My family (we'll get to the 'other animals' another time)

Today is a very important day in the annals of the B- family (I feel like a Victorian novelist, putting it like that. My mother would have said, "And a right B family it is, too". But I digress). Today, as I was saying, is the birthday of my sister-in-law, Michelle.

What has this to do with cancer, you may ask, although I'd think it was a bit cheeky of you if you did. It has this to do with it: Michelle is a two-time survivor of breast cancer. The first round was five years ago, when she and my brother were still - can you say 'dating', when the people involved are in their 40s and 50s? Well, whatever the word is; she was undergoing chemo when they got married. She'd lost her hair, but wore a beaded headdress and a blue satin dress and was one of the most beautiful brides I've ever seen. They also had a super penguin cake, and the wedding was carried out by Lionel Fanthorpe, with interjections from Professor Jack Cohen, but that's by the way. My family never does do things quite the same way as other people.

Michelle is, without a doubt, the smartest person in our family*: she's strong and capable, and cancer never stood a chance against her. It may have helped that, having worked for L- Bank (there I go, Dickensing again) for many years, she had a fairly spectacular health policy built up and didn't have to rely on the kindness of the NHS, but that's just the jelly in the doughnut; she would have beaten it no matter what.

But cancer is a coward and a sneak, and it came back last year. Michelle fought it again, and she won - again and, I hope, this time for the last time. She had to have a mastectomy and, as I type this, is presently at home, recovering from reconstructive surgery. This, in itself, is braver than I shall ever be: having had very minor surgery myself, the thought of having elective major surgery is mind-boggling to me. But she did it. And she dealt with it. It's what she does.

She's the best thing that ever happened to my brother, and I am proud and honoured to have her as part of my family.

(My poor brother, btw: a crabby wife and a crabby sister, both at the same time!)

Contrast and compare: my younger brother, Jeremy, and his wife Karen. I don't talk about them much - this may well be the last time, in fact. Jeremy Is Not Speaking to me. No, he is not five years old, he's fifty. I have no idea why, and I may as well admit that I honestly don't care. Karen, meantime, carries a thirty-year grudge against Judy. At my mother's funeral last year, when Judy and I came into the church, Jeremy and his family were already there. They turned their backs and ignored us, stood apart and ignored all the rest of the family afterwards, and, when we went on to the crematorium, they sat in a different pew from the rest of us. Jeremy knows I have cancer. I haven't heard a word from him. Not. One. Word.

You choose your family. I choose to discount this particular element! He is a wet and a weed, and I uterly diskard him.

(I should say something about my sister, Penny, for the sake of balance. Hi there, Pen! No - she's great, too. She lives in Penzance, so hasn't been able to be around much, but she's phoned a number of times, and is coming up here for a visit next week.)

Back to the diary. I've been out of hospital for almost a week now, and am doing pretty well - I think: (almost) no vomiting, and what there was was really just gagging on the giant hospital paracetamol, and the Hospital Cough vanished almost overnight. My stomach is very sore, in several different ways - unfair: one would be enough - and I've been quite tired, but I think I'm gaining strength. I managed to be up and dressed for friend/colleague Rebecca's visit yesterday, and today I managed to walk to the Co-op and back.

Every day, in every way (etc).

* That's actually not saying a lot. She is very smart, and extremely competent.

Ten days that signally failed to shake the world

This is old news now but, as I've said before, there's no point in keeping a cancer blog if I don't keep it up to date. (There isn't much point to it either way, but let that pass.)

So, I can't be bothered to do the wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey special effects. We are going back just over two weeks, deal with it. Also, this is going to be loooooong.

*ahem* *clears throat*

Right. When we last left Our Heroine - that's me - she was just about to go into the Churchill (which is in Headington, near Oxford, for those who have enquired. Oh, yes!) to have fluid drained from her chest, and then to begin chemo. Or was she??

