Post 8: Titus remains.
Vital statistics
Temp: 35.9 – low, but feeling well
BP: 134/80/49 
Weight: feeling bloated
Hair: still in sight 
Anything else? Vehicle worries 
I think it’s Thursday, but I’m not entirely sure. Funny how, when your mind’s busy with selfish checks and balances, the importance of what day it is just disappears.
Since I’ve no appointments for a week, I’m free to focus on other things—although I might cancel my haircut next Tuesday with Roman.
Still undecided whether to hold out and keep what’s clinging on up top, or just shave it all off and forget about it for a while. I’m told Carboplatin isn’t always a hair-killer. So we’ll see. Time will tell.
Still feeling full up this morning—though it’s very early. The birds might be happy with that, but I’m still running on my usual late shift body clock. More used to getting out of bed for a 1pm dinner-as-breakfast than waking up to porridge at 8am. I think that’s why I still feel full overnight.
I’ll ask my feeder (which is what My Darling has kindly become) if I can have smaller portions. I hate leaving food, and I am a very good boy.
She won’t like it—but I’ll try.
Porridge and fruit today, yummy.
Last night my wee was darker—probably didn’t drink enough yesterday. I’ve never been one for staying well-hydrated. The complete opposite of My Darling, who effortlessly glides through two to three litres a day! I’m convinced she was a fish in a past life, while I was clearly a camel.
The only time I drank heavily was at beer festivals—and that was purely social, of course. 
So today: more water. Got to flush this stuff through. It’s only Day Two since the infusion, so the chemicals are definitely still doing their thing somewhere inside me. Even though it doesn’t feel like anything’s happened yet, I’m sure it has.
I was preparing for massive changes or effects, so I’m surprised—but happy—so far. I’m new to all this, so forgive the amateur musings.
Each time I woke up last night, I tried to resist checking the time. Kept my eyes shut, stayed still. Failed once, of course—nobody’s perfect.
What was really on my mind, though, was my growing worry over our old vehicles. My Darling and I have two adult sons, but they haven’t inherited their dad’s petrol-head leanings. They’re into modern, efficient cars—A to B, job done.
Me? I started on bicycles and moved to motorbikes. Four wheels came later—age 21 to be precise. But my heart still belongs to two.
My newest vehicle is a ’93 Rover Mini. The oldest? Bertie, my ’50 BSA Bantam, which I’ve had for 43 years.
But time’s getting shorter, and the family aren’t into the classics. So it looks like I’ll need to start thinning the herd. Maybe keep just Bertie, and one more.
So there we are. I’ve stopped worrying about the chemo for now—and landed myself with a whole different problem.
Still, I feel fine. No changes yet. I know I’m lucky. After reading some of the horror stories from others here, I feel like a bit of a fraud. But I empathise with everyone—those dealing with this, or supporting loved ones through it. Hang in there. Ask questions. Let off steam when you need to.
Last year, I took six months off work with what I now realise was a mental breakdown. At the time, I just thought I hated work—and, honestly, everything else too.
I got referred through the hormone clinic to a Macmillan counsellor. The sessions felt too subtle to be working… until about session six or seven, when I walked in with a smile and a proper cheerful hello.
The counsellor said that was new—that something had clearly shifted. And she was right. That moment was a turning point.
So if you’re struggling—talk. Don’t bottle it up. Talk to someone—a counsellor, a friend, anyone who’ll listen.
Self-reflection works for small stuff. But when life really hits the skids, outsource some of that weight. Share the load.
Even though my timeline’s tighter than I expected, I’m content. Every day I still feel like me. I can help my family. I can still feel joy.
The world didn’t stop when I got the diagnosis—it just shifted. My world changed.
I’m still on the Loop. Still hopping—but not hopping off.
PS:
Titus the tortoise (pronounced tight-arse) remains with me. But I’ll figure out how to soften him up soon… and then say a not-so-tearful goodbye.
