Blah blah blah KITTENS!

One thing nobody tells you when you get sick - or, at least, nobody told me - is that cancer smells. I mean literally in this case, although, obviously, figuratively too. It doesn't matter how often I bathe, I can't get the smell out of my skin. Judy says she doesn't notice, but I'm acutely aware of it.

This means that I have to do laundry more often - I may be living my life mainly in my nightie, but I do not have an inexhaustible supply of nightdresses and knickers - and also change the bedclothes more regularly. (Which reminds me - the missing pillow case I was wittering about on Warped the other day? It never did turn up, god knows where it's gone.) And all of that, of course, just makes me even more tired than I already was.

Which is still pretty damn tired, even though the lung's supposedly okay now. I'm still very short of breath, and frequently make what I am sure are highly attractive gasping noises.

My, what a delightful picture I am painting of myself. Throw in that I'm also now almost entirely bald and, gosh, you'd think some lucky fellow would just come along and snap me up, wouldn't you?

Anyway - all of this is to say that I am having a lot of trouble keeping up with the things I need to do, or want to do, or have invented to do to fill up the few hours of the day when I'm not sleeping. I've said before, I think - you will find that I repeat myself quite often. Could be old age, could be chemo brain, could be the baked beans - I can really only do one thing a day. Site-wise, that means I can either blog, or I can answer comments, or I can comment elsewhere. Maybe two of the three; not all of them. To which I say: meh. Also, predictably: poo.

(Predictive poo. Now, there's a thought.)

So, I haven't updated my blog in quite some time, which rather invalidates the whole purpose of having a cancer blog. Fortunately, however, this has been a quiet week: no hospital or GP appointments - why, I haven't even had to give a blood sample! - no crises, no dramas. Just me and Mr Crab, skipping along our merry way. Well, I say skipping. Trudging.

Stuff has happened, of course. Our friend Penny came for a short visit at the end of last week. It was lovely to see her, and I don't say that just because she arrived bearing four bars of choklit, a punnet of grapes, one mini rosebush, one mini orchid, and a lovely scarfy/shawly/blankie/wrappy thing that she had knitted with her own fair hands, well, and a pair of knitting needles. I am afraid that I spent a large part of her visit being sociable where values of 'sociable' = 'wrapped up in duvet on sofa asleep' but, luckily, Penny is capable of entertaining herself. There was Domino's pizza, which I managed to eat with no disastrous effect, a trip into Bicester so that I could look for head coverings in the various charity shops with which the place abounds, and then a further trip out to the garden centre, which did not so much involve gardens as Hobbycraft (to Judy and Penny, Hobbycraft is an Aladdin's Cave of wondrous treasures; to me it's "Eeeeew, what is all this tat?!") and Lakeland (which is an Aladdin's Cave of wondrous treasures that I cannot afford and, at present, have little use for).

We did our routine grocery shop in Buckingham this week, mostly for a change of scenery. I don't know what we bought, exactly, but it managed to come to over £90 - rather worrying, as it didn't even include cat food. Much more of that, and we'll be forced to resort to Lidl. I only ever set foot in a Lidl once, and it scared me, but ... needs must when poverty drives.

I said a while ago that I needed boots. I now have boots, courtesy of the Clarks outlet in Bicester Village. Of course, even buying boots can't be straightforward, not in my world. The ones I ended up getting (quite nice flat ankle boots with a solid sole and a buckle) (two of each, actually, one for each boot) were size 6, and a perfect fit - I take size 5, and every other size 5 I tried on fitted just fine - and they also had no price on, which meant we had to find the same boot in another size, one thatdid have a price tag, and take that up to the counter. I felt pretty stupid, queuing up with three boots in my hand. I have a lot of problems, true, but I am not Jake the Peg!

Side thought: what a lot of shitty songs I do know, to be sure.

Yesterday my brother came for his currently weekly visit, and this time he brought Michelle, my lovely sister in law, who is still recovering from breast reconstruction surgery. She still looks quite drawn and tired, and I hope the round trip from Bristol didn't take it out of her too much, but it was nice to see her. Also, she brought a bag of wigs with her, from her own baldie days, and we played with those for a bit. Verdict? Wigs are exactly as hot and scratchy and uncomfortable as I'd thought, and do, indeed, make me look like a bloke in drag. And I don't mean someone who's cross-dressing in any sort of serious way: I mean the local rugger scrum half at a tarts' and vicars' party. (Rugby players always come as tarts. I have long ceased to ask why.)

