Del's diary

Darlings, my life has become a giddy social whirl.  Lunch here, dinner there and a trip to Monaco since I last posted.  Call me Jackie O.  Oh alright, if you're going to be picky I suppose I could point out that the meals have been in pubs and I might have accidentally typed Monaco instead of the more honest Anglesey, but you catch my drift.

Anglesey.  Better than Monaco any day of the week.

And what's more this leisurely life is set to continue, how on earth I'm going to squeeze in chemo next week I just can't imagine.

To add to the excitement, my new false breast for swimming (mentioned in my previous post) has arrived.  It cost ten pounds and, truly, I got what I paid for.  It appears to be a piece of sponge, super absorbent rather than water-proof.  So I will have to wring it out as I emerge from the water, very elegant.  Also the helpful washing instructions say 'do not iron'.  That's a bit of a shock as obviously my major requirement of all prosthetic breasts is that they be flat as a pancake.

Anyway I'd better dash, got to polish my diamond tiara for my next social engagement.  Toodle-pip.

Not for those of a nervous disposition

Picture from here

A word of warning, this blog post contains Too Much Information.  Read on at your peril.  However those of you brave enough to face the challenge will be rewarded with cat pictures at the end of the post, and where else on the internet will you get to see pictures of cats?

I really am quite wary about saying this but I am continuing to feel not-too-bad-at-all-thank-you-very-much, and that’s even after my third cycle of the trial chemo which I had last week.  Fingers crossed this continues. I walked into the town centre and back by myself today (a round trip of a couple of miles) something I haven’t felt well enough to do for five months. 

Although I was very pleased to be able to undertake the arduous trek, the trip wasn’t entirely successful as I failed in my quest, which was to buy a sarong.  Silly, silly me.  It’s nearly August so, of course, the shops had all their new autumn stock in.  Great if you wanted a padded jacket or polo-neck jumper but crap if you wanted anything vaguely summery.

At the risk of really tempting fate and the evil cancer goblins I am toying with the idea of going on holiday and have been a reckless little devil and bought a post-mastectomy swim suit designed not to reveal lots of rubbery false boob.  I’ve even ordered a waterproof prosthesis in the unlikely event of me actually getting in the water.  As this will not be used very often (maybe less than once) I have bought the cheapest model on the market – could be a disaster in the making.  At the very least, given my utter uselessness at swimming, I’m hoping it might act as a flotation aid, although seeing as it’s just on the left-hand side I could end up swimming in circles.

The choice of mastectomy swimming costumes is (in my opinion) very 80s.  They all seem to have massively high cut legs (some sort of compensation for the wearers’ lack of bosom perhaps).  I’m not much of a one for tampering with nature and/or pain and/or itchiness and the idea of waxing anything anywhere (much less in the front bottom area) is enough to make me pass out.  However some sort of action will have to be taken as, when I tried the swimsuit on, it looked like Chewbacca was trying to escape.  To make matters worse, when I turned round and looked at my rear view in the mirror instead of seeing my bottom and legs there seemed to have been some sort of explosion in a mattress factory (probably due to my belief that ice cream is a major and vital food group).  Anyway I have solved all my swimsuit problems with the purchase (on-line) of an industrial strength sarong.

If you’ve got this far, well done.  You’ve read all I have to say (today) about false bosoms, hairiness in unmentionable places and out-of-control arses and, although you’re probably a bit green about the gills, you’ve lived to tell the tale.

Now your reward.  I went back to Shropshire Cat Rescue last week and look what I saw, heaven!

Help ...

Picture from here

Lor love a duck I’m sweating cobs.  Or, to put it another way, it’s a little bit on the warm side. 

With my special powers (courtesy of Blogger) I’m able to see how many people look at this blog and whereabouts in the world they are.  Don’t worry, I don’t get any further details than that, so sadly I am unable to stalk anyone on an individual basis and turn up on doorsteps demanding sherry and pickled onions.  However it’s very interesting, and also quite thrilling (hello people in Russia), to see where in the world this blog is being read.  I’m sure a few readers (hello Aussies) would scoff at my describing 28^oC (or 82^oF, hello Americans) as unbearably hot, but for we delicate English people it’s sweltering.  It’s particularly hot, so I’m told, for anyone taking any form of exercise.  So hats off to Julie and Frances who both took part in the Race for Life at the weekend raising money for Cancer Research UK.  I was honoured that both Julie and Frances chose to put my name on their competitors' bibs.  I’m a soft old thing these days so I was really touched by their thoughtfulness.  Here’s a picture of Julie’s back (warning – she’s almost a potty-mouthed as me):

I say a lot of other things to cancer too, but let's not lower the tone

I’m glad to say that not only did they both survive taking part in the event in temperatures pushing 30^oC but also managed to complete the course. What a pair of tough cookies!  Thanks also to those who sponsored Julie.  What a bunch of good eggs you are.

