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.
