already was.
Which is still pretty damn tired, even though the lung's supposedly okay now. I'm still very short of breath, and frequently make what I am sure are highly attractive gasping noises.
My, what a delightful picture I am painting of myself. Throw in that I'm also now almost entirely bald and, gosh, you'd think some lucky fellow would just come along and snap me up, wouldn't you?
Anyway - all of this is to say that I am having a lot of trouble keeping up with the things I need to do, or want to do, or have invented to do to fill up the few hours of the day when I'm not sleeping. I've said before, I think - you will find that I repeat myself quite often. Could be old age, could be chemo brain, could be the baked beans - I can really only do one thing a day. Site-wise, that means I can either blog, or I can answer comments, or I can comment elsewhere. Maybe two of the three; not all of them. To which I say: meh. Also, predictably: poo.
(Predictive poo. Now, there's a thought.)
So, I haven't updated my blog in quite some time, which rather invalidates the whole purpose of having a cancer blog. Fortunately, however, this has been a quiet week: no hospital or GP appointments - why, I haven't even had to give a blood sample! - no crises, no dramas. Just me and Mr Crab, skipping along our merry way. Well, I say skipping. Trudging.
Stuff has happened, of course. Our friend Penny came for a short visit at the end of last week. It was lovely to see her, and I don't say that just because she arrived bearing four bars of choklit, a punnet of grapes, one mini rosebush, one mini orchid, and a lovely scarfy/shawly/blankie/wrappy thing that she had knitted with her own fair hands, well, and a pair of knitting needles. I am afraid that I spent a large part of her visit being sociable where values of 'sociable' = 'wrapped up in duvet on sofa asleep' but, luckily, Penny is capable of entertaining herself. There was Domino's pizza, which I managed to eat with no disastrous effect, a trip into Bicester so that I could look for head coverings in the various charity shops with which the place abounds, and then a further trip out to the garden centre, which did not so much involve gardens as Hobbycraft (to Judy and Penny, Hobbycraft is an Aladdin's Cave of wondrous treasures; to me it's "Eeeeew, what is all this tat?!") and Lakeland (which is an Aladdin's Cave of wondrous treasures that I cannot afford and, at present, have little use for).
We did our routine grocery shop in Buckingham this week, mostly for a change of scenery. I don't know what we bought, exactly, but it managed to come to over £90 - rather worrying, as it didn't even include cat food. Much more of that, and we'll be forced to resort to Lidl. I only ever set foot in a Lidl once, and it scared me, but ... needs must when poverty drives.
I said a while ago that I needed boots. I now have boots, courtesy of the Clarks outlet in Bicester Village. Of course, even buying boots can't be straightforward, not in my world. The ones I ended up getting (quite nice flat ankle boots with a solid sole and a buckle) (two of each, actually, one for each boot) were size 6, and a perfect fit - I take size 5, and every other size 5 I tried on fitted just fine - and they also had no price on, which meant we had to find the same boot in another size, one that did have a price tag, and take that up to the counter. I felt pretty stupid, queuing up with three boots in my hand. I have a lot of problems, true, but I am not Jake the Peg!
Side thought: what a lot of shitty songs I do know, to be sure.
Yesterday my brother came for his currently weekly visit, and this time he brought Michelle, my lovely sister in law, who is still recovering from breast reconstruction surgery. She still looks quite drawn and tired, and I hope the round trip from Bristol didn't take it out of her too much, but it was nice to see her. Also, she brought a bag of wigs with her, from her own baldie days, and we played with those for a bit. Verdict? Wigs are exactly as hot and scratchy and uncomfortable as I'd thought, and do, indeed, make me look like a bloke in drag. And I don't mean someone who's cross-dressing in any sort of serious way: I mean the local rugger scrum half at a tarts' and vicars' party. (Rugby players always come as tarts. I have long ceased to ask why.)
They brought cookies, too. I'm just saying. You know, it's no wonder I'm not losing any weight in spite of the chemo ...
The mail today brought confirmation from my hospital insurance company of my claim for my ten-day stay in the Churchill. They're paying out a lot more than I'd expected, but I suppose they know what they're doing. If they don't know what they're doing, let's hope they never notice.
So, what does the near future hold? Next week it'll be back to the medical routine: consultant on Monday - so we had better be sure to change the clocks this weekend, or we'll be there an hour early. (? Late? Brain the size of a planet, and yet I never can work that out in my head.) Pre-chemo blood samples at the GP on Thursday. And chemo on Saturday. Is everybody happy? Like buggery we are ...
I really do know all the crap songs. Why, god, why?
Before all that, we have an exciting Sunday lined up: we are going to Sunday lunch with a friend. A friend, mark you, who I know only through Facebook, but she breeds Maine Coons, and suggested that KITTENS would be an excellent form of cancer therapy. And, you know what? I bet she's right.
EEEEEEE KITTENS!!!!
PS: These are just kittens for looking at, not taking home - sorry! Our current lot would never accept a new kitten, or forgive us if we got one, we can't afford a fourth cat, and we definitely can't afford a pedigree!