This was Wednesday, 14 September. On the Monday, I had seen both the chemo and the chest specialists: chemo-lady had been all gung-ho to start the treatment right! this! minute!; I was firmly of the opinion that I was far too ill to do any such thing, a theory that was borne out by the lovely Dr Naj, who discovered that the fluid he had drained out of my left lung, or where my left lung ought to be, the week before had flooded right back. He seemed a bit miffed about this. Imagine how I felt! So he told us, quite distinctly, to report to the chest care day clinic at 2.00 on Wednesday for surgery.

Sorted, eh? Um ... no. On Tuesday we had a call from the chemo department to tell me I had a bed in Oncology for Thursday. I've said it before and shall no doubt say it again: CHURCHILL HOSPITAL, CANNOT YOU LET YOUR LEFT HAND KNOW WHAT YOUR RIGHT IS DOING?? Judy asked the Macmillan nurse to sort this out and get the damn doctors to talk to one another. I don't know whether she managed this or not. Then, on Wednesday morning, literally just as Judy was leaving the house, we had a phone call from the Churchill to tell us to report to the Geoffrey Harris Ward at 12.30. This? Pas possible: Judy had a how-to-deal-with-redundancy training course that morning, and wouldn't be back here until at least 12.00, never mind getting me to the hospital. I went into a state of flat panic: it's hard to describe, but it's as if my chest and innards all locked up. Remember, I already couldn't breathe, so this was super-uncomfortable. I managed to drag myself about the house and do the things that need to be done pre-going away - I can't bear leaving the house for any time and leaving dirty washing in the basket, for example - and Judy skipped the last part of her seminar, came home early, and whisked me off to the hospital.

We checked in, as instructed, at the chest day clinic. Which is closed on Wednesday afternoons. Oh, Naj, I am disappoint! But, luckily, the receptionist actually knew what was going on - I consider this little short of a miracle - and directed us to the OCDEM building.

Have I mentioned that I was in a wheelchair, with Judy having to push me? Or that the chest clinic is a good ten minutes' walk (or wheel) from the main entrance? And that the OCDEM building is at least another ten minutes beyond that? Well: I was, and they are. That's a lot of pushing. I tried to convince Judy that the exercise would make up for the Zumba classes she's missed. I'm not sure she was buying it.

So, anyway: finally, we get to the Geoffrey Harris Ward. There is, of course, no bed for me there. We sit in the dayroom for an hour or two, and wait, and wait, and wait. Eventually a wheelchair (a different one, with a porter) appears, and we are returned all the way back to where we first came from, to Naj's clinic in Radiology, where, thank god, we finally got some action. (Um. Not like that. Ew.) The action in question involves me lying on my side - "So this time, if you faint, you're already lying down," said Naj - while they put a drain into what they kept referring to as my chest but was actually, if you ask me, my side, between two ribs. And then attached it to a bucket, which promptly started filling up with what appeared to be but, in fact, was not, delicious raspberry coulis.

Cue porter, and return - trundle, trundle - to Geoffrey Harris where, wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, they had sorted me out a bed. A bed in a side ward on my own, moreover, which was a vast relief; I don't want to sound like a horrible snob (too late!), but the scene in the main ward was positively Breughellian. Scary! Anyway: my room had a little air conditioner, and its own loo and shower, and even a tiny fridge. Coo er gosh, posh.

It was lucky it was a (relatively) nice (if fugly) room, because there I stayed until midway through the following Wednesday. "What happened to whisking you straight into chemo, Hils?" I hear you say, and I reply: fk knows.

The week passed as follows:

Wednesday (remainder of): lie in bed, stare at ceiling, chest drains.

Thursday: two trips - one morning, one afternoon - back to Radiology, once for an X-ray, the second time for an ascitic drain which didn't happen as there were only patches of ascitic fluid, not enough to drain. (My guess? The majority of it had somehow worked its way up into my lung, that's how it filled up so fast. I do not know whether SCIENCE will support this, but I don't see how else it could have happened.) Anyway, I was quite relieved: one drain at a time is enough for anyone. Return to ward, lie in bed, stare at ceiling, chest continues to drain. Judy receives letter inviting me for a CT scan next Wednesday. Um - guys? I'm here, already ...

