Post 45: The ugly truth.
It’s not every day you hear the ugly truth and feel more confident because of it.
———
The blood test at the local surgery this morning was a good start.
Instead of just the bloods, the nurse asked, “Would you like the shingles vaccine? The accelerated one for the immunosuppressed.”
Obviously, I said, “Why not?”—and was duly vaccinated.
“You’ll probably bruise and ache a bit, but no more than a flu jab,” she warned.
She was right. My arm is now gently aching, just enough to remind me it’s been speared.
The next dose is in eight weeks.
Even better news: my adjusted calcium is now in range.
Phew. That’s brilliant news.
———
Later, I returned to the surgery for a GP appointment to talk through some of my ongoing worries.
The GP was new to me—my usual doctor was away on holiday—but I don’t mind who I see as long as they speak plain English.
And wow, this one did.
Here’s what I WhatsApp’d afterward the appointment, to the family and some friends, who were waiting to hear about it…
“My GP is on holiday so I got another one.
She was blunt. Easy to talk to even if it was a fast talk.
We talked pills and heart but fell back to cancer.
I’m old.
I’m unwell.
The PSA is high I need to get back to chemo.
Your heart is changed forever, and your AFib will only get worse.
The cancer and chemo and wil continue to affect your heart.
She wrote out an urgent referral for a cardiologist.
No more Adcal or Alendronic acid pills until you’re in the clear.
If your heart races over 110 in AFib go to A&E to have them slow it down asap.
In essence all that I’ve been told over the last 4 weeks in one go, in 20 minutes flat.
All of this makes sense.
I have total faith in her diagnosis of me.
It was a great experience because it was a down to earth honest appraisal and just what I needed.
———
The blood test for chemo a 2nd infusion is Thursday and Friday next week respectively.
I will be choosing to get back with or without the cardiologist telling me all about my clots and AFib. But, I will eventually get to see one in due process.
I can’t let the cancer do what it likes and need something to check it and slow it down.
I’m very happy.
Very Positive.
Still without pain.
I’m a lucky guy.
️️”
———
So, there it is.
It’s a big relief to get through this week and My Darling and I can now get back to a more normal life being able to some more normal stuff together.
Like not thinking about hospitals every waking minute.
Like actually relaxing somewhere together.
We’ve got a week until the chemo restarts.
Let’s make the most of it.
———
Later this afternoon, we took our usual 1.3-mile loop around the block, with a pit stop half way around to check on Roxy—the cat belonging to our holiday-swap friends who are off swanning around Florence, Italy right now.
True to form, Roxy was nowhere to be seen—but some of her food had been eaten, so we’re not worried and expect that she’s curled up somewhere nearby, hiding from us.
Her humans have now sent us photos of their hotel room (the one we should be in) and the sights of Florence they’re enjoying.
Normally, I’m not fussed by the teasing photos of faraway places and glorious architecture, but…
These snaps sting a little.
I’m not jealous.
Just sad we’re not there.
Basking in the sunshine, preparing for the wedding on Monday.
It sucks.
———
Just as we got back from feeding the cat, my phone rang—it was a good pal from Gloucester.
I’d completely forgotten about this long bank holiday weekend and the vintage transport rally and spring fayre just down the road.
This particular Pal is attending with his moggy van and a few two-stroke bantams in tow. No eggs but loads of blue smoke.
Every year, this event kicks off with a Friday night knees-up in the purpose-built show bar, right in the middle of the many fields where exhibitors are setting up.
Tonight’s entertainment? A proper old fashioned 60s rock ’n’ roll band.
So, we made a snap decision: go meet him at the usual spot, soak up the vibe, and enjoy a bit of a catch-up against a colourful and tuneful backdrop.
My Darling made a surprise dash to the bar on arrival and returned with a very well-earned red wine—in a rather elegant plastic tumbler.
It was a lovely moment.
She’s been off alcohol since my chemo started seven weeks ago—just in case I needed a responsible adult to drive me anywhere.
So it meant a lot to see her relax for once.
There we were, watching the dancers jive across the floor—knowing full well that if even one of her four sisters or seven brothers were there, she’d be out there too, dancing her shoes off.
And if you’re wondering, why didn’t Mr U take her hand and join in?
Don’t.
Mr U has two left feet and a dodgy heart.
These days, he’s an enthusiastic onlooker.
(Not that he was ever much of a Travolta—even in his prime.)
We had a great chat, tapped our feet to the music, and My Darling even bumped into a friend she hadn’t seen in a while. They had a proper gossip and catch-up, until it was time to leave the party and head home.
It was a good day.
And the anxiety of the past few days is quickly fading.
My Darling only checked on my heart twenty times today—which, in real terms, is a big success.
I wish she could forget all the crap we’ve been through and just have some good old-fashioned fun.
But any win is a win.
Little by little, we’ll both come to terms with the new me, and what we can and can’t get away with.
⸻
I now have a new timetable.
The bus will arrive this Friday.
I must be ready.
I must hop back on.