Seeing as it’s blazing hot I have taken up the knitting needles once more.  Yes, woolly items are obviously the number one priority in summer.  Anyway I’ve decided that patterns are for wimps and so I am inventing my own thingummy.  I’m choosing to be a bit mysterious about it for now, but if the thingummy turns out to be even vaguely OK I will tell you about it another time.  If not, I may discreetly let the matter slide.

I’m bouncing back nicely after my stay in hospital a couple of weeks ago.  The pain seems to be well under control now (fingers crossed) so I was able to meet up with my sisters (yes they were all in the UK again, couldn’t you hear the shouting?) and some of my cousins too.  It was great to see everyone.

I saw Mr Oily (the oncologist) today and, although there won’t be much to report until I have scans sometime next month, he seemed fairly happy with the way things are going.  He also pointed out that one of the ‘swellings’ I’d been worrying about was, in fact, muscle.  This not only put my mind at rest but also made feel all svelte and athletic, which isn’t bad in anybody’s book.

Did you think I was going to get through a whole post without mentioning Cyril (three-legged monster cat)?  More fool you if you did.  Here’s another picture of him in action, using his carpeted cat tunnel.

See you around

Until next time, stay cool daddios.

Ow!

Since I last posted I’ve had an owie - and that’s putting it mildly. The pain in my side, possibly caused by cancer in the ribs, went ape shit crazy and I went in to orbit. I have never known pain like it (although admittedly I’ve not had children).  On Saturday I was admitted to hospital and, much to my joy, they sorted out decent pain relief.  I was discharged the following day and since then things have been much better.  I have developed side-effects from the chemo, nose bleeds and a need to rush to the loo at short notice (too much info?), but these are as nothing compared to the pain I was experiencing.  Here’s hoping my assortment of pain killers continue to do the trick. 

This weekend, in the blazing heat (yes, summer has finally arrived here in the UK), my friend and fellow curly-head Julie is running in a Race for Life, with all money raised going to Cancer Research.  What’s more she’s going to be running with my name on her back and, race organisers permitting, also a selection of choice swear words.  If anyone has spare cash (unlikely as that is in these straightened times) she can be sponsored by clicking here.

Cyril (the three-legged monster cat) continues to shoot in and out of his cat tunnel at all times of the day and night, coming home covered in dirt.  Here’s a picture of him embarrassing me by lounging around on my next-door neighbour’s garden table.  Kids eh!

A mixed bag

Picture from here

I saw Mr Oily (the oncologist) yesterday.  The appointment was both good and bad. 

Let’s deal with the grot first.  A few days ago I found a new lump in more or less the same area as before.  Mr Oily says it’s a ‘thickening’ rather than a lump but it does need watching.  Hopefully it’s just scar tissue but there’s always the possibility it’s a new tumor.  I will add it to my list of things to worry about, probably a few notches above my concern about how to keep my new cream sofa clean when there’s a very dirty three-legged cat in the house.

This was a good day.  I don't always manage to get a throw on the sofa before Cyril makes his mark.

 

I’ve been getting quite a lot of pain in my side, maybe due to the (possible) cancer in my ribs.  However, I have now been prescribed vast quantities of top strength co-codamol.  Hurrah for drugs.

On a happier note my blood tests and heart tests are all tickety-boo.  Mr Oily said that the flu-like side-effects I had after my first dose of the trial drug, TDM1, are pretty standard and now he is confident that this chemo doesn’t have an effect on the white blood cells, he advised me to take paracetamol as a matter of course for the first couple of days after treatment.  So hopefully, I won’t feel quite as vile after my next dose of new swamp juice next week.  I’ll let you know either way.  There is no escape.

Also, I think, maybe possibly touch wood, that my breathing has improved.  I’m certainly coughing less and the other day I walked to and from the supermarket (a 15 minute round trip), something I haven’t been able to do for ages.  Who’d have thought that going to the supermarket would ever be a cause for celebration?

In other news Cyril (the three-legged monster cat) loves his new carpeted cat tunnel.   

