Post 101: Computer say’s no – I nearly cried.
Why worry about a thing? ’Cause every little thing’s gonna be alright.
(Bob Marley’s message to ember when the sh1t hits the fan)
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I woke from a deep sleep to my watch shaking my arm, screaming at me to take the first of 24 tablets today. It’s 7:30 and—I feel great.
Yesterday’s third chemo session went as smooth as silk and, mentally, it marked a breakthrough: the halfway point in this cycle of treatment. I’m now closer to the end than the beginning—and that’s something to celebrate.
The only discomfort is a lingering ache up my left arm, likely from the infusion vein. Oddly, rubbing it (in that time-honoured, motherly way) flares the pain more. But if I leave it alone, it settles. Other than that—I feel good.
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Now, about last night’s blog debacle…
Someone accidentally posted on my thread, To Hop-on Hop-off… and, in a moment of questionable wisdom, I flagged it to the moderator.
This triggered a chain reaction that ended with the rogue post being successfully moved—great! Except… HORROR OF HORRORS! Along with it, all 99 of my blog posts vanished. Not to somewhere tidy like a bin or archive—oh no—they were banished into the great digital void. Gone.
Cue the panic. Emails and messages flew, and the ever-apologetic forum manager assured me the team was doing everything possible to understand how it happened and how to reverse it.
Meanwhile, my planned celebratory post for #100 sat in my notes, waiting, while behind the scenes they toiled away to recover what was lost.
I was devastated. A little tearful too—but that’s the hormones. Chemically castrated, I live somewhere between feeling like a man and a lab rat in a maze I’ll never escape. This treatment reshapes you in ways no one warns you about. I cry more. I empathise harder. It’s not a bad thing, just… not something I signed up for.
But yes—the blog I’d built as a mental health lifeline, gone. Or at least hidden. Fortunately, I had backups in my Notes app. All the posts—every one of them—still with me. So fear not: if I need to, I can dust them off and republish.
Because they were more than words. They were my truth, shared. And they’ll be back.
In time.
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I promised in the last post to mention the lovely lady in the next chair at the Cancer Day Unit. But it deserves more space and thought than I can give it today. Tomorrow, perhaps. It’s a promise worth keeping.
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Meanwhile, in the non-digital world of food, pills and telly (my entire life at the moment), things are going far better.
Still, I mourn what I lost most: not the words or the photos—but the comments. The kind, generous, supportive notes from you, dear readers. That’s the real heartbreak. Your replies meant the world to me. They buoyed me on hard days, they lifted me when I sagged.
So let me say this here: thank you. I remember your warmth, even if I can’t reread your words. You made this journey (ugh, that word again) lighter for me. Thank you from my heart.
(Enough. My screen’s gone blurry—I’ll dry my eyes.)
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“Pills, Mr U!” calls my Darling on the regular, doing the daily drug-check. Mr Vicious, meanwhile, is the only one who treats me exactly the same as before. He gives love on his terms, and expects it twice a day in his blue plastic bowl. Some things never change.
I’ve been tired lately, but that’s par for the course. The gabapentin’s doing a good job—relieving pain and softening bowel movements (yes, here we are again on the stool topic!). Growing up, bowel movements were invisible happenings—you went, you wiped, you moved on. Now, they’re a full chapter of my daily memoir.
Tooth brushing was another battleground. Forced dental hygiene after sweets that ultimately claimed most of my teeth. My bad. (I hate that phrase too. I really annoy myself sometimes. Such a hypocrite!)
But back to present-day me. My Darling and I were feeling bloated after a full day of nibbling and no walking. A storm was brewing over the Channel, and her barometric head felt the pressure drop.
“I need air. I’m going for a walk,” she said. “Are you coming?”
“Yes please,” I replied. “My waistline’s pleading for a constitutional.”
Off we went. I had the reins for a change, and my Darling, to be honest, struggled a bit. I felt great. For once, I got to be the strong one, encouraging her with kind words and the occasional rest.
I added a twist to the usual route—a newly listed bungalow up the village. House-hunting carrot firmly dangled, her pace picked up.
Electric gates glided open as we approached a cluster of modern homes surrounding a grand old Victorian mansion (now 24 flats). She bowled in confidently, nosey and excited, while I trailed behind, feeling mildly criminal. We snooped. We gawked. A dog barked. We left.
On the way home we played the Pros and Cons game. Her enthusiasm dipped with every step. The house was lovely, secure, and new—but quirky, expensive, and not quite us.
She was flagging by the time we reached the final incline, so I helped her the rest of the way. A three-mile walk! No wonder she was tired. But me? I felt fine. A quiet triumph, given how unsteady I was just weeks ago.
Moments like that—feeling like a normal person again—they mean everything.
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The Bus has vanished for now, but I’ll hop right back on when it reappears. 
I’m in great shape to face the rest of chemo, thanks to the boundless care of my Darling. 
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And to you, dear readers: I can’t see your comments anymore, but I remember them. I remember how they felt.
Thank you for making this little amateur blog feel like a shared space. If it’s helped you as much as it’s helped me, then I’ve done something right.
I’m doing well for now. I hope you are too.