Friday: lie in bed, stare at ceiling, chest has now almost ceased draining. May I just mention how bloody painful it is every time they flush the line? Random doctor appears, administers lovely, lovely morphine, yum!, and then tips talc into the drain (Naj has assured me they do not use Yardley) which will, allegedly, glue the lung to the chest wall, thus leaving nowhere for the ascites to run, baby, nowhere to hide. Morphine! Yay!! Drain, disappointingly, remains in place. I am v tired of having to take my bucket with me everywhere I go, plus I have managed to kick it over twice.

Saturday: lie in bed, stare at ceiling until quite late at night when WHOOOSH! there is VOMIT! and lots of it! Nurse is unable to administer anything to relieve this until it has been prescribed by a doctor. Of a doctor, any doctor, there is no sign. Vomit until I can vomit no more, then finally, mercifully, fall asleep.

Sunday: nurses ("Is this wise, sir?") remove drain. Hurrah! No more bucket! They tell me I'll be getting another X-ray. This fails to materialise. And, in theory, I am now ready to move to Oncology. Hah! Lie in bed, stare at ceiling.

Monday: lie in bed, stare at ceiling. No room at the Oncology inn. Judy receives letter at home giving me an appointment for chemo as a day patient - Dr Nickum had been quite clear that, as it was my first treatment and I'd been so ill, I should stay overnight for observation - on Friday. (Later, she discovers several messages on our home phone advising of same. GUYS! I AM IN YOUR OWN DAMN HOSPITAL, CHECK THE RECORDS!!!) Encore du vomit, this time during poor Judy's visit. "Told you I was ill," I say proudly although, to be truthful, I think we've all figured that out by now. Super-incompetent nurse administers nightly blood-thinning shot (it's better than having to wear the socks!) that makes my arm swell up like a balloon, and also attempts to insert a cannula for a nausea shot, only succeeding in HURTING A LOT. Do not like this nurse.

Tuesday: lie in bed ... ah, you know the drill by now. Consider suggesting they do my chemo in a stable, except the Churchill probably doesn't have a stable.

Wednesday: remember that CT scan? Well, they decided to go ahead with it. Awoken far too early and forced to drink two litres of water. CT scan happens, including almost-painless cannula - I had been flatly refusing to let anyone on the ward (nurses, patients, cleaners, whatever) put one in - thus proving it can be done. Return to ward. Vomit up all the water. Somehow force down spectacularly unappetising lunch. Am informed that - can it be?? - Oncology is finally ready for me. Huzzah! Or is it? Transfer to Oncology duly happens but, once there, I am put in a ward - bed 42, which should have been a good omen but wasn't - and just left there for three hours, with my notes and my drugs sitting out in the open on the cabinet. I also didn't have a pillow. And I was throwing up as no person has thrown up before, or ever will again. (This is probably not true, but I was certainly very sick indeed.) I would probably be lying there still if Judy hadn't arrived and gone and grabbed a nurse from the front desk, who claimed they hadn't realised I was there. Yeah, that seems to be a pretty universal problem, doesn't it, Churchill Hospital?

So: once finally officially on the ward, I get cannulated again - again, not too painful, and they put it in my forearm, not my hand, which is way better - they administer an anti-nausea shot, not before time, and promise me chemo tomorrow. This turns out to be a bit like 'jam yesterday'. Am feeling nostalgic for the good old days of lying and staring at the ceiling. Which is lucky, because ...

Thursday: random doctor appears and informs me that they will need to check the CT scan (they couldn't have done that right away?) and take more blood before I can have chemo. Lie in bed and ...

