|Picture from here|
I got my latest scan results yesterday and, as I suspected, the little fuckers in my lungs are up to no good. I suppose I had clutched a very faint hope to my moth-eaten and mutilated bosom that the endless bouts of coughing and attacks of breathlessness might be a side-effect from my current hormonal treatment, but nah of course not. The grim reality is that the cancer in my lungs is growing.
While the scan results were pretty predictable, the oncologist's suggested course of action came as a bit of a surprise. I'm being referred to the Christie (a specialist hospital in Manchester) to see if they know of any clinical trials that might be helpful or even perhaps look at my suitability for immunotherapy. I'm pleased about this, as it'll be good to be checked over by the experts, if only for my own peace of mind. If the Christie can't help then I'll be going back to my local hospital to try another chemo, vinorelbine. And that, I think, might really be my last chemo option.
The news has affected me in a strange way. Rather than taking to booze (any more than usual I mean), surrounding myself with doughnuts or lying sobbing in bed, I have an overwhelming desire to chuck out all my clothes and buy new ones. This can only prove that I really am the most incredibly shallow person ever (yet more unsurprising news). I'm not even sure what sort of clothes I want - just not the ones I've currently got. How about I go for my 1983 look:
|Robert Smith in a skirt|
Anyway once I get a) a new wardrobe or b) an appointment at the Christie I'll be sure to give you all the news. How you'll stand the excitement I just don't know.
Until then, simply because I haven't mentioned him for a while, I'll leave you with a picture of my beloved.
|Cyril, the three-legged monster cat|