Post 43: Don’t Panic Yet.
BP: Perfect 
PSA: 305 (up from 133) 
Other things: Great day, in the end
Taken on its own, one fact might not be the horror it seems.
I’m a numbers guy.
Not like my eldest son—who was the first in our family to go to university and is now a trained accountant—I’ve always loved numbers too.
Numbers are my friends.
In certain kinds of maths, there’s a case for eliminating the highest and lowest values in a data set, because they don’t represent the true average.
(Basically: A trimmed mean only uses the middle 80% of the data. The top and bottom 10% are excluded.)
So, on a good day like today, I can look at the PSA of 305 and decide to move on, it doesn’t count.
One swallow doesn’t make a summer.
And one PSA doesn’t break Mr U.
⸻
I suppose the start of the day wasn’t great—but sometimes all you need is to keep going until bad luck gives you a break.
The first appointment started more than an hour late, and I was bumped for another patient because of a double booking. On any other day, that might have knocked me flat—but today, weirdly, it suited me.
I didn’t feel slighted or frustrated.
In fact, it was a bit of a relief.
Instead of seeing the chief oncologist, I was allocated a registrar—someone completely new to me.
A clean page.
She was a lovely person, and by the end of our session, I honestly don’t know who learned more—her or me?
She did agree to an “urgent referral” to cardiology, which was the high point of the chat.
That, and ordering a blood test to check my calcium thingamajig.
Sadly, I left the room with slightly less trust in the system than I’d had when I arrived—but to be fair, I arrived with a very low baseline.
I was still confused by the many contradictory explanations she gave me. We took turns covering all the bases with her vague reassurances, however I was glad I had the strength to say my piece.
I was told my her that my heart is “better than it was,” but I didn’t really understand why.
And then she said, brightly:
“Whenever you want to, you can restart the Carboplatin.”
Handshakes and attempted smiles all around. We silently agreed to disagree.
I’ll wait to speak to the cardiologist face to face before deciding anything for definite; when we can try again.
⸻
It was now just past 12 noon, and we had to drive across two counties to make it to the other hospital for my 2 p.m. “second opinion” appointment.
As luck would have it, we got there with minutes to spare.
Our youngest son met us, and the three of us were ushered into a spacious room with a warm and courteous consultant, ready to offer her view on my current treatment plan.
I started by unloading everything—my thoughts, my doubts, my theories—about my head and heart, barely touching on the cancer until I’d run out of steam.
She listened patiently, then methodically worked her way through her perspective on treating my cancer.
I was left with a kind of respect and comfort I hadn’t felt in a while.
It all finally made sense.
Not because the treatment plan was different—oh no—it was almost exactly the same.
The difference was in the approach: shorter intervals between tests, more joined-up thinking, and the reassuring presence of an integrated, holistic team.
⸻
On the way home, we stopped off at a farm shop bought the now legendary sticky marmalade cake. Nearby was a pub handy enough for a spot of dinner.
While we ate we debriefed quietly, calmly, and added up how we each felt about what we’d heard in that spacious room.
My Darling’s face had softened—her usual smile had returned.
“You look like a big weight has been lifted off your shoulders,” she said to me.
And she was right.
We both feel much lighter.
———
There’s still a way to go, and I will have to chase the cardiologist appointment myself—but at least now, I have another hospital keeping an eye on my care.
The tension I’ve been carrying about while having to keep on explaining myself, to push for better care, and to advocate endlessly in a system that often doesn’t listen—that tension is gone.
I don’t feel so ignored. Or sidelined. Or spoken down to.
All I’ve ever wanted was respect and honest explanations for my very real concerns.
I know a lot of it was in my head. I’m a simple guy. I’ve never been here before. It’s not easy. It’s all like a foreign language to me.
I am learning—but the process doesn’t make it easy to stay positive.
If I’d been given just a little empathy over the last three weeks—since the PE—and more consistent communication, I’d likely already be back on the chemo tricycles now.
Already back in treatment.
But I’m not quite there yet.
⸻
It’s now been five weeks and one day since my first infusion.
I feel okay. Still no pain.
I’ll stop taking the Adcal for a while, due to a calcium spike in my blood.
In two days, the GP will advise on AFib meds and anything else that’s new or necessary.
Yes, the PSA has nearly tripled to 305, but it’s the only thing misbehaving.
It’s probably the marmalade cake effect. 
So don’t panic just yet.
I’m not panicking.
My belly is growing.
My positivity is growing.
My confidence in my care is growing.
I’m okay.
⸻
My Darling wanted to go for a walk tonight—to get some fresh air and hold my hand for about a mile and a half.
But she was so tired, I sent her to bed.
She’s been through so much lately.
And today… today, we should’ve been on a plane to Florence.
My Darlings recovering too.
In two weeks, it’s our wedding anniversary.
By then, I’ll be back on the chemo.
And all will be right with the world.
⸻
Mr Vicious has no idea what’s going on.
He just gets on with his life without the worries humans are burdened with.
Oh, to be a cat—for just a while.
Meow.
