Stomach in knots

The knot garden at Sudeley Castle (review: grounds lovely, museum um a bit of on the scatty and smelly side)

Oh my giddy aunt, it's that time again.  I've had a CT scan and am now in a state of scaniexty, waiting to see the oncologist next week for the results.  This is pretty much the lot of someone with secondary breast cancer - scan, treat, repeat.  (I nicked that phrase from the excellent Metavivor website just in case you thought I suddenly come over all sharp and snappy.  Don't worry, no danger of that happening anytime soon).  Anyway, as I said, it's scan, treat, repeat that is, of course, until the 'treat' options run out.  I've written before about the horribleness of waiting for results, here, for example.  However, I've found someone who sums it up a million times better than I ever could.  If you want to see what I'm talking about have a look at this short film from the brilliant Katherine O'Brien, author of the I hate breast cancer blog.

While I'm in my default mode of moan, moan, moan.  Jenni Bloody Murray.  Yes, again.  If you don't know what I'm talking about this should explain it or have a look at my latest post for Vita (the online breast cancer charity magazine for a more restrained version).  Amazingly, given her views, Jenni Bloody Murray is listed as a 'celebrity supporter' by a breast cancer charity called Breast Cancer Campaign.  Click here for the evidence.  I contacted the charity to ask why she still appears on their website after she'd expressed sentiments which, I think, are pretty offensive to anyone with secondary breast cancer.  I got a predictable 'we-don't-agree-with-her-but-she's-entitled-to-her-own-opinion' response.  So what now?  Do I 'let it go' and move on or stand my ground and argue the toss (probably to no avail).  At the moment I'm pursuing a third option, which is to do absolutely nothing other than seethe inwardly in a self-destructive and unhealthy fashion; a course of action that I feel is much underrated and one I'm very good at.  

And, lest after all this whinging, anyone feels the urge to counsel me to 'be positive' may I please draw your attention to this post from the Telling Knots blog which says it all.  I should point out that I'm lucky enough not to be surrounded by the type of people who come out with the positivity stuff and have had had very few encounters where I've been admonished for not being a little ray of sunshine.  So no-one reading this who knows me need feel guilty (or angry)!

It's not all scanixety and seething here at Discombobulated Towers though.  My broken wrist is on the mend and  I've been to the Cotswolds on a sunny springtime day:

While in the Cotswolds I bought a guidebook which contained a typo that gave me hours of amusement.  See below. 

Look, I've never claimed to be sophisticated

Finally, in an effort to cheer myself up this morning, I went internet shopping and ordered a pair of shiny bright yellow sandals.  So place your bets as to what gets me first - cancer or the fashion police.

Coming up trumps

My dears, I have spent a very sophisticated afternoon with the other-half and his very sophisticated chum discussing ‘trumping’.  Now I’m originally from dahn sarf (ie near London) where ‘trumps’ is simply a term used while playing cards.  But, oh my innocent  southern pals, I’ve news for you – in the Midlands ‘trump’ is another word for fart.  So we spent the afternoon sat around the chum’s dining room table scoffing hot cross buns and talking about people with the misfortune to have the surname ‘Trump’.  In fact a friend of a friend of mine is unlucky enough to be called Victor Trumper.  And I know of a street, I think it’s in Reading, called Trumper Way (you’ll need to say that aloud to appreciate it).  Suffice it to say much there was much mirth.  Rest assured though, the trumping conversation lasted five minutes.  For the rest of the afternoon we discussed politics, art and quadratic equations.

This morning though was truly trumpy (there is no other description).  I had to go to my GP to get a blood test for the pre-chemo assessment I’m having first thing tomorrow at hospital.  The chemo people (after the battle I had to get my appointment moved to this century) promised that I would have a letter from them by this morning explaining to the GP what blood tests were required.  (As the GP’s receptionist had been a bit iffy about booking me in without knowing exactly was required).  But, you’ve guessed it, the letter never arrived.  So I spent half a frantic hour on the phone this morning to the chemo unit hoping to ask them what to do – only no-one was answering the phone.  I may have mentioned my anxiety levels once or twice before on this blog – so you can imagine how I was feeling at this point.  Anyway, with about two minutes to spare before I had to leave the house to get to the GP I managed to speak to someone in Chemo and all was sorted.  But a bit more stress was just what I needed.  Once I got back from the doctors I consoled myself with a cuppa, malt loaf and some diazepam – all the major food groups there.

So, tomorrow is pre-assessment at the hospital followed by wig try-on and hair cut.  Stand by for fears, tears and advanced whinging.