Post 9: Sun screen.
Vital statistics:
Temp: still cool
BP: 128/77/44 
Weight: feeling bloated still
Hair: still there 
Anything else? Titus stubbornly stays
My Darling and I had a big discussion about my temperature yesterday after recording a forehead reading just under 36 degrees. The heat card was invaluable, and after a few clicks on her phone screen—suggesting that temperature and symptoms are the key to spotting a possible issue—it was agreed that I felt absolutely normal. So there was no case to answer. I was acquitted on a technicality. 
It’s very worrying for My Darling, who’s got a panic button partly pressed all day. She’s asking if I’m okay, if I’m hungry, did I take the pills, did I drink enough water—then asking again if I’m hungry.
As I’ve said before, I’m in the calm air and My Darling is whizzing around in a vortex of worry.
It’s very hard to keep saying thank you, but I do. All you partners and carers do such an amazing thing for us, the treated ones.
We’re treated by meds—and treated by our loved ones. Bravo to every one of you. Every day. Your help is invaluable and so very appreciated.
I slept well for the first time in ages—nothing on my mind, and maybe a little bit more tired. Perhaps the nurses did give me an infusion of Carboplatin after all. 
It’s Good Friday, though I had to be reminded. I’m not counting the days so easily now I’m not at work. No structure to my week—just a succession of wake-ups with similar outcomes. I suppose that’s a good thing really. Nothing to report. Still unremarkable.
Mr Unremarkable (aka Mr U). And glad of it.
I circled the world yesterday, beside My Darling on our blue corner sofa. Ireland, Long Island USA, back to Cumbria—maybe Australia, New Zealand, and Canada in time. How great it is to have a technological marvel in your hand that, with a swipe, allows you to chat and see anyone anywhere—if both participants press the right buttons of course. 
It certainly helps me take the load off many worried relatives and friends wondering if I’m actually okay.
The doom-mongers might call this one of the worst ages in history, but personally, I’m very happy with my lot—especially having this phone to keep myself busy with blogs and staying in touch during self-inflicted isolation.
As long as there’s WiFi, I’m happy. 
It’s Friday’s weigh-in—a ritual I’ve done since the start of my journey. Although I’ve lost three-quarters of a stone over the last 2.5 years, it’s nothing to worry about. I’m 11st 6lbs, which is normal for me. So although I feel bloated, there’s no actual gain showing.
I’m happy. I feel well.
But the temperature gauge now reads 35.1, which isn’t ideal—even though I’ve already showered and feel great.
All my life I’ve always felt the cold—my fingers turn into white, bloodless chipolatas even in the summer. I can feel a breeze from a mile away, and there’s always a tissue in my pocket for a wet nose.
I wish I were a dog; My Darling would pat me on the head and say, “Good boy, you’re healthy.”
So it looks like, in half an hour, after being in the warm lounge and a scrambled egg breakfast, we’ll revisit my body temp.
⸻
Yesterday I had a tearful moment when I was messaged an innocent photo by a great friend. Their daughter—our beloved, twenty-something godchild, who has her own health worries—floored me with news of her participation in the Royal Parks Half Marathon for Prostate Cancer UK. The photo was of her T-shirt.
Just seeing it gave me such a swell of pride that it broke me. Chloe is such a generous and loving young woman, and I wish her—and everyone raising awareness, funds, and support for the next generation of prostate cancer survivors—the absolute best.
I can be going along my merry way, like you I imagine, and suddenly I’m struck down with tears. Not selfish tears of my life draining away like I had at my worst moments last year, but tears of joy—for all the happiness to come.
Yes, I have to be realistic. But I’m not dead yet! I’m alive, and going to be myself for as long as possible—with the help of you lot out there.
⸻
Update: My body temp is now satisfactory after a hot mug of decaf coffee and half an hour in the warm lounge. Brilliant—I’m now 36.4 and the panic is over.
My Darling is now calmer, and that’s fab—but her panic button will always be half-pressed. 
It’s just after 1pm, and I’m now lying on the sofa feeling like I’ve run around the town. Boy, I’m bushed. My Darling’s wrapped me up in throws, and I’ll say goodnight. I’m starting to feel like something is finally happening.
I’ll rest a while and fiddle with the keyboard later. But before I do—I’ve just been handed a buttered, cold hot cross bun.
Happy Easter, everyone. 
⸻
PS
Yesterday’s walk around midday was great—only 1.6 miles according to My Darling’s watch and phone. I wore the usual attire, but added Factor 50 to my nose, cheeks, and chin.
No red blotches today—sun screen works a treat.
