Post 102: Desktop with a Service Bill on the Side.
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When a female lead in a K-drama (Korean drama) is forced to take action in IT (Information Technology), she pulls her hair back into a ponytail, plants herself sternly at her desk, and glares at the screen—then her mind and fingers become a blur of industry for as long as it takes.
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That was me today—minus the ponytail, of course! (Too late for that.)
The steadfast and ever-helpful Macmillan IT team had made many kind suggestions to me through a string of supportive emails regarding my Hop-on Hop-off blog, for which I’m very grateful. While reinstating the 99 lost posts was possible, the irreplaceable reactions and reply comments couldn’t —the kind words that have helped me through darker days—never be recovered.
Some of those comments brought me to tears with their kindness, comfort, and heartfelt resonance. Though they’re gone from the screen, I remember how they made me feel, and I carry those feelings with me. Thanks to those who took the time to comment, I feel less alone and more proud—like there’s a warm hand on my shoulder through the ether. Those feelings are not lost. They’ve become a part of me.
So, I got myself a foolscap pad and, in descending order from 99 to 1, wrote down each post number and its date of insertion. Sounds easy but my OCD takes over in times like these and messes with me head. But with the help of a few brilliant screenshots from Matthew (from the Macmillan IT team), I metaphorically tied my hair back and got cracking. Just me, a pint glass of water, and a keyboard—while outside, an amber warning 
️ for rain and thunderstorms rumbled overhead. A good day to be indoors—unless you’re a duck.
Soon, I was in top gear, my fingers flying across the keys like a nine-to-five professional. (The image of Dolly Parton springs to mind for some reason…)
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Leaving that clicking and clacking in the background for a minute..,
As promised, I want to recount the overheard conversation from last week’s chemo infusion day—a brief moment that took hold of me entirely.
Now please don’t think I was being rude or nosy. I didn’t want to hear it—but I did, and I couldn’t ignore it. It stayed with me.
The blue privacy screens had been gently pulled around the bed and chair beside me for a quiet, one-to-one chat—a common occurrence in the unit. Of course, these screens provide only visual restraint, not soundproofing.
I was absorbed in my sudoku, soothed by the cool air drifting through the open window beside me and My Darling at my side.
A gentle, caring voice that began to speak drew my attention. I quickly realised this was a specialist cancer-care nurse speaking to the woman beside me—this was a delicate conversation. The lady’s treatment had been delayed due to her blood results. I’ve been there myself. Just one of those things.
Her husband had not come with her, he was on his way but on arrival wouldn’t be allowed to sit beside her while the waiting for decisions was made about an emergency magnesium infusion—perhaps that was due to his own health issues. The nurse was navigating the conversation with compassion and professionalism, but the questions were deeply personal.
“Have you really talked to your husband about your prognosis?”
“Can I help in any way—perhaps counselling or other support for you?”
The woman’s replies were stoic, and always circled back to care for her husband rather than herself. My heart broke as I sat there, silent and still. I wanted to hold her hand. To be with her.
She eventually agreed, gently, to counselling—but it could only really happen while her husband was out on his usual Friday shop. Saying that a he wasn’t sure if he would want to stay home and miss that trip to stay with her, and if so, she wouldn’t be able to have the one-to-one she dearly needed.
I gasped quietly. My eyes filled as the nurse mentioned that her prognosis of “Months could mean one, or ten—we just don’t know”, “I knew a doctor once who said to me he would never want a crystal ball—it would make his job dreadfully harder.”
There was so much love and protectiveness in the lady’s responses. Her calmness, her need to protect him, even in this moment, was beyond words. She was strong. Selfless. Quietly, heartbreakingly brave.
Through blurry eyes, I imagined a great elephant in the corner of the room, quietly waiting outside of those blue curtains, hoping someone would acknowledge him.
I reflected on the conversations My Darling and I have had about end-of-life matters. Thankfully, my prognosis is in years, not months. But still, the encounter left its mark. I resolved to talk more openly, more often, about these things—with honesty and love.
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Back at the desktop, hours had passed. My lovely Darling served up lunch—my favourite coronation chickpea sandwich. Small and perfect. My appetite has been up and down lately, so “little and often” is the current motto.
After the refreshment I went back to the coalface, the usual frustrations resumed. Every 5–10 posts, the Macmillan forum would flag my content as “under review.” Each time, I emailed Matthew, and each time he responded with a can-do attitude and fixed it. Without his help, this would’ve taken days.
While he worked on his end, I turned my attention to the chaos behind me—the clutter of bills and paperwork. A sticky-note pad in hand, I jotted down the cost of water, power, and the dreaded council tax over the last year. With moving house on the horizon and the reality of what My Darling may face financially after I’m gone, it felt like time well spent. A three-in-one task: estate agent details, financial planning, and distraction from tech troubles.
By 6 p.m., it was done. Just in time for dinner.
“Five minutes!” my Darling called from downstairs. “You’ve got to eat—and eat it before it gets cold!”
I was in a great mood, proud of having uploaded all 99 posts again—though slightly behind on my pill routine due to the industrial distractions (oops). Over dinner, I explained everything to my Darling, including the help I’d received from Matthew. Sure, the comments were gone, but maybe that’ll leave some pixels for the next confused and worried traveller. Bonus.
Then I handed her the sticky note.
She read the annual energy cost aloud: £64. “A year?”
Because of the 4kW solar panel system we had installed ten years ago, our net utility cost after feed-in credits was astonishingly low.
I beamed. “Can you believe that?”
But her reply?
“So we’re staying here then? Why move?”
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Today was a very successful day that’s helped me move on in many ways.
The steroids have left me with a rosy clown-face, but with just one more day of them to go, Mr U will be back to “normal” soon.
Tomorrow is a new day—and it’s mine to enjoy.
Well, not entirely mine. Mr Vicious and My Darling are here too.
I feel a walk is in order.
To chat. To hold hands.
To just be.