Friday: today I shall finally have chemo! Oh, glory hallelujah! But. They have not yet ordered the drugs, which will therefore not be with us until midday. It's a five-hour procedure. It could be a long day.

(Later) Chemo happens. It isn't painful. It isn't even uncomfortable, particularly. It is a bit weird. And very boring. Judy points out that the hospital got their own way after all: I had chemo on Friday, just as they said. "Not as a day patient," I argue, feeling that even the tiniest victory is, well, a victory. I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling, and worry about side-effects ...

Saturday: ... unnecessarily. I feel fine. Not even any vomiting - although, mind you, I have already done enough vomiting this week to last me a lifetime, thank you. Judy arrives. We wait. Nurse appears with big bag full of DRUGZ, all for MEMEMEMEME!! "Have you had your little red book?" she asks. "The Thoughts of Chairman Mao?" I wonder. I know the NHS is, quite literally, a Socialist construct, but this seems extreme. But nyet. This is my Chemo Diary, in which I am to record treatments and side-effects. The nurse helpfully enters the date of my next treatment: 15 October. On returning home, we find that this is a Saturday, and feel that this is improbable.

Yes! Returning home! We do it! Oh my god, I have never been so glad to see my own HOUSE and my own ROOM and all my pretty THINGS and my CATS and to be able to have a proper BATH and a cup of tea when I want it instead of having to wait for the damn trolley, and have PROPER FOOD (oh, hospital food, so like unto the school dinners of my youth - and so particularly hard on vegetarians), and, and, and ... Also, I believe that I have, in the past, used in my writing the phrase 'the hushed tranquillity of a hospital ward'. If I ever do so again, please: shoot me!

There is (clickety-click) no place like home. Especially when you do not have to share said home with an old lady with a pneumatic bed that breathes all night in a spooky sort of way, or with (ew!) sick people!!!

It was not all bad: Judy visited every evening, once with the Gentleman Caller and once with our friend Sabine (who brought choklit), and my brother came up from Bristol twice. And I had Java Bear for company. I also had my MP3 player, several Georgette Heyer novels and Bill Bryson's At Home, both, in their different ways, ideal for a long period of inaction and brain-death, and a puzzle book. The problem was that, as the expected five days dragged on and on, my MP3 player ran out of battery, I stopped being able to focus on reading, and I came to the conclusion that if I ever saw another puzzle I would scream. Worse: I started to run out of nighties and, even worse than that, knickers. By Friday I found myself in the embarrassing position of having to wear black pants under a rather diaphanous white nightgown. Not a good look.

Perhaps the strangest of all the strange things that happened was on Friday night, when the trainee nurse looked at my pen - a gag gift from lovely friend Joan that features a photo of Mr Josh Charles - and said, "I like your pen." "?" I thought. "He's the best thing about The Good Wife," she said. "???" I thought. "I saw Hairspray the other day," she said, "he was one of the dancers." "STOP IT!" I thought, "STOP IT NOW, THERE IS FANDOM AND THERE IS HOSPITAL, AND NEVER THE TWAIN!" "Yes," I said, "It's sad, I know, but I do have a bit of a crush on him." "Oh well," she said cheerfully, "my sister's 28, and she's still obsessed with Boyzone." NOT THE SAME THING, NURSEY. NOT THE SAME THING AT ALL!

I've been home for five days now and, touch wood, no major problems: some tummy pain, but that's to be expected, that's where the evil Mr Crab lives; I'm tired, but when am I not, and fuzzy-minded ... ditto. It could have been a lot worse, and I know I'm very lucky. I don't want to be a selfish cow but, again - too late! - but I hope I stay that way.

Today is the first day that I have been sufficiently un-fuzzy to write all this up. Well: I did warn you it would be a long, hard one.

Ooooooh, Matron!

What we don't talk about when we talk about cancer

While I'm waiting to go into hospital - probably; the Churchill seems to be at complete cross-purposes with what we were originally told - I'm going to say a couple of things you're not supposed to say.