They brought cookies, too. I'm just saying. You know, it's no wonder I'm not losing any weight in spite of the chemo ...

The mail today brought confirmation from my hospital insurance company of my claim for my ten-day stay in the Churchill. They're paying out a lot more than I'd expected, but I suppose they know what they're doing. If they don't know what they're doing, let's hope they never notice.

So, what does the near future hold? Next week it'll be back to the medical routine: consultant on Monday - so we had better be sure to change the clocks this weekend, or we'll be there an hour early. (? Late? Brain the size of a planet, and yet I never can work that out in my head.) Pre-chemo blood samples at the GP on Thursday. And chemo on Saturday. Is everybody happy? Like buggery we are ...

I really do know all the crap songs. Why, god, why?

Before all that, we have an exciting Sunday lined up: we are going to Sunday lunch with a friend. A friend, mark you, whom I know only through Facebook, but she breeds Maine Coons, and suggested that KITTENS would be an excellent form of cancer therapy. And, you know what? I bet she's right.

EEEEEEE KITTENS!!!!

Being for the benefit of Mr Crab

Have you ever wondered what Mr Crab & Co look like? I don't mean Googling for images of cancer, because, ew, but have you ever tried to put a face to him?

I have. Mind you, it's pretty easy for me, because of where my own personal Mr Crab lives - in my tummy, which is so much easier to explain than 'peritoneum'. He looks like this:

Those are actually the Snapping Turks from Yellow Submarine, which is a v good film, although not if you don't like the Beatles (or if you like them Very Earnestly). I was a bit wary of Googling 'snapping Turk', which sounds like a Victorian sex aid, and, for all I know, is, but I was traumatised yesterday by an unwise Google for 'perineum' and maybe that's made me over-cautious.

I have been further traumatised today by Googling for coffee enemas. They sell the beans on Amazon, you guys!

So, in case you ever wondered what I do all day, at the moment the answer is mostly: I'm in bed with the gentlemen pictured above, or one of them.

I've had better.

If: the cancer remix

With apologies to Mr R Kipling ...

If you’ve been told you’ve cancer in your innards

You’re faced with problems totally unknown

You don’t know if you’ll live, or die, and nobody

Can help; you have to face it on your own

You start a round of which humiliation’s

The least of problems, set against your lot

Of care and fear; of fighting with the doctors

Who treat you without saying why or what

You reassure your friends, your loved ones,

Family: it’s bad enough they’re seeing you this way

Don’t frighten them, or say how bad the nights are

Too much, too scary – will they run away?

In all of this, there is one consolation

You’re not alone: you’ve joined a special band

It’s not a group you want to join for pleasure

But once you’ve joined it, people understand

Warped people, who will not let cancer beat them

Whose weapons include humour, love and hope

And saying ‘fuck’ a lot’, and simply caring

All those things help; and somehow you can cope

You cry sometimes, because you’re only human

You spend your hours frightened and in pain

It wears you down. But when the tears are over

You come back fighting time and time again

Cancer’s a bully: mean, and sick, and spiteful

But stand your ground, whatever comes to pass

Stick with your friends, keep faith, and keep on smiling

Together, we’ll kick cancer up the arse.

Kicking against the pricks

What I done on my Wednesday: got up far too early; drove, or rather was driven by Judy, to the Churchill - different route, similarly horrendous traffic, if I ever get really ill I think we shall have to take lodgings in Headington, maybe the man with the shark on his roof will take us in; waited around for a while being tired and uncomfortable, but 'tired' and 'uncomfortable' are SOP these days, so whatever; got cannulated; got injected with "mild radiation" - cool, but I'd better not go biting any spiders, the results could be fearsome; was shown to a singularly uncomfortable bed? couch? trolley - whatever it was, still better than sitting - so that I could lie down; duly lay down; an hour later, was woken up to have blood drawn. Lather, rinse, repeat x 4 at hourly intervals, then home.

Tedious. Not too painful. Not exactly skipdedoodle dancing-and-singing fun either, but there is v little about Stoopid Cancer that is dancing-and-singing fun, I find.