 He comes and goes at all hours of the day and night and likes to mark his return home by miaowing incredibly loudly, often at around 3am, to let us know he’s home.  I’m wondering if I can fit him with a silencer. 

My new kitchen is still a source of delight and wonder to me.  In fact I have just been sneaking my recycling into next door’s boxes (it’s kerb side collection day) as I don’t want to litter my lovely kitchen with recycling containers.  Not only do I think this marks me out as just a little bit bonkers but I also reckon I have lost any chance of a neighbour of the year award. 

Hot stuff

Picture from here

I started on the drug trial, TDM1, last week.  As it's a trial I had special treatment in the chemo unit.  There was a lot of attention, questioning and watchfulness from an assortment of nurses at regular intervals during the infusion.  Of course this is a Good Thing but, being an unreasonable git, I still found it annoying as it interrupted the intensive research I like to carry out while I'm on the unit.  That 'research' being the cover-to-cover reading of the type of celebrity gossip magazine I'm too snooty to buy but will happily consume in private if given the opportunity.  It also meant I had to be crafty about discarding the boiled sweet wrappers from the communal sweetie jar.  I think patients are meant to have one or two sweets not, like me, chomp their way through a hundred weight of the things and then come out with a sandpaper tongue, a major sugar rush and wonder why the NHS is short of money. 

Anyway, part of the irritating  info from the nurses involved possible side effects.  I did pay attention but have to admit I was thinking 'yeah, yeah, whatevs' as warnings were given, after all this chemo is known to have less side-effects than many others. 

It wasn't until a couple of days later when I stood simultaneously sweating and shaking in the supermarket that I wondered if the ice-cold/clammy combo was entirely normal.  There followed two days of grotty bed-bound  flu-like symptoms including an iffy temperature, a pounding head and everything aching.  

Fingers crossed that the cancer cells are feeling even worse than I did.

Kitchen capers

        Picture from here.  Artistic embellishment by moi

The building, re-wiring, decorating etc at Discombobulated Towers is finally finished.  Sis no 1 and her cat, Tuppence (the ginger ninja) can breathe a sigh of relief as I, the other-half and the three-legged monster cat have returned home after a prolonged (and much appreciated) stay at her house.

Stupidly we didn’t take any pictures of the old kitchen before work started but take it from me it was a dark, dank dungeon of a place.  But now?  Ta dah!

Cooker is cream, washer machine is white - Argh!

Flowers from the builder (probably included in his bill)

And, just for my mate M, look our co-produced artwork once again has pride of place (don’t worry I won’t tell anyone about how you bullied me into creating this masterpiece).

Please don't go thinking this refurb was a painless experience.  It took twice as long (or more) than we expected, went over budget and involved a dust up with a 'kitchen fitter' who could no more fit a kitchen than I could crochet a teapot. 

I always used to sneer, as I watched Grand Designs, at people who almost always spent loads more than they intended on their dream homes, took months and months longer than expected to complete building and ended up close to a nervous breakdown.  Now bitter experience has taught me better and I will watch the programme wearing my humble trousers in future.

However, all the trauma is behind us now and I can bask in the fantastic-ness of the new kitchen - it's not for cooking in you understand, just for looking at.  

Our small garden has taken a pounding.  It was used by the builders for storage space.  So while it used to look like this:

It now looks like this:

Which means that when Cyril went out for the first time since our return he couldn't resist rolling around in the sandy red grot and ended up looking like this:

I should at this point mention that I've also got new sofas.  One is cream coloured.  I sense a difficult evening ahead.

Normal non-refurb whinging will be resumed tomorrow when I start on chemo again - the drug trial TDM1.  Please keep everything crossed that this is the chemo that zaps the buggers!

Arse biscuits!

Picture from here

Today’s news can best be summed up by the immortal Father Jack.  Arse Biscuits!  If you’d like further details read on. 

All my test results have come through. 

Unfortunately it looks extremely likely that the cancer is in my bones (as well as, as I already knew, in my lungs).  The bone scan revealed two suspicious areas on my ribs (on both sides of my ribcage).  I've been getting pain in those particular areas, but was hoping it was due to excessive* hoovering.  There is a very small area of doubt about this (the cancer, not the hoovering) as the CT scan doesn't show anything on the ribs.  However CTs are better at showing stuff in soft tissue rather than bones, so it'd be daft to pin any hopes on that.  The results only came through today.  The research nurse (my new best friend) rang and told me (as requested by me).  Mr Oily (the boss oncologist) is off today but she will show him the scans tomorrow.

