|Going up in the world, or possibly down|
While the breathlessness is hateful/frightening/depressing/a sodding pain in the arse, the enforced inactivity has given me an opportunity to torment the other-half. He has to do everything now. I have no puff for housework, cooking, de-fleaing the cat etc. I've never seen someone with ironing rage before. Apparently the way I chuck my clothes into the washing machine is a disgrace; tights all bundled up in a knot, jeans with one leg inside out, tops buttoned up etc. What a wuss. You wait until he experiences the delight that is finding a handful of tissues have been left in a pocket when he empties the washing machine. I think he will truly blow a gasket.
No, don't go feeling sorry for him. Look, here I am angelically smiling through chemo
And what do you think Nev was doing while this was going on? Soothing my not particularly fevered brow? Feeding me chocolate? Regaling me with amusing anecdotes? Nope. He snored through the whole thing. Here's the proof.
I've been doing lots of traveling to the Christie (the hospital in Manchester where I'm currently on a trial chemo). I've now had two cycles of the new swamp juice but, given the breathlessness, I really don't see how it can be working. I'm having a CT scan on Monday so I will find out more shortly. I suspect they will find more cancer in my lungs. Scary. At least I don't seem to be having any other side-effects other than some fatigue. So at the moment I am in limbo and feeling as cheesed off as Cyril (the three-legged monster cat) looks.
On the plus side I have been reading my head off. My kindle is red hot. And, although I can't really get out and about, as walking even short distances is difficult, I'm able to ride shotgun as Nev takes me out in the Shropshire countryside. We drove over the Long Mynd the other day. And I spotted something in keeping with the tone of this post - the Shropshire Sheep of Doom
And on that cheery note I'll say baa-baa for now.