I don't begrudge them the blood they need for their tests - kidney function tests, these are and, all in all, I would prefer that my kidneys did continue to function - but I'm a bit miffed by the blood they drew off and threw away. There was enough there for a perfectly decent black pudding!

Tired - even more tired, I mean - and crampy afterward, so it was off to bed for me. Judy had a nap, too, but then had to bounce back up and be Intelligent - she's giving a lecture in Luton today,and had to put the finishing touches to her thesis. I used to get a bit grumpy about being the thick one out of all my friendses, but these days I think of it as the line of least resistance. Extracurricular education and all the work it involves? Neine danke!

So, Judy has buzzed, well, driven off to Luton, and is staying overnight - where, I hope she will have a lovely time with her friends and colleagues, and be able to forget the evil Mr Crab for a few hours. I'm a bit wibbly at the prospect of being on my own for the best part of two days, especially as the evil Mr Crab is currently twisting his claws in my tummy and laughing his evil laugh ("BWAHAHAHAHAHA!!"), but I shall deal with this in my usual inimitable fashion ...

Yup, you guessed. Drop a shitload of drugs, and go to sleep for the duration. It's how we roll, kids.

The rest of the state of me: the twinges from chemo are dying down, pretty much, and my mouth doesn't taste quite as horridly cardboardy. Little My and her yin/yang tummy may, I hope, have had some relief yesterday ... And my pixie cut turns out to have been a bit of a wasted effort, as the hair's already rubbed away over my right temple. Pity, but ... it is what it is. Now I wait until I'm well, and then wait for it to grow back. It will be fine. Because I say so, is why.

In non-cancer news - it is fecking cold, and I need new boots. These two statements may or may not be connected.

Hair: less

This is going to be a quick, well, quickish, update, just for my own records really, and v boring. Sorry!

But before I start - I don't have as much trouble with the Mac site as a lot of people, maybe because I wasn't using the old one for that long before it changed, but why in the name of the blessed Ada Lovelace, are private messages listed under 'community home'?

Okay. Summary: I am not quite bald, but it won't be long, I think; my older brother is lovely (my younger one is a capital L Loser); my left lung appears to be on the mend; chemo has given me nasty shooting pains and affected my taste buds.

It all could be worse, though some of it could be better.

This seems to be a pattern: Sunday, the day after chemo, I was pretty much fine; woke up all bright and perky (Allbright and Perky bitched about it a bit) and even contemplated a trip to one of the big Tescoses in which this area abounds. Common sense set in, and this was downgraded to a trip to Homebase to buy Judy a new bookcase for her study. Once home, Judy set about making it; I went to bed.

Sunday night - not so wonderful. Mostly a lot of weeing. (Funny how we talk about poo all the time, but wee hardly gets a look-in.) Judy pointed out that I'd had a lot of fluid put into me the day before, it had to go somewhere. Of course, some of it already had gone somewhere, on the way home, thank god for Sainsbury's having a customer loo - and, LM, I do apologise over the yin/yang poo; from past experience, I suspect the balance will reverse very shortly. Anyway, that meant a very disturbed night, and I barely woke up in time to have a bath before my brother arrived. The mobile hairdresser got here shortly after, and set up a mini-salon in the kitchen. She was very good - not squicked out at all by my hair coming out by the handful (once again, when I got out of the bath that morning I had left behind Guy the Gorilla) - and gave me a nice sort-of pixie cut. I doubt it'll last long, my hair's still coming out, but it'll do for the moment.

(Strangely, hairdresser-lady grew up just round the corner from here, and remembers when our estate was fields where one of the neighbours kept goats. How things change. Although our next-door neighbour has chickens. There is something intrinsically comical about urban chickens. But I digress.)

Oh, while I was with the hairdresser, my GP's receptionist phoned to say that she - the doctor, that is, at least I hope it is - had filled out my hospital insurance form, and was going to 'waive her fee'. We hadn't actually registered that there should be a fee, but whatever. I should hope she'd waive it, given whose fault it is that I got so ill before I got any treatment. Yeah. I'm gonna let go of that in a hurry!

Tim brought the news that, when he emailed Jeremy - that's other brother - to tell him that the sale of our mother's house appeared finally to be going through, Jeremy's response was "Good, then we can all delete one another's email addresses" - followed, for reasons best known to himself, by a quote from Richard III which Tim didn't bother to try to interpret, instead merely observing "Tosser." And so say all of us.