 
On the plus side my heart is OK and my brain is clear. Also on the plus side, the spread to my bones does not stop me going ahead with the trial drug.  In fact I start on Tuesday.  Here's hoping it packs a punch and bops the buggers on the bum.

In the meantime I am drowning my sorrows in Chablis, and I have to say it’s working a treat.  However, I may not be a delight to be around tomorrow morning.

There is no escape from the kitchen refurb report, but I’ll spare you until next time.

*when I say ‘excessive’ hoovering, I mean, of course, any hoovering.

Testing times

Since I last posted I have been zipping to and from the hospital for tests.  These tests (blood, urine, heart, bones, and a full CT scan) are mostly to determine a base line before I can start on the drug trial, although if the heart tests reveal anything iffy I won’t be allowed to start at all.

I was amazed that all the tests were arranged so quickly and was congratulating myself on having been a feisty patient who had galvanized my local hospital.  Silly me.  It turns out that the drug company behind the trial is paying for the tests to be carried out, hence the hospital’s sudden ability to move faster than a snail’s pace.  I might’ve guessed.

The tests themselves have been quite exciting.  Sis no 2 kindly said she’d take me to hospital on Monday for the blood and heart tests.  The time we arranged for her to pick me up came and went and I was left waiting forlornly by the front door like a forgotten pint of milk.  I called her and found that she had got the time of the appointment wrong and wouldn’t get to me until after I was supposed to be at the hospital.  I then had five minutes of panic while I rang for a taxi and called the hospital to warn them I’d be late.  To be fair the hospital was very accommodating and everything worked out fine. 

Well fine-ish.  As a result of all the chemo my veins are not what they were and there was a lot of poking about with needles in order to get all the blood needed for the various tests.  Things then got worse.  I was bitching about my sister to the woman carrying out the heart test when there was a knock on the door.  I was informed that my daughter was waiting outside for me.  It was, in fact, my sister and she is 12 years older than me!  This was rapidly turning into a very bad day.  However Sis no 2 and her sainted husband then treated me to lunch and took me home.  So I polished my halo and decided to forgive her.  I’m like that. 

Yesterday I had the bone scan.  This involved being injected with something radioactive (only two attempts to get the needle in this time, yay).  And yes I was weird enough to check to see if my wee glowed afterwards and no, it didn’t.

A scary thing about these tests is, of course, the possibility that they find cancer elsewhere.  The most common places for breast cancer to spread are the lungs (got the T shirt for that one), bones, liver and brain.  When I had the bone scan I had to have a second scan as the hospital bods spotted something on my ribs during the initial scan.  They did say that the something they spotted was probably just damage from surgery but I’m not going to let reassurance like that stop me from worrying.  Next week I have a CT scan which includes my head so I can start worrying about what is going on in my brain too.  No sarky comments from you lot thanks.

Anyway, if all the tests are OK I will be starting on the drug trial on 11^th June.  Fingers crossed.

Stay tuned for next time when I will tell you all about the never-ending saga of the kitchen refurbishment.  Can you bear the excitement?  In the meantime have a soothing picture of Cyril, the three-legged monster cat, looking particularly relaxed.

Mop tops and cack-hands

Pony with a Beatles hair do, don't you think?

As threatened in my last post here's the photo of a pony with a Beatles hair cut.  His name is Little Ted (he belongs to my neighbour) but I think Ringo would be better.

Now for another photo.  Prepared to be stunned.  Sis no 2 arranged for us both to go to a crochet class at a local vintage shop.  I'd really like to be one of those people (like my niece) who can take a discarded bit of material and an old crisp packet and turn them into a ball gown before you can say reverse slip stitch (whatever that is), but sadly I have no crafting ability whatsoever.  I'm sure I must have tried the teacher's patience though she didn't show it.  Well, she did say I was cack-handed, but that's just plain accurate so you can't really blame her.  Anyway here is the photo of the result of two and half hours labour (and I had a lot of help).

.

You're impressed aren't you?

I went back to the hospital today to sign on the dotted line, giving my consent to going on the drug trial.  Now I have to wait for a bone scan, CT scan and ECG before getting the go ahead.  Watch this space.

Brace yourselves

In the past few posts I’ve mentioned some of the recent shenanigans I’ve had with my local hospital.  I bet you thought I was going to spare you the details didn’t you?  Well you were wrong.  It’s just that up until now I haven’t had the heart to put the saga into writing.  But unluckily for you I have splurged it all out below.   

