Post 26: Catzilla
Vital statistics:
Temp: 36.0 
BP: 127/80/55
Mood: Calm and reflective
Anything else? Stroopwafels?
I’m enjoying the second day of administrative freedom from my medical upheavals.
But when I skim the forums, I feel a quiet rumbling deep in my belly.
So many people are wondering and worrying about when the facts will finally emerge from the experts—it’s natural, but it drives us mad. I’m there too.
I’m glad my fellow travellers take the time to voice their anxieties about “the wait.”
I respond with a virtual hug, hoping it makes them feel heard.
It doesn’t change anything—except perhaps their morale. But that’s something.
The forum volunteers—those who spend most of their days answering, consoling, and above all, giving great advice—leave me in awe.
Whenever I’ve asked for help, I’ve quickly had responses from fellow travellers, and I’m always reminded I’m not alone.
No matter how many cancer patients there are with issues like mine, I so easily forget that I’m not the only one affected.
I guess my selfish genes are just as mutated as my BRCA and CHEK genes.
Waiting for appointments or test results is the worst part.
Counting the days while your mind runs in overdrive—waiting, wondering, circling the same questions and getting even worse answers from your own brain…
Why is that poxy trait passed down through generations?
It’s not fair.
And of course, when the results do come, you’re released from one worry—only to receive another: the next step in the journey.
That’s where I am now.
I’m in a calm between two worries.
But here’s the thing: we never truly have calm.
Not real calm.
But it feels like calm if we fill-up on positivity.
The people around us dedicate a part of their lives to keeping us motivated, hopeful, and dreaming of better days.
They’re suffering too.
Today is a “first better day,” I tell myself, as I realise things could be so much worse.
Last week, when I was hospitalised for two nights—sheltered behind those blue curtains—I realised that even though I was in a bit of a fix, the other four beds in “A Bay” were worse off than me.
It didn’t stop me worrying about myself, but it gave me perspective.
It’s not all about me.
I thought to myself…
I’ve got to adjust how I see myself: I’m in the right place, and I’m likely to recover quickly and go home—so let’s do just that.
Still, I’ll always be the worrier I’ve always been, especially when I’m in the shoes of those fellow forum-ites.
So next time I read about someone waiting, someone anxious, I’ll remember to give them a hug.
Everyone needs a hug now and then. At the very least I can do that.
———
Yesterday, our youngest came by with his fiancée to check in on us—and they brought a treat: a marmalade cake.
It was lovely.
I’m like Paddington when it comes to that Seville orange spread—the more bitter, the better.
Strangely, I’d never had a marmalade cake before, but now I might have to make it a weekly treat, if I can find out where it came from.
The excitement (of that cake) was doubled because, during the year while on olaparib pills, I wasn’t allowed to eat oranges at all.
I’ve missed my favourite spread so much that, since stopping those pills, I’ve been overindulging.
At last—marmalade on toast is back on the menu!
———
While I’m still forbidden from doing anything strenuous—you’ll know from my frequent mentions of the stair-chair—I asked our youngest to fetch the cat carrier from the garage attic.
Because… Mr Vicious has a vet appointment.
If I tell you there’s a good reason for his name, you’ll understand why I need to take serious precautions on Tuesday’s visit.
Because six months ago, it was carnage.
My Darling rarely picks Mr V up, so the job of handling and transporting him falls to me.
In the dreaded veterinary observation room last time, My Darling looked on while I held the sharp end of our cat and the vet poked at his flanks.
All was going well—until the new vet did the one thing we told her not to do:
“Whatever you do, don’t touch the crook in the end of his stumpy tail—he really doesn’t like it.”
You guessed it.
She felt it and before I could…
Catzilla exploded.
(If you’ve seen Mouse Hunt, you’ll know exactly what I mean.)
I hadn’t braced for the explosion of fur and claws, but I held on—with gross stupidity.
When I finally got Catzilla back into the carrier, we noticed blood. Lots of it.
There were splashes on the worktop, the floor, and a trail of red dots following me to the sink as the shamed vet patched me up and advised I get antibiotics ASAP to avoid infection.
So I did.
What a nightmare.
Now that I’m on blood thinners for my pulmonary embolisms, I’m not taking any chances.
I’ll be wearing industrial brushed-leather welding gauntlets—normally reserved for bramble and Blackthorn duty in the garden.
They’ll do just fine.
Wish me luck.
———
My Darling just messaged me (during tea break at work)—saying she had read yesterday’s blog “25: My Darling”—she embellished the text with two emojis: loving eyes and crying eyes.
I hope when she gets home, she doesn’t make me do anything strenuous.
Moving on quickly…
I forgot to mention: in the big bag of goodies Big Sis brought the other day, there were some waffley-type things.
Yesterday, while the youngest was here, I showed him the stash. He got excited.
“Get the kettle on,” he said. “You need a hot drink for these.”
I looked puzzled—so he boiled some water.
A few minutes later, we were playing a game of dare with the caramel-filled thin waffle circles.
You place one on the rim of a hot mug and wait. Then, flip it to steam the other side, and before it melts into your drink—scoff it!
Bit of a faff, but a tasty treat.
I can’t believe I’d never encountered this ritual before.
But then again, I’m not a dunker—yuk!
My son, teaching an old dog new tricks.
I suppose I’d better get used to that.
———
I don’t normally feel old, and since I’m still pain-free and have all my hair (even if it’s overdue for a cut), I don’t attract worried looks from friends and neighbours.
Maybe that’s why I can stay positive and mostly ignore the seriousness of the cancer; mostly.
But when I read the second-option letter, cc’d to me Friday, I nearly cried.
It’s just the raw truth—all of it, in black and white.
Terrifying.
I’ve tried to un-read it.
But my mind doesn’t have the un-read app in its library.
Wish it did.
Wouldn’t that be great?
———
I’ve sent today’s breakfast and lunch selfies to My Darling, to put her mind at ease that I’m behaving myself.
She was dog-tired when she got home from work yesterday but perked up when the kids arrived.
I’m glad she’s at work, doing something normal, away from me for a while.
She never says she’s fed up—but she must be.
I wish my prostate had behaved itself and these conversations weren’t necessary.
But that’s not the reality.
My Darling holds me up; and I try my best to hold her up.
We do what we can.
We are so positive we could burst.
I’m still the luckiest man alive.
We travel together, sometimes with the cat.
️️