#1: Why me?!

The obvious answer is 'why not?' But, in theory, I should have been a low cancer risk. There's no family history. I haven't smoked in over 20 years, and then it was only the odd social drag in the pub. I don't drink a lot, I eat healthily - mainly vegetarian - I'm not hugely overweight, I used to walk a lot and do yoga and Zumba.

I'm not saying that people who do tick those boxes deserve it, that would be stupid. Nobody deserves it. I'm just ... surprised, I guess. Maybe I was just standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Better me than a lot of people, it's true: I don't have kids, or a glittering career. But I don't have to like it.

#2: I am absolutely shit scared.

You aren't supposed to admit this. You're supposed to be Brave and Cheerful. Well, sorry. I'm not scared of dying, so much (I'm not thrilled about it either), but I know that both the illness and the treatment are going to hurt like hell and the best I can hope for is to be as unconscious as possible, as much as possible.

Yes, I am a wuss. The truth is out.

To be fair, I might be less scared if I had more confidence in the hospital. They're supposed to be very good, but I haven't seen much evidence of it so far. They've been leaving me hanging for weeks at a time; then two departments both wanted me in for treatment at the same time; and this morning they phoned with completely conflicting instructions from the ones we were given on Monday. Is it any wonder I'm worried?

Anyway: if they sort themselves out, this will be my last post for a few days. Thank you again to everyone who sent good wishes. If prayers and hugs and positive thoughts could cure cancer, I'd be bouncing about like a wee spring lamb by now. Please keep them coming!

And if anyone local could spare the time to visit me, that would be best of all. It's going to be pretty damn miserable in there.

Here comes the flood

Please ignore yesterday's post. We've spent the day at the Churchill, first discussing cancer treatment, as scheduled, then in the pleural clinic for the all-clear from Dr Naj.

We didn't get it. The lung's filled up again.

So, I'm being admitted to hospital on Wednesday, and will probably be in there for several days.

Damn. That was two screams and a perfectly good faint quite wasted.

Another draining experience

"AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!" I said.

Well, they did tell me to let them know if it hurt.

But I anticipate myself. Come, step into my time machine, and let us travel back to last Thursday morning ...

*wibbly-wobbly spacey special effects*

It is Thursday, and for the past few days (weeks?) my breathing has been becoming increasingly more and more laboured. This time last week, I could - just - manage the ten-minute walk to my GP's surgery. Today I can't walk up the stairs without effort, and my chest feels caught in a vise. My next appointment at the pleural clinic is not until 18 October, and at this rate I'll be dead by then. Something Must Be Done.

(At this point, the audience is yelling "Go to A&E, you idiot!" But I am not very good at this being ill malarkey, and don't know the proper protocol.)

Judy phones the pleural clinic. The secretary promises to get a doctor to phone us. We wait ...

Okay. A&E it is, I don't see we have any other choice. I pack a go bag in case they want to keep me again, Judy loads me into the car, and off we traipse to the JR.

A&E is not quite where we thought it was. The walk does me no good whatsoever. We finally find the right place, I collapse into a chair, and Judy goes to do battle with the receptionist ...

Who is nice as pie, totally helpful, rushes me straight through (Judy says we got glares from the people waiting), and even finds me a wheelchair. I like that lady.

I like the A&E staff, too, who are fast and efficient, don't ask stupid questions, but do give me oxygen. Bliss! You have no idea how much you miss breathing until you can't.

All the usual tests, the doctor bangs all over my chest and back - a cowardly thing, I call it - and makes me say "99" until I am dying for an ice-cream, an X-ray and then, somehow, the pleural clinic at the Churchill manages to liaise and says they can operate on me this afternoon, if we get there quick.

We get there quick.

More oxygen, some waiting, then lovely Dr Naj appears.

"Did they tell you your X-ray results?" he said, and I said I assumed that the pleural effusion had got worse.

