|Yes, obviously I WAS struggling for a title and a photo. Give me a break will yer!|
I saw the oncologist today. It wasn’t the anti-Dougie or Daddy Dougie but the woman-I-saw-last-time-and-can’t-think-of-a-funny-name-for. Anyway she’s pleasant and so far she’s second in my league table of oncologists (the anti-Dougie holding first place).
It was a case of good and bad news.
The good news is that the lump in my breast has shrunk. Not much, but it has shrunk, and that’s the first time this has happened since diagnosis (nearly six months ago). The lump in my lymph node and mets in my lungs remain unchanged. So on the whole things seem to be starting to move in the right direction, albeit slowly. The oncologist is hopeful that carrying on with the current flavour of swamp juice will see further shrinkage. Which leads on to the (sort of) bad news:
I’m going to have to have more chemo. I’m going to have another two loads (still at three weekly intervals) and then have a further CT scan. Depending on the results of the next scan I may have a further two lots of chemo after that. The swamp juice is taking its toll. I may have mentioned once or twice that I'm feeling tired. I think after another four lots (which would take the grand total to ten) I may well be on my knees. Oh well, means to an ends and all that. And as always I was very relieved to hear that nothing had grown. Well, apart from me. I've put on weight. I told the nurse this was due to biscuit therapy.
In other news … there is outrage and fury at Discombobulated Towers. We have had a very snotty letter from the allotment management committee saying and I quote (to show what a twonky bunch of pillocks they are) “the level of cultivation of your plot this year is limited in its scope and not consistent with the objectives of the society and the obligations of membership”. It goes on and on in this verbose vein. So far this year the other-half has planted sweet corn, carrots, swedes, radishes, lettuce, courgettes, tomatoes, squash, cabbages, peas, beans and raspberries in between working and
insulting looking after me.
Words fail me. Honestly put some
people on a committee and give them clipboards and the next moment they're goose-stepping all over the place.
I’m tempted to storm round to the head honcho’s house, pound on his door
and shout “I’ve got cancer I have” (well there’s got to be some perks). But fear not, I will restrain myself. Revenge is a dish best served cold – and preferably
by a hired assassin. In the words of the immortal
Father Jack ARSE BISCUITS to the lot of them.