Post 3: Beep! Beep! Beep!
I know I’m not an early riser. The 10:30 pill call is all I live for—not!
But it’s all I have, so I’d better get up and face the realities of our cruel world.
I cast my mind’s eye across my lazy body and check for new pains and aches. In 2.5 years, I’ve only had some aches in my lower abdomen, so I can’t complain—and don’t.
The aches from the immaculate conception are still there, but there’s nothing else, so it’s another good start to the day.
Today’s iPhone alarm is the penultimate Olaparib “early call,” and I should shuffle off downstairs in my cosy slippers and feed the cat.
Mr Vicious, as my daughter-in-law calls him, is an ugly-faced, stumpy-tailed runt of his litter. I’m not exaggerating, nor being anything but honest—and he’s a part of the crazy family in this house.
As there’s no cat flap that allows Mr Vicious into the human part of the house, when I open the green vertical blinds hiding the kitchen sliding door, he’s there—waving at me, crying like he loves and misses me.
That’s just not the case—unless it’s evening time and he wants to paralyse me in front of the telly and dream of a tasty mouse and cheese sarnie.
Anyway, as I slide the door open, he bundles in and throws himself on the floor in mock appreciation. So I carefully—and very quickly—rub his belly, and before his claws become visible, I hop over him and head out to feed the poor mite in the conservatory, his huge domain.
I’d like to swap places with the cat for 18 weeks, to see what it’s like chasing mice and birds—when I’m bovered, of course.
Although, he gets flea treatment once a month (which he enjoys so much), and I do too—I have the scars to prove it. Bloomin’ cat!
The only other thing is the allergy pills every other day. Oh yes—he has an allergy to metal. Yes, metal!
(Not the musical genre I love, but the heavy stuff I work with every day.)
His skin goes pinky-red under his white chin. And when I say chin, it’s a big chin, like Mr Forsyth had.
As I said—he’s an ugly cat.
(Not that I’m saying Sir Bruce was ugly—just our lovable rogue of a cat.)
So yes, I’d love to swap places with someone—or something—for a while, and not have to do the Carboplatin roulette.
I suppose this blog is taking time away from thinking too hard about what’s coming next.
A distraction. Keeping my mind busy.
It’s therapy. And best of all, very few people will read it, so I can blather on and be as selfish as I like.
My darling is at work—left hours ago in the dark. Off to help God knows who with God knows what medical problems.
We all need an ER room now and again, but most of us with cancer issues of any kind are probably like me—a little scared of that part of our second home.
I appreciate what the staff do, but I’d like to see them less.
Especially this week.
The bus still roars on towards my stop: ground level, green area, room 3, seat 5.
I wish I could—but I can’t hop off.
PS
The relatives are coming this afternoon, I’ll tell ya how I get on later…
