The duck of doom

Meet Cyril the three-legged monster cat's arch enemy.  

He does look a little bit menacing I suppose

As mentioned previously, we are currently staying at my sister’s house while the building work back at Discombobulated Towers goes on and on and on (more on this later).  This duck sits under the chair in the hall of my sister’s house and Cyril is terrified of it.  Don’t ask me why.  I never said he was very bright.  Anyway this fear at least gives my sister’s cat, Tuppence, a safe spot to sit where Cyril will not dare to attack.

Oooh ducky, please don't let him get me

I just googled ‘fear of ducks’ to see if it has a specific name.  Weirdly I can only find a name of the fear of being watched by a duck.  The world is strange.

The building work is progressing but has been delayed by the discovery of a lack of foundations, dodgy electrics and The Thorny Issue of The Cat Flap.  The new kitchen will be twice the size of the old one but still not exactly the biggest room in the world.  So finding space for cupboards, french windows and a cat flap has been problematic.  The builder, who has no sense of priorities felt that cupboards and doors were more important than cat access.  After we explained the importance of all things Cyril the builder sketched a variety of options on the kitchen wall and we have gone for the cat tunnel:

Under construction

The electricians have offered to put a light in the tunnel.  I feel that they are not treating this matter as seriously as they ought.

To change the subject to my favourite thing, me, me, me I am now two thirds through radiotherapy.  Just one more week to go.  Here's a picture of the machine that does the zapping.  

All I have to do is lie still and do nothing - something I'm very good at. 

Cyril's squirrels and my niggles

Cyril (three-legged monster cat) is enjoying our stay at sis no 1’s (while the building work continues back at Discombobulated Towers).  His war with Tuppence (my sister’s cat) keeps him fairly busy. He now no longer has the upper paw as he has received a few well-deserved cuffs to the head courtesy of the ginger ninja.  And as if this wasn’t exciting enough he has also found a new hobby.  Squirrel watching.

That looks yummy

On the health front I had my first radiotherapy session today.  One down, fourteen to go.  Nothing exciting to report yet but obviously it’s early days.

Since the mastectomy (at the end of February) I’ve been getting out of breath every time I go up the stairs or have to go anywhere even slightly up hill (I’d never noticed how much up-hill-ness there is in  Shrewsbury before, but blimey I’m well aware now).  I’ve also got an annoying dry cough.  I reported all this to the medical bods last week when I went to hospital for a herceptin top-up.  I was given a blood test, an x-ray and a CT scan to make sure I didn’t have a blood clot (I didn’t).  I have to wait until later this month for another fuller CT scan to see if that reveals what’s going on.  I veer between thinking it’s nothing to worry about to being convinced all sorts of horrors are going on in my insides.  My outsides aren’t too wonderful either – my hair is still curling like crazy.  I thought ‘chemo curl’ was supposed to calm down after a couple of months.  Not for me though.  Still to be honest I’m just grateful to have hair even if I do end up looking like Art Garfunkel.

Me or Art?  (Picture from here)

The quilt of guilt

Picture from here

Building work has started on Discombobulated Towers, you should see the mess.  Predictably enough we’ve already run into a problem.  It turns out that one of the kitchen walls had been built on jelly or a plague pit or something else equally gooey and now has to be rebuilt.  Good start.

I’m happily ensconced at Sis No 1’s house for the duration of the building work.  I’m not so sure that Sis’s cat, Tuppence, is particularly happy about the ensconcing though.  Cyril (my three-legged monster cat) is being a thug, chasing Tuppence and stressing her out.  He is  an ASBO cat.  On the first day of our stay someone peed on my sister’s bed.  The jury is out as to whether this was Tuppence, Cyril or the Other-half.  Strangely, no-one seems keen on taking up my suggestion of DNA testing or calling in CSI Shrewsbury to unmask the culprit.  When we dropped the quilt off at the cleaners, we quickly exited the premises without mentioning why it needed cleaning.  The nice lady behind the counter will have a bit of a surprise when she opens up the bin bag containing the quilt.  I’m a bit scared about going back to collect it. 

I had my radiotherapy planning appointment today.  This involved a woman with extremely cold hands drawing all over my chest with a biro, running me through a CT scanner a couple of times and then tattooing me.  Now I’m all ready for the zapping process which will start in April and will mean a trip to the hospital everyday for three weeks.  Everyone assures me that radiotherapy is easy-peasy in comparison to chemo.  We’ll see.  I should think it’ll probably make me too ill to go to collect the quilt though, don’t you?

Irritations

Love letters to and from the Inland Revenue

See that picture?  That’s the correspondence I’ve had with the tax office over the last six weeks.  It’s a long and dull story best summed up as they are doing my bloody head in!  I am battling on and think I might be wearing them down as the latest letter from the powers-that-be said, amongst other things, that they were ‘sending me kind thoughts’.  Sweet, but I’d prefer it if they just got my tax right. 

I’ve got a seroma (collection of icky fluid at the operation site).  Maybe don’t click on that link if you’re about to eat.  Too late?  Oops sorry.  I had the fluid drained on Friday by the surgeon but by Friday evening it was back.  I thought I was tremendously brave putting up with it all weekend and called the hospital on Monday morning expecting them to rush me in to mop my brow and drain the gunk.  They were unimpressed.  I have to wait until Wednesday to get it drained again.  Meanwhile I’m walking around with what feels like a small water bed on my chest.  This in turn has put the kibosh on my radiotherapy planning appointment (also scheduled for Wednesday).  I spent all day yesterday (apart from the two hours I spent composing my latest letter to the tax office) trying to phone the radiotherapy department to reschedule my appointment.  The phone rang and rang and rang and rang.  No-one answered all day.

I’m still pathetically tired.  I walked for 10 minutes yesterday, had a major (and embarrassing) coughing fit in the post office then walked 10 minutes home and had to have a lie down. 

I’m persisting with the grotty post-mastectomy exercises as instructed by the physiotherapist.  They hurt and make me even grumpier.

Building work on the kitchen starts on Monday.  There is still So Much To Do Before The Work Can Start.  And Cyril (three-legged monster cat) is not helping much with the packing.

To cap it all I’ve opened a new tub of margarine when we already had an unfinished tub in the fridge.  Argh.  As John Shuttleworth says 'two margarines on the go, it's a nightmare scenario'.  See below for his musical masterpiece:

Medical update

With all the ranting I forgot to update you on my recent surgeon and oncologist appointments.  The surgeon is happy with my progress (the seroma problem is common and nothing to worry about).  Sufficiently clear margins were taken out around the tumour so I don’t have to have more surgery.  The main tumour itself was a bit smaller than expected and the other cancer in the breast found during biopsies a year ago was nowhere to be seen.  The surgeon suspects it was zapped by the chemo.  The oncologist (the one that looks like Smokey Robinson, he’s my new favourite) decided I should have radiotherapy because, although it will not help with secondary cancer, it can reduce the risk of a recurrence of a new cancer in the same area as the first.  So pretty good news all round.  I really shouldn’t be so grumpy, but I am.