My sister Penny sent me a buff from my Amazon wishlist that morning, btw. I'm not sure it'll get used; it feels a bit itchy. But it was a very kind thought of hers.

By the time Tim went, I was very tired and shaky and - you guessed it - had to go back to bed. And worse, the chemo symptoms were starting up: sharp, stabbing twinges in my lower tummy, and in my bum, and in my girlbits which, I have to say, is not somewhere that stabbing twinges are particularly welcome; less unpleasant, but still not nice, a very dry mouth, with everything I eat turning tasteless as soon as I've eaten it. Which sounds a bit like something that would happen to a bad character in a folk tale. Which might account for a lot. If I remember correctly, I had these symptoms the last time, too, and they wore off reasonably soon. I hope they'll do so again. And, of course, if not ... oh, well.

Another pretty bad night last night, thanks to the twinges. Up early to drive to the Churchill - in hideous traffic from Kidlington onward - to see the lovely Dr Naj. Had a chest X-ray ("Oooh, I haven't had one of these for weeks!" I said), and Naj said that it looked as if the left lung had stayed glued down and not taken in any more ascitic fluid. There's still the original pleural effusion on the right side, but they're not planning to treat that - it's too little, although still big enough to have been the thing that mucked up my breathing to begin with. I suppose I should thank it for that, as without that we might never have found the cancer. Um, thanks, lung! I think.

Anyway: I've got another appointment with Naj in December and, if all is well, that will be the last of this. Which I shall be rather sad about. Naj is sweet.

We came home via Bicester; I went to the bank and paid off my credit card bill only-just-in-time, and we did some shopping in the scabby town Tesco; came home, unpacked, and who would like to make a bet on what I did then??

Indeed. And there I have been, pretty much all day.

At this very moment I should be at the Stables in Milton Keynes, bopping along to Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes. I'm not. I'm here, typing self-pitying nonsense.

Time to stop. Whining will recommence tomorrow.

That's chemo with a C, and that rhymes with P, and that stands for ...

It doesn't quite stand for 'pool'. Brown corduroy trousers might be in order next time. Thank heavens for Sainsbury's in Kidlington, which is about halfway between the hospital and home, and which has both a loo and a pharmacy counter. "Imodium Instants, and stat!" I barked at the pharmacy lady, believing myself, briefly, to be in an episode of ER. "Are you all right?" she asked, clearly concerned, and rightly so. Well. How do you answer that?

At least she didn't headtilt.

The chemo itself? Okay. Six hours of boring, but, as hoped, I managed to sleep through most of it - or at least go into that hospital-induced null-state where you're not quite asleep but not quite awake either. Judy started on a cross-stitch. In the room other women came and went, none of them talking of Michelangelo (well, they might have been, I didn't hear, but I doubt it). Why is my chemo so much longer than theirs? Who knows. Coffee was provided. A hospital sarnie was, perhaps unwisely, eaten. Things went in. Other things ... came out, not, as recorded above, always at the most convenient time. Follow-up drugs were dispensed. Um. Twice. Oh, Churchill!

So far, so good, so far as side-effects are concerned, but it's early yet. Let's see how the evening goes. And tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow ...

Did I really just write a(nother) blog post all about poo? Oh, well, at least it's only a little one.

The post, that is.

It's not just my baby that's gone down the plughole

EW EW EW THERE IS A DEAD RAT IN THE BATH - oh, no, wait. As you were. It's just ol' Burt again.

Useful Suggestions for hair loss have now expanded to include tea cosies. "A cat-shaped tea cosy," was the helpful addendum. You know what, we actually used to have one of those, but it didn't survive the last move. Ah, well. And then my friend Stuart posted a picture of his late wife wearing a tea cosy, so maybe it's not such a silly idea after all.

I have a young lady named Sam coming to the house on Monday to cut whatever hair she may be able to find by that time. She charges £20 for the service, and at this rate that'll work out at about £1 per hair, but never mind. I have put a buff on my Amazon wishlist, having first had to Google to find out what it was, and a friend has offered to bring me back a bandanna from Lanzarote - although I think the subliminal message there was 'Yay, I'm going to Lanzarote!', and who can blame her?

