Post 42: More and More Hiccups
Being accused of lying about one’s health is a bit of a shock—even if it’s really just being economical with the truth.
Trying to be polite when relaying serious health updates to loved ones, while also doing my best not to give them unnecessary worry, feels like running through a minefield in clown boots.
It’s a disaster—no matter what you say or do.
Too much information, too little, too soon, not soon enough…
I feel exhausted just thinking about it.
But all the while, I’m hurting.
I’m hurting because my words—however simple—seem to land like sharp barbs, wounding those I love.
But they’re only words.
I can completely understand why some people choose to hide away and tell no one.
At least then, you’re not forced to repeat the same story over and over, turning a brief update into an ongoing saga.
But nothing’s going to change—until there are no more updates.
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My mood today is… okay.
And My Darling’s suggestion of a morning walk was a brilliant idea.
I want to get healthier, and the cool air helps us both endure the exercise.
We did 1.3 miles around the usual block—and my heart survived without a single grumble.
So today, unusually, I earned my breakfast porridge—and even more unusually, enjoyed it downstairs in My Darling’s company.
We watched a bit of telly, with Mr Vicious curled up between us on the back of the blue sofa.
It was that Code of Silence series—the one where a lip-reader helps local detectives try to take down a desperate gang of thieves.
We got caught up in the plot and barely noticed the silent scenes where the mother and daughter were signing without any vocalisation, the subtitles were trailing along the bottom of the screen.
It’s only now, sitting in the shade outside with Mr V by my side again, that I realise this series probably isn’t everyone’s cup of tea—because of the subtitles.
But it’s a shame, really. We don’t often get glimpses into the lives of disabled people on screen—not even those with cancer.
If we did, maybe loved ones would better understand what it feels like to sit through a terrifying clinical meeting, listening to your future being discussed in blunt terms.
Yes, it might not be popular viewing.
But that’s not the point.
Art should mimic life—and not just the shiny bits.
We all love uplifting news, escapism and happy endings—but art shouldn’t always be pretty.
It should make us look—and see anew.
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A call interrupted my existential musings and yanked me straight back to medical matters.
It was the hospice doctor we spoke to for three hours last week, just checking in.
Nice to catch up, but he left me with an itch I couldn’t ignore: chasing up the results of my echocardiogram.
Surely they’d be visible by now?
Since the pulmonary embolism, most of the “urgent” requests haven’t ended up as urgent at all.
Some I’ve had to chase like cat and mouse just to keep things moving.
And guess what?
The ultrasound scan of my poorly heart isn’t on the system yet.
What? You mean the cardiologist hasn’t seen it?
“Correct,” said the cardiology secretary. “But I’ll get it authorised now, and your cardiologist and oncologist will be able to see the raw data, soon”.
“Although, I doubt the cardiologist’s findings will be ready in time for your oncology meeting tomorrow.”
I reply “have a good day” and end another tiresome call.
Oh, come on.
That’s unbelievable, isn’t it?
Why didn’t I chase it last week?
Why did the system break down when everyone knew this was urgent?
Holy cow.
Now my mood is: angry, frustrated, worried.
It feels like the cosmos is really trying my patience lately.
What did I do to deserve this chain of unsigned, delayed, or bungled, time-sucking nonsense?
Right now, cancer is very much in control of me—and I can’t do a thing about it.
And now, tomorrow’s meeting won’t even confirm whether my heart is strong enough to resume chemo—which was the whole point of scheduling this meeting so soon after the echo.
What a waste.
I don’t want the oncologist guessing at my cardiac fitness.
That’s a cardiologist’s job; only.
Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
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The sun is shining.
The cat’s fast asleep beside me again.
And I should be enjoying this beautiful day.
But as My Wonderful Darling points out:
“You should tell your face!” 
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I can’t even put into words how I feel about the three meetings this week—especially the first two with the oncologists.
I’m angry.
I’m sad.
I’m tired.
I’m emotional.
I’m worried.
I’m strong.
I’m positive.
I’m with My Darling.
We travel together.