Well, yes and no. The original effusion, on my right lung, is still there, doing nothing much. But. There is now two and a half litres of fluid on my left lung and, Dr Naj says, they had better do something about that.

I say that I think that would be a good idea, and off to surgery we go.

"Nice tattoo," says the nurse.

"This is where I came in," I think, still visualising two and a half litres in terms of milk bottles and trying to figure out how on earth they fit.

We'll draw a veil over the actual procedure, as it was abominably painful. There were two screams and a faint. The scream at the start of this post records the moment they tried to drain off the last few millilitres. That was very hurty indeed.

So, one more X-ray - inclusive of one more almost-faint when I had to stand up for it - and Dr Naj decides I'm fit to go home. Judy packs me back into the car, drives me home, puts me to bed, and here I have been more or less ever since.

I can still barely breathe and can't exert myself at all, and my innards are all bruised and sore - especially my poor left lung, which is slowly uncurling and going "WTF?!" - but I do think I feel a bit better. And so I should hope, after all that.

Tomorrow I have two appointments at the oncology department, one with the clinic and one with the consultant. We presume this is to discuss chemo. I don't think I can start chemo until my breathing's sorted out. I anticipate a battle. Stay tuned!

Hero of the hour, btw - other than Dr Naj - is Judy, who was, once again, absolutely bloody brilliant all day long, as she has been throughout this whole nightmare. By a lucky coincidence, the GC was staying over Thursday night - so at least she had a good end to her day.

Me, I just slept. Sometimes it's the only way to go.

Bumf

Do you ever wonder how many trees had to die so that people could avoid giving us a direct answer? Got cancer? Here's a leaflet. Going into hospital? Here's another leaflet. Diet problems, money worries ... leaflet, leaflet, leaflet. My cancer folder is so full of leaflets, I can barely lift it.

And you know what? I haven't read a one of them. I'm too tired, too sick and too confused to wade through a sea of words in search of the one paragraph that might apply to me.

Don't give me leaflets! Tell me "You have cancer, this is how bad it is, this is what to expect." Say "This is light and easy to digest, try this, and if that doesn't work we'll try something else." Give me a form, say "You're entitled to this, this and this, fill in these lines, sign here and we'll take care of the rest."

Be helpful. Don't rely on what somebody else wrote about some other case. Every person is an individual. Treat them that way.

Another 'nothing. Existed' post

Yesterday was a nothing day: I was very tired, and stayed in bed for most of it. Other than that, I didn't feel so bad, and even managed to eat quite a bit: a tin of Dunn's River Nurishment, a banana (granted, this took me two goes), two slices of toast and Marmite, two rice cakes, and a yoghurt. Not all at once, obviously.

Today looks like being more of the same, except that, so far, it's been less successful food-wise. I had a tin of Dunn's River for breakfast, but my tummy is all bloated and stretchy and I don't think I can manage anything more. Even a cup of coffee seems too much at the moment.

My breathing still worries me: there's a buzz in my chest that I can't shake, and my back aches miserably. But I've had breathing problems most of this year, I suppose we can conclude it's not going to kill me. Although sometimes I wish it would. Peacefully, in my sleep, of course, I don't need any more pain.

Horrid, rainy and blustery today, and all the cats are in. I suspect this means that we are not in for a peaceful night.

I started early, but my cat started earlier

I was much surprised this morning, when I got up and opened the back door, to find the ShadowCat outside it, as he was in when I went to bed. I could only assume that he had found a portal through time and space, dematerialised, or - more worryingly - jumped out of my bedroom window, a two-storey drop. (He has been known to jump out of my study window, but the porch roof is under that, so it's two one-storey drops, not so bad.) However, when Judy woke up she said that he'd been fussing so much about six o'clock this morning that she'd had to get up and let him out. Mystery solved. I must've slept right through it, which is unusual - I usually hear the cats - but then, I have been very tired all day, and have had to go back to bed three times. Or possibly four, I've lost count.