Okay, here is the Moral Story I was too tired to post yesterday -

Oh, wait: the Churchill has just phoned, their left hand, as usual, not knowing what their right is doing, wondering why I didn't have a post-chemo follow-up last time. (Answer: I did.) I'm glad Judy answered the phone, I really don't have the energy to deal with them. Mind you, it's a wonder she does, she's been working on the final revisions to her doctoral thesis all the time she's been running me backward and forward to hospital and generally being the all-round caregiver.

- Moral Story. Warning: this is the sort of thing that some people find inspiring, and makes other people want to throw up. I tend to fall into the latter camp. And yet, I share:

A woman looked into her mirror one day and saw that she had only three hairs left. (On her head, Little My, on her head, I cannot emphasise this strongly enough.) "Ah," she said, "today I shall wear my hair in a braid!"

The next day, when she looked, she had only two hairs. "Fine," she said, "I'll wear my hair in bunches."

On the third day, she had only one hair left, and so she wore it in a ponytail.

At last, she looked in the mirror, and found she was totally bald. "Hurrah!" she said. "Now I don't have to bother styling my hair any more!"

And the moral of this story - I told you there was one - is: attitude is everything. Although it might as easily be "whatever that woman was on, I want some of it."

I'll shut up about hair loss now. Maybe tomorrow I shall have Amusing Chemo Anecdotes, but, actually, I plan to sleep through as much of it as I can.

In the meantime: I do believe it's time for drugz. CODEINE, YAY!

... no, I don't think I have a problem. Well, okay, I might do, but I don't care.

Hair today - ah, you know the rest

Thus far my dear, loving friends' suggestions for dealing with hair loss have included "boot polish", "disguise yourself as Jean-Luc Picard", and "put a cat on your head". I'm thinking of firing the lot of them and renting a whole new set of friends. Judy's contribution was "buy a pair of Doc Martens to complete the look" - that's fine, but people would just assume I was an exceptionally butch Lesbian, and I've spent many years trying to disabuse people of that idea (except for one job I had, where ... oh, that's a long story). I said I could paint rabbits on my head, and then everyone would think they were hares.

Yeah, you can tell, we're all taking this madly to heart.

Judy's just found a number for a mobile hairdresser in the local advertising rag, so let's see if she can help. I hope so, this morning it was like I was sharing the bath with Burt Reynolds's chest wig.

Have been to give a pre-chemo blood sample, then to pick up (free!!) drugses. I am pretty sure that "Oooh, lovely!" is not the correct response to codeine, but the heck with it, it's mine.

I had a lovely little moral tale about hair loss and positivity I was going to share, but I am knackered and have to go lie down now. Maybe later.

Shining, gleaming, streaming, flaxen, waxen

I think we - that's the royal 'we', and I don't know why I do that, being as how I am actually common as muck - have to prepare ourselves for hair loss. Quite a lot came out when I washed it this morning - not clumps, but a good plugholeful of loose strands, which reminds me, I must clean it out - and more when I combed it. Bum. I know it's not the worst thing that could happen, and intellectually I'm quite prepared for it. Emotionally, though, might turn out to be tougher than I'd've expected.

But hey. If it happens it happens, and it'll grow back. And I'm told you get a free Brazilian into the bargain, so win!

I'll be stuffed if I have to paint on eyebrows, though. Never having been a girlie-girl, I haven't a clue how to do it. The only person I know who might be able to help, um, isn't actually a girl at all. Most of the time.

(What have I said before about my life?)

The futon in my study is snoring gently. I would be quite alarmed if I didn't know the Jenny-cat was having a snooze behind it, having been out all night, evil creature.

Anyway. I went for a walk round the garden just now, because otherwise I'm cooped up indoors all day, just languishing on the sofa with no-one to fan me or feed me grapes. Our lawn is covered with toadstools.

"'ow d'you know they're toadstoools?"

"'Cos there's not mushroom inside."

Oy!

Monday morning couldn't guarantee

I honestly don't know why I don't just go and live in the Churchill. Well, I do know, it's a bit bleak and my house is much nicer, plus it's a bugger to get a bed. But for all the time I spend there, I might as well move in. I'm already due for chemo on the 15th, and on the 18th I have to go and see Naj (and tell him I think the fluid's back, which I don't imagine will amuse him); then, while I was asleep this afternoon, Judy took a phone call telling me to be there on the 19th for some kidney function tests, which will, apparently, take five hours, wtf!

