I'm sure things aren't meant to be quite this hard. I had to call the out of hours doctor again last night - I was sick and fever-y, and had very bad tummy pains. This time, by way of variety, they sent us along to an out of hours clinic in Oxford, which was, I suppose, preferable to waiting in the house for someone to (possibly) turn up. Preferable for me, anyway; maybe less so for Judy, who doesn't like driving in Oxford, especially at 1.00 in the morning. Anyway, the doctor there wrote me out a prescription for some new stuff. Hurrah!
Today we went out to get it filled. It took nearly four hours, five different chemists, a call to the Sobell House Hospice helpline on a mobile fast running out of charge, and a consultation between pharmacist #5 and the out of hours clinic - which, of course, had a different doctor on duty by then - to get it done. Actually, it still isn't the exact prescription, the pharmacist got the doctors to agree to let him dispense something similar. God bless Woodstock Road chemists for services above and beyond, but is it any wonder I get stressed?
On Tuesday, when everyone gets back to work, I'm going to phone the Macmillan nurses and see whether we can get a check done to see if I need ascites drained again. I hope not, because it really hurts, but then again, so does pretty much everything. I also want to see if they'll consider giving me my first dose of chemo on the ward in case of side-effects. I was fine last time, but I was also a lot healthier last time. Well, no, that's not true, I had the chest problems then, but my stomach wasn't so bad. Anyway: chances are they'll say no, but it's worth a shot.
I wonder how many people just give up and die of cancer because they're tired of having to bloody well fight all the time?
