Post 215: A Letter That Suggests Honesty Soon
I’ve been frustrated lately — properly frustrated — and all it’s got me is closer to chasing my own tail like a confused dog. Running in circles, watched, fed, watered… but not allowed to see the bone. That’s exactly how it has felt.
But finally, the words I’ve been waiting for:
“We did not discuss prognosis today but can do so at our next appointment.”
That’s it. That’s all I’ve wanted — a straight answer about where I actually am on my pathway.
More on that later, but first: something else cheered me up today, besides my Darling’s smile.
Cutting my toenails — Really Mr U?
Not exactly a spa day, nor did I nip off to the Vietnamese nail salon in town.
Just me, the toe-pliers, and a few clips down to the quick — occasionally bloody, always undignified — purely so I can get my compression stockings on without pushing my big toes out the 20 deniers.
Pulling on stockings is now a habit, hobby even. Not one I expected, but then again nothing cancer or cardiovascular disease has thrown at me was ever on my hobby list. God knows what’s next.
Later, while my Darling and I were squeezed together like teenagers in the hospital bed at home in my recovery room, my phone rang. She nearly fell out of bed trying to give me space and she managed to turn the TV off in one graceful-but-chaotic movement.
It was the city hospital confirming my CT scan for tomorrow. Tomorrow!
Rib mapping. 1.5 hours.
All so they can line me up for a future radiotherapy zap.
They really do work at a different speed from the local hospital I’m constantly pushing.
Thank goodness — because I feel like things need a “hurry up” now.
That letter I mentioned earlier hints at the same thing: get me back in the treatment saddle, and soon.
My Darling — who hadn’t planned on getting up just yet — did exactly that, bless her. Mr U strikes again.
I had an ECG to get to after enjoying a whopping great home made brunch, and she had plans for a quiet day… until life, in the shape of Mr U intervened, as usual.
The GP surgery wasn’t too busy, but the self check-in system was its usual coin toss of “works or doesn’t”.
It tried my patience more than the drive-in did, but it was a matter of fact ECG and no great shakes to me. All good in the hood.
Tomorrow, before the long journey and the CT tattoo session, I’ll be back in the comfy counselling chair at the local Hospice. When I asked for help last week, I didn’t think I’d need it this much. Turns out I absolutely do. Amazing how much difference a week can make.
So going back to those few lines about my “current status” in the letter that reviews the last meeting we had, at last it’s basically says the scans are bad news — though nobody will say it plainly — and that quiet really gets to me. But, if I wanted it, a prognosis is officially on the agenda for 4th December, and that should help settle my head if I’m brave enough.
Then Friday brings the giant HT injection (that’ll keep me quiet for three months), then the cardiology phone call will hopefully answer a few questions about oedema and my heart, and then I have two visits with two great mates. One for a snack and a chat at lunchtime, and the other, for a load of nonsense in the evening.
I know I shouldn’t really drink beer — and I rarely get the chance — but I’ll make the most of that evening out, in a pub.
Good night.
PS.
The whole reason I want dearly to find out where I am sitting along the life line.
Is that it appeared to me during the last few months that the chemo I had did not suit me and my body and the 360 PSA (up 103) was the icing on the cake. Instantly I knew the long awaited break from treatment was going to be ditched.
So having it hinted at by the choice of two new treatments, now, without a little Christmas break, is confirmation in my book that things aren’t great.
I want to know how much I’ve lost in time — that’s all I want. How much time I’ve lost with my Darling.
KR
Mr U