I had intended to reward anyone who was prepared to read through all the blah, blah, blah with a picture right at the end, of a pony that looks like one of The Beatles.  Unfortunately I can't seem to add photos today.  No idea why.  Just another thing to moan about.

Talking about moaning, here we go.  

Back in March I rang the specialist nurse at the hospital complaining of breathlessness on exertion.  I was told, without being seen, not to worry as it was probably just a knock-on effect from chemo last year and the surgery I had in February.  A somewhat cavalier approach I felt seeing as it’s already known that the cancer has spread into my lungs, but I (stupidly) didn't stamp my feet and demand to be seen.

In early April I was in the Chemo Unit for one of my regular three-weekly Herceptin top-ups.  I told them about the breathlessness and, as a result, had a blood test, chest x-ray and CT scan to check that I didn’t have any blood clots (I didn’t). 

Later that month I went to my GP surgery to ask about the breathlessness.  My GP told me that the CT scan, taken three weeks earlier, had shown progression in my lung mets (or, in other words, the lung crap was growing). 

I was furious that the Oncology Dept hadn’t picked up on this progression (I know ‘progression’ sounds good, but in the wacky, wacky world of cancer it is a Very Bad Thing).  I assume this happened because this wasn’t one of the regular, planned CT scans that I have.  But that’s no excuse.  To be told that the cancer was growing three weeks after the scan, and only because I happened to go to my GP, is, at the risk of sounding like a disgruntled retired colonel with a handle-bar moustache, a complete bloody disgrace.  Not to mention scary.

I made an appointment to see the oncologist the following day – and believe me I had to jump through hoops to get that appointment.  He was bloody useless.  No apology, no ‘OK let’s get things moving then’, nothing. He just told me I had to wait until the following week for a full CT scan (to check for spread to other organs) and then a further two weeks (two weeks!) to get the results.  He said it was impossible to speed up the scan and/or results.

A couple of days later I had a routine appointment with the breast surgeon.  I told her the whole sorry story and she said she would make sure I was discussed at the Breast Clinic/Oncology meeting the following day.  After that I had two calls from Oncology (I have never had a phone call from the Oncology Dept before, so colour me cynical).  During the first call the oncologist suggested that I call the CT Dept to ask them to come up with results more quickly (why he couldn’t do that is beyond me) he also mentioned the possibility of going on a drug trial (TDM1).  The second call, half an hour later, was to tell me that the drug trial was closed.

At this stage I was beside myself with fear, frustration and fury.  There was a real danger that my head would explode before I even got the chance to die of cancer.  However, I was very, very lucky to be in the position to be able to go to a Professor of Oncology in London for a private consultation including a CT scan and results in the same day. 

The CT scan revealed that there had been progression in my lungs, hence the breathlessness, but no spread to other organs.  The Prof explained that the trial for TDM1 was only closed temporarily and should be re-opening soon.  He felt I would be a good candidate for the trial and recommended that I see a colleague of his, on the NHS, in Warwick.

The following week I was informed by the London oncologist’s office that the necessary letters had been ‘done’ and I should hear from Warwick shortly.

A week later I still hadn’t heard from Warwick so I contacted the London oncologist’s office again.  This is when I found out that letters being ‘done’ meant dictated, not sent and, in fact, not even typed yet. So it’s not just the NHS that drag their heels.

The following day the letters were sent out (to Warwick, to my GP and to my local oncology dept).  Copies were emailed to me.  They made my jaw drop.  The letters while stating that I would be a good candidate for the trial and correctly detailing my medical history, said that the Prof recommended that, before going to Warwick, I go back and discuss things with my local hospital.  Neither I nor the other-half remember this being mentioned during the consultation.  Also, the letter sent to Warwick, was not asking that an appointment be made for me there, it was really just alerting them to my existence should I contact them.  So I had wasted yet more time waiting for things that weren’t going to happen.

It so happened that, last Thursday, I had an appointment (made some time ago) with the local oncology dept anyway.  So I decided to attend (having first notified them that I was very unhappy with my treatment and wanted to see the oncology boss).  If nothing else it would give me the opportunity to vent my spleen.

The boss was an oily rat bag of the first order.  He squirmed, smarmed and excused his way through the appointment.  I did manage to get one ‘sorry’ out of him – but that took some considerable effort on my part.  He claimed to be best pals with the London oncologist (the London onc having told me that they had met once or twice) and generally, it seemed to me, tried to salve his ego while not putting his hands up to any real failure in his department.