Amazon rather alarmed me, too, as they kept sending me emails for something I didn't recognise and don't want - but it turned out to be a book I'd pre-ordered for Jillian's birthday, so that was okay after all. That was back in June, so no wonder I didn't remember. A lot's happened since then.

Lovely friend and former colleague Nairne came for a visit this afternoon. I haven't seen her since June, which is a long time when you're used to seeing someone nearly every day. She seems quite well and happy, and has a temp job that may go permanent, so perhaps I can stop worrying about her now. At least a bit.

(There's irony there: Nairne used to give me a lift to work, my employers in their wisdom having moved from the centre of Oxford to the arse-end of nowhere. When she was made redundant, my concern for her was mixed heavily with my concern for myself and how in the world was I going to get to work now? Well, problem solved. Thank you, cancer! Um ... I think?)

Health-wise, today has been a good day, apart from the aforementioned tiredness. On the other hand, I haven't really eaten anything, other than a bowl of cereal. I'm torn between the need to eat - not eating is not going to help me stop being tired, is it? - and the fear of what it might do to me. I'm going to throw caution to the winds and cook some frozen fish and chips (with peas. A vegetable!). Whatever happens, I doubt it will kill me, although, on the evidence of last week's digestive issues, I might wish it would.

(Later that same evening: fish and chips definitely a mistake. Woe, and also help!)

Eeek-a-mouse!

Yesterday got off to an overly dramatic start: *hunting growl* said one of the cats, and then vanished under my bed and made thumping noises for some time. "I hope that's not what I think it is," I thought but, of course, it was: when I went to look, there was a dead mouse! on my bedroom floor!

I know most cat owners are used to this sort of thing, but I've never been much good at it. I managed to get rid of the corpse by throwing an old teatowel over it and picking it up between the dustpan and the cat litter scoop, but I can't get under my bed to see if there are ... bits. And what if it had fleas?!

The NuCats are the most terrible little murderers, and once brought down a wood pigeon between the three of them. I suppose I was lulled into a false sense of security by the old cats, who weren't catching anything much at all toward the end of their days.

I miss the old cats. But I suppose it was nice of whichever NuCat it was - I suspect Molly, but it might have been the boy; Jenny would probably have eaten it outside - to bring me a prezzie.

It was a day of many gifts, as then the postman arrived, burdened with numerous items, including but not limited to:

- One (1) glossy brochure from the NatWest bank, showing me what my accounts have been doing through the medium of bar charts, pie charts, and any other kind of chart you care to imagine (the NatWest Bank: "WE'VE GOT EXCEL, AND WE'RE NOT AFRAID TO USE IT!!"). Dear NatWest Bank: did you use my money to produce this, by any chance? Did I say you could, or ask for it? I didn't think so. But I suppose you'll go your own way, whatever I say, so carry on.

- Three (3) nighties, which eBay claimed were cotton but turn out to be brushed cotton, or cotton jersey, and long-sleeved into the bargain - no good for hospital - but I can't be arsed to send them back. My optimum nightie for hospital is light cotton, short-sleeved or sleeveless, because hospitals are always too bloody hot, and - and this is important - ankle length so as to disguise those stupid pressure socks they force you to wear. This simple-sounding formula is surprisingly hard to fill. We may end up having to make our own. (I then looked at sewing patterns on eBay, and had hideous flashbacks to high school sewing lessons - our domestic science teacher was one of those bullying old ladies who put you off a subject for life - so I may just go without. After all, are my short, chunky little legs really anyone else's problem?) (Answer: no, but I am as much a slave to cultural conditioning as anyone.)