Got up at the ungodly hour of 7.00 this morning (hah: I used to be at work for 7.30 am when our office was in Oxford; now I barely get out of bed at all) to go and see my GP. I like to drop in on her every now and then as a kind of living memento mori; if she'd been a bit more on the ball (she started out by trying to treat the fluid on my lungs with antibiotics which was, not surprisingly, unsuccessful), I wouldn't now be as ill as I am - or, at least, I'd be further along with my treatment. While the look on her face when she saw the "got cancer" letter from the Churchill was, admittedly, priceless, I would really rather have had an earlier diagnosis. Eh. Shoulda, woulda, coulda. Anyway: today I had to give her my drugs list for re-upping - I've almost finished all those lovely painkillers the hospital gave me although, to my credit, I haven't even touched the morphine - and book a pre-chemo blood test, and also ask her if she could sign my hospital insurance claim. I have a highly amusing hospital insurance policy that I took out years and years ago, which pays me £30 for every full day I spend in hospital. I would have been better off stuffing the money under my mattress (or, better yet, putting it in a dedicated bank account), but it seemed like a good idea at the time and, once again, it's too late now. Anyway: she wasn't sure her signature would be acceptable - the form is hopelessly vague - and neither am I, so I have to phone up the insurers. But I was too tired today. Maybe tomorrow.

I got her to tap me on the back while I was there, on the grounds that she may as well make herself useful. She agreed that it sounds as if there's fluid on the left-hand lung, although she did it in a very cautious and qualified manner. I may have her scared. Do I want a scared doctor? Better than no doctor at all, I suppose, although I can't really complain about that, not when half the medical team at the Churchill seems to want a piece of me.

How nice to be wanted. Or is it?

My baby, she has restless nights

Every day I make my bed neatly, smooth down the duvet, tuck it down the side of the bed and the footboard. And every morning I wake up cocooned in a 30-tog pretzel with my feet sticking out.

I don't know what I dream about, but it must be very exciting. It's a pity I don't remember, I might have the next big best-selling fantasy series tucked away in my brain somewhere. Although even if I did, I am probably too lazy to write it down.

My sister Penny came for a visit, all the way from Penzance, last week - she arrived on Tuesday evening and left on Friday morning. I'm afraid I wasn't the best company, since I spent most of the time languishing on the sofa (it's useful having guests, it means that there's a spare duvet downstairs all ready for me), but Judy took her out to see the sights of Bicester: the town, and the garden centre, and Bicester Village, and the fake stone circle (we don't know why Bicester has a fake stone circle - that is, it's real in that it's a circle made of stones, but it's not an antiquity) - but it does), and ... ummm, that's it, actually. Thrilling, I know. Anyway, it was lovely to see her, since I haven't since my mother's funeral last year.

It's quite strange having someone to stay who's never been before; you have to warn them about all the little glitches that you just take for granted: "Okay, the upstairs loo has a bit of a funny flush, it works okay if you stand on the other side of the toilet and pull the handle towards you ... and the seat's a bit wobbly, and the hot water in the tap only trickles. You can wash your hands in the bidet, no, it's okay, we don't use it. The hot tap in the downstairs loo trickles too, you're on your own there ... Remember to lock the front door when you come in, or go out for that matter, it doesn't latch (the GC has never quite got the hang of this and has several times left it unlocked all night) ... We don't have a toaster, we make toast under the grill, BUT the cooker has slightly dodgy wiring so we turn it off at the wall when we're not using it. Oh, and the pilot light on the hob doesn't spark, you'll have to use the lighter-thingy ... ah, and apparently that one doesn't work at all. And please don't expect our cats to be friendly, they don't like people. They don't even like us all that much ... Enjoy your stay!"

Another former colleague popped in on Friday, bearing a lovely card and a pretty pink potted plant (and left with the loan of one of our three sets of Lord of the Rings, as she said she'd never read it). I think I have now seen almost all the people I used to work with, at least the inner cabal. Some of them are going to have to start coming round a second time. Actually, some of them already have, and very grateful I am, too, although it may not seem like it when I'm propping myself up on one arm and trying to keep my eyes open!

The cancer? Oh, the cancer. It's still there, crabbing away at my tummy. Don't tell it, but it's having its second lot of chemotherapy this coming Saturday. I don't expect it to make a lot of difference, but I hope it'll do some good. Kill off the cancer whilst causing me the minimum pain and inconvenience would be favourite.