However, he did say that the drug trial was indeed still on and that if I decided to keep my care at Shrewsbury rather than transfer to Warwick he would recommend me.

The other-half and I went home, ranted to each other about the oily rat bag, and then did some serious, pragmatic thinking.  While we’d love to tell the local oncologists to stick it where the sun don’t shine the reality is that to wait for an appointment at Warwick and then have to travel an hour and a half each way for every appointment was not an appealing prospect.  So, warily, I have asked to go ahead with continuing my treatment locally.

I’ve just about finished my tirade now.  Please make sympathetic noises at this point.

Breaking news:  Yesterday I received a call from the local hospital confirming that, subject to tests, I have been allocated a place on the trial starting, hopefully, next month.  There is still a danger I won’t get on the trial and even if I do, no guarantee that it will work.  However, that said, it does (at last) feel like good news.

If you've read all this without slipping into a coma, congratulations, have a banana!  I'll do my best to fix the putting-photos-on-this-blog problem and show you the Beatle pony next time.

The sandwich bandit

The other-half, Cyril (three-legged monster cat) and I have now been staying with sis no 1 for about six weeks as building work takes place back at Discombobulated Towers.  We are very grateful for this place of refuge but quite frankly it’s amazing we haven’t been evicted due to Cyril’s behaviour.  As well as intermittently bullying my sister’s cat, Tuppence, commandeering the best seats in the living room and demanding his share of the breakfast bacon, he has now taken up thievery.  Yesterday he got through a plastic bag and some cling film wrap to have a good nibble of my sister’s ham sandwich. As you can see from the picture below he is consumed with remorse and sleepless nights over the whole incident.

Still wearing the bandit mask too

Meanwhile poor Tuppence has resorted to befriending the vacuum cleaner.

The end is in sight with the building work.  On the plus side the new room looks fantastic on the downside the kitchen fitter turned out to be completely fucking useless.  Sorry, but there really is no other way to put it.  I wouldn’t trust him with a lego set.  Anyway the work is being redone but, of course, this is yet another delay.

I’m also waiting to hear from the oncologist in Warwick.  I want to give the chap a chance but I will start chasing next week.  I’d really like to be on something to try to combat the buggers in my lungs.  I have started another hormone therapy, Letrozole (replaces tamoxifen in trying to block the oestrogen which my type of cancer loves).  It seems to be causing massive hot flushes (a small price to pay) which have even resulted to me standing around in the garden at night, flapping my dressing gown around like some kind of giant albino vampire bat.  

Yes, I know it's a crap photo.  But would you really want more detail?

We are family

Picture from here

Today, while I reclined not particularly gracefully on my sister’s sofa, the other-half’s family rolled their sleeves up and cleaned my filthy house.  Gawd bless their cotton socks!  My house is never exactly spotless at the best of times but all the recent building work has resulted in the entire place being knee deep in dust, debris and disgustingness.  So Da Family descended and blitzed Discombobulated Towers.  One of my brother-in-laws manfully cleaned windows, windows that haven’t been cleaned since I don’t when.  Give that man a coconut.  My sisters too have been in on the act, carting boxes of pictures and knick-knacks (I don’t do minimalism) from my place to clean them cleaner than they’ve ever been before (as well as all the ferrying me around for radiotherapy appointments).  I am a lucky duck, albeit a bit of a lazy one.   Thanks to all!  

As I wrote in my previous post I had a bit of a bombshell recently, not only discovering that the cancer in my lungs has grown but also that the change had been ignored by my local hospital.  I still can’t go into the full details of this story without a) boring you to tears and b) sending my blood pressure through the roof.  Suffice it to say that I’ll be sending in a formal complaint to the hospital’s chief executive.  Anyway, as I no longer have faith in the local oncology bods, and would like some action taken regarding my health before hell freezes over, I have been to see an oncologist in London.  He was very helpful and thinks I might be able to go on a trial for a new chemo drug called TDM1*.  I hope to hear from a hospital in Warwick this week with further news.  Fingers crossed.  If this doesn’t work out I can always go back to see the chap in London. By the way, after a long cold winter, it was a gorgeous day in London so, in between medical appointments, we window-shopped in Marylebone High Street and mooched around Regent’s Park admiring the blossom.

* Apologies for linking to the Daily Wail for an explanation of TDM1 but it includes a quote from Prof Ellis, the chap I saw in London. That's my excuse.  But I still feel dirty.