- One (1) letter from the Churchill which, at first glance, I took to be another reminder of my appointment for the 12th. On second glance, it turned out to be for another clinic, also on the 12th: the first one's at 10.05, and this one's at 11.00. Cutting it fine, there, Churchill. So, of course, I had to phone and check that this was okay, as I am not convinced that the Churchill's left hand always knows what its right hand is doing, in fact, I suspect that its left hand doesn't even know what its left hand is doing. I may be doing them an injustice. I hope so, they may be cutting me open again at some point in the future. Anyway: it turns out that yes, this is fine, so we'll see how it goes. How nice to be so in demand.

- One (1) copy of the senior consultant's letter to Dr Nicum, which scared me to death: I read the diagnosis as 'serious carcinoma'. When Judy got home, she took one look and pointed out that the word was actually 'serous'. Oh. Um. Okay, just one moment while I hand in my copy-editor's badge ... No carcinoma at all would be favourite, but I'll take what I can get.

- One (1) lovely get-well card from my YBP people (formerly colleagues, latterly customers - it's complicated) in New Hampshire, which they sent to Blackwell and Blackwell forwarded on, which gave me an excuse to ring my line manager and chat for 20 minutes or so. You would not believe how much, at this point, I wish I were well enough to go back to work;

- and one (1) cheque from the probate people in respect of my mother's estate. This is a godsend, and the timing couldn't be better: it's not a huge amount - not enough to retire in comfort and live on for the rest of my life, for example - but it's just over a year's salary, so it's a cushion. (I'm not being cold-hearted, btw: my mother was 94, almost perfectly healthy, if batty, and died quietly in her sleep last year. We should all be so lucky.)

Now I have the worry of figuring out where the best place is to keep the money - not, I think, down my bra front and, again, we should all have such worries. Maybe the NatWest can suggest something sensible, in between playing with their graphs.

I also had a phone call from the chest clinic to let me know that they'd made a new appointment for me - 18th October, which is a bit of a wait, but what the hell, I'll take it. My chest and back do hurt, and I'm very short of breath, but it's bearable. There are plenty worse off. Just look at just about anyone else's cancer blog!

Oh, and I ate two meals yesterday, where the value of 'meals' = 1 x sardines on toast and 1 x small omelette + packet of MicroChips. The sardines were in tomato, and I put mushrooms in the omelette, so there was even a vegetable element. Sort of.

Today I feel heavy and bloated which, again, is unpleasant. I suspect that the liquid they drained off my tummy during the laparoscopy has all come seeping back (well, not the same liquid exactly, but more of where that came from). I'm going to go and curl up around a pillow for the duration.

Just had a text from my brother to say that Michelle is out of theatre and they tell him her surgery went well. Fingers crossed for recovery - both, obviously, for their own sake, and because these are people I would be hard put to do without.

I started early, took my dog

I didn't really take my dog. I don't have a dog. And it wasn't that early, either, I got up around 8.30. But I was really tired, and could have stayed in bed all morning.

Instead, I went to give a blood sample at the surgery - which went off without mishap, this time - and then Judy drove me to the Churchill to talk to the people at the Maggie's Centre about benefits. That was a bit of a waste of time: it looks as though I have too much in the way of savings to qualify for any income support - not enough to live on, though, ironically - and, because of our irregular living arrangement, trying to claim housing benefit would just stir up a can of worms. Or open a hornet's nest. One or the other.

Maggie's Centre is in a rather dilapidated Portakabin and a bit depressing; it had something of the air of a battered women's shelter about it. I suppose it does its best. As do women's shelters, who don't tend to have money to spare on cosmetic enhancements.

We had to walk all the way through the Churchill to get to Maggie's, which is an awfully long way, and I was exhausted by the time we got there. And then we tried to walk back round the outside, which took even longer. And that was me done for the day.

Tim phoned again tonight - very briefly, but still: it's nice that he cares. I don't have that much in the way of family.

Many friends, though, so I am not allowed to whinge. In fact, I am never allowed to whinge, unless there is something good and worth whingeing for. Since I'm feeling quite a lot better today than I have over the past few days, there isn't. So I shan't.

"I am very tired" is merely a statement of fact, not a whinge. So there.