The bad news is ... the breathlessness is back, and it is pretty bad, although not as much so as it was before. Dr Naj is going to be furious if the pleural effusion's filled up again after all his hard work, and I can't say I'm any too pleased about it myself. It hurts, and it's scary. These are two of my very not-favourite things. I'm seeing my GP tomorrow, and I'll get her to tap me on the chest and back and see what she thinks. I've got a chest appointment on the 18th; I hope I can hold out that long and not have to play the emergency card again. People will get quite tired of me, if they're not already.

Speaking of my doctor's surgery, they are the winner of this week's 'misplaced sense of humour' prize: they've just sent me a form letter offering me a free NHS health check ...

These are better days

Today is a red-letter day in the saga of Hilary versus the Churchill Hospital - which, btw, I am fairly sure is not supposed to be a contest. We had three slightly iffy things to do, all three of them turned out fine, and we were on our way back home in under two hours.

Well, okay, when you say 'under two hours', it doesn't sound all that good ...

First off, Judy wanted to see the parking office about getting a blue badge permit so she can park in the staff area free. (It would have been useful if they'd sent her the form before I spent ten days in hospital, or if anyone had told her ahead of time that you can get a lower-cost ticket if you have to spend a lot of time there. But they didn't. Too late now). The parking office is, I hardly need say, tucked away in a remote area of the hospital, and is only open occasionally - occasionally when differs depending on who and what you're getting your information from. But today Judy tracked it down, and found someone who claimed to man it, and now we can park wherever we like, within reason although, need I say, the places the badge entitles you to park are fairly random: this car park, for example, but only in these two rows.

Certain persons, I name no names but they are closely related to me, had been parking in the staff car park anyway on the grounds of, and I quote, 'fk this for a game of soldiers'.

Then I had a follow-up chemo appointment ... possibly. We didn't have a follow-up letter, just the card Dr Nickum gave us when we saw her - whenever it was, three weeks ago now? - so we weren't sure whether we really had an appointment, especially as it's meant to be a three-week follow up, not a ten-day one. But whose fault is it that it's only ten days? Okay, partly mine for insisting on having my chest drained first, but the rest of it was all them. But, again, this all went smoothly: we saw a registrar (what the hell is a registrar, anyway? We didn't want to get married!), she asked lots of personal questions and had a poke around, and yay, we are all set for Chemo #2 in a couple of weeks. Well. I say 'yay'. I'm not quite sure what the correct emotion would actually be.

The appointment itself was our third query, as it's on a Saturday. Judy went and checked while I was waiting and, yes, they do, in fact, do Saturdays 'in the run up to Christmas', she was told. How very seasonal, I'm sure, and a happy new year to all.

Hospital duty done for another couple of weeks, unless the ascites decides to do anything gushy, and we headed home, taking in the garden centre (the actual garden centre for Judy, Lakeland for me), chav Tesco, and my GP's surgery en route. I need to see my GP to sort out a pre-chemo blood test, and to see about getting my DRUGZ re-upped, and for something else, I think, that I cannot remember but which is probably v important and which I had better bring to mind before next Monday. Might happen. Might not.

Then home and, unsurprisingly: sleeeeeep. That was a lot of moving about for a crabby person.

I've had loads of lovely visitors over the past few days: friend and colleague Rebecca on Thursday, our friend Lynn (who used to live in our sitting room; I have mentioned before, I think, that our lives are oftentimes unlike those of other people) over the weekend - Lynn cleaned all our downstairs windows, and mowed the lawn; this is my type of guest - and ex-colleagues (still friends) Nairne and Jackie on Sunday. I'm expecting my brother tomorrow, and my sister is arriving tomorrow evening to stay for a couple of days. I am bustling about as much as possible - which isn't much - to get the house as clean as possible - which isn't very (although we do have sparkly windows!) - before she arrives. My sister is quite particular, and my house would barely pass muster even when I'm at my best. At present, even I can see there's room for improvement. "Play the C-card, Hils," I hear you say, and I'm gonna ... but I'm also going to do all the housework I can manage so that she thinks it's usually cleaner than it really is ...

Oh, what a tangled web (etc).

Oh, yes! Hospital insurance. That's the other thing I need to see the doctor for. I'll tell you about my laughable hospital insurance some other time, I'm tired.