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?
