Post 77: A lazy day with a hospital twist.
Weight: stable 
Blood pressure: good
Hair: coiffured (with a hint of aging despair)
Today started as all the best ones do — under a duvet, mid-episode of a murderous Italian procedural.
An unsolved “cereal killer” (as I misheard it initially — visions of cornflakes everywhere), or maybe a copycat, a 100-minute-per-episode commitment. It’s hardly a light snack of a show.
Still, we were deep into it until, with one comment too far (me), and a dramatic duvet snatch (from My Darling), which meant we were relocated to the sofa for an official duvet-day. Apparently, there are rules.
So far, so lazy.
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Then came the call.
“Is that Mr U?”
(Always a good start when your name is used formally — never means you’ve won a prize.)
Turns out my advisory email yesterday, asking about the back pain and my spine’s T10 lesion, triggered a flurry of clinical concern.
Cue Ms P, a very helpful cancer nurse, who informed me there’d already been a committee of minds on my case and an emergency MRI was booked for 4pm “if that ok with you”.
She’d meet me there for a physical once-over and the full works.
I was impressed.
I was clean (showered and smelling like I was off to a party).
I was on time.
Ms P did her assessment — but by then, I was too doped up on paracetamol to offer any helpful reaction beyond “that’s fine” and “nope, that doesn’t hurt now.” So, not quite the dramatic presentation I’d had days earlier.
Scan done. Prescription prepared (steroids and stomach liners just in case). A specialist in the big hospital was roped in for urgent interpretation.
And then, barely out of the car park — another call.
“Good news. No spinal compression.”
Chemo on Thursday remains on.
Prescription cancelled.
Spirits: soaring.
Ms P and team — hats off. Exceptional care.
My Darling beamed. The relief was palpable. My Darling; My everything. Oops, now I sound like Barry White.
“My First, My Last, My Everything” — it should now be added to the playlist for my memorial, in honour of her, naturally.
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Post-hospital, we popped into the shops. After arriving home Mr Vicious, however, was not impressed at being kept waiting.
The cat was ravenous, furious, and entirely unimpressed by our medical drama - as per usual.
We ate dinner on the sofa. The plan was more Italian murder.
But disaster struck:
NO INTERNET.
The next couple of hours were an exercise in modern madness:
Unplug. Replug. Restart. Sigh.
Press 1. Press 2. Wait. Repeat.
Eventually, we did what any rational adult does after being bested by a router: we phoned a human.
A delightful, articulate voice told us the router’s power pack was faulty, and also, our landline was broken. Double whammy.
A replacement and engineer are en route (sometime soon) Hooray? As long as there’s and adult and no dangers for the physical repairs… (I didn’t mention Mr Vicious, I’ll let that be a nice surprise).
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So we went to bed — slightly knackered, a bit amused, and mostly relieved.
The day didn’t go how we planned it. But honestly, what day does anymore?
On reflection, it was mostly good.
Glass half full. Always.
Two days until chemo.
My body’s ready, my mind’s braced, and music is playing softly in the background.
Because —
“Don’t stop me now, I’m having such a good time, I’m having a ball…”
(And no, I don’t need to tell you who that is.)
