- which is merely my way of saying that I got fed up of the stupid fluffy bits that were left on my scalp and I got Judy to razor them off, going for the full Magwitch. It looks a bit bizarre, but at least I am now in no danger of being pulled in by the fuzz. (A painful procedure, at best.)
So. Anyway ...
According to my Little Red Chemo Book, my regimen - it is regimen, dear children, not regime, trust me on this, I'm an editor - is now Carbo/Taxol - Taxol. "That'd be Carbo, then," I said brightly. You would think that having only to be poisoned with one drug would result in a swifter recovery rate, and so it would if there were any justice in the world, but here we are, more than ten days later, and I still feel rotten. Meh, I say.
You would also think that having to take only one drug, discounting steroids and flushes and so forth, would be a whole lot quicker than the old six-hour procedure, but by the time you take into account the usual delays, the absence of a chemo nurse, the absent chemo nurse being Rosita, someone on the ward having an adverse reaction, and three goes with the cannula, we spent longer waiting for the chemo to start than the chemo itself actually took. Still, we have our own ways of amusing ourselves. You can play 'patient or carer?', which is by no means always obvious, and 'wig or not-wig?' - the trick here is to look for anything too perfect - and 'who's going to throw up first, please don't let it be me', and also 'are you trying complementary naturopathy, or do you actually enjoy chomping your way through an entire Tupperware of raw vegetables?' ... that one really needs a snappier name, although it's probably a one-off anyway, I doubt I'll find myself sitting next to the same woman again.
The chemo, when it finally arrived, and when I was finally cannulated, went off okay, except that the needle suddenly started to really, really hurt about ten minutes before the dose finished. I don't know if maybe a vein collapsed? I don't know what that would feel like. Either way, my arm is still quite sore now, and the bruise from the cannula is frankly magnificent.
On the upside, we didn't have to avail ourselves of Sainsbury's facilities on the way home. Really, it was very clever and thoughtful of Sainsbury's to open up a branch with a customer loo halfway between hospital and home. I should thank them. Possibly by buying something there. You know. Ever.
That was Monday - the Monday before Christmas, not the Monday just gone. On the Tuesday we had to be back at the Churchill again, this time for the chest clinic. Much to my woe, the lovely Naj wasn't there. We got a little girl - I'm sorry to be patronising, but the Churchill really does specialise in what I am sure are fully trained and highly specialised medical staff who look about twelve and weigh maybe 90 pounds soaking wet - who took my complaints of gaspiness and chest pains seriously enough to send me for a CT scan. She offered the charming suggestion that chemo might have given me blood clots on my lungs. My. Wouldn't that be fun, if true? I will spare you any suspense: nothing showed up on the scan, and even the original pleural effusion seems to be shrinking. So, clearly I am just making it up to put on airs. *sigh*
So home we went, and there was my brother and sister-in-law, and a whole lot of frozen vegetables. The veg came as a bit of a surprise (Tim and Michelle we were expecting), but Tim explained that they were to help make cooking Christmas dinner a bit easier. And so they did, and very thoughtful it was.
The BoyCat decided to spread his own version of Christmas cheer by refusing to come in for two nights and then vanishing altogether. It was probably a protest against all the people we'd had in the house; Penny had stayed the previous weekend (and had brought another lovely knitted blankie for me to wrap myself up in), and then the GC came, and then Lynn came to stay over Christmas, and then some people from work stopped in for a visit ... BoyCats do not approve of such goings-on. Although, given that the last time he vanished was on Hallowe'en, maybe he just has somewhere better to be on solstices. He was finally persuaded in on Christmas Eve, so we all settled down to have a lovely Christmas.
And we did. And god bless us all, said Tiny Tim. Especially the cats, who bought me a Slanket (there is a theory that it's actually their Slanket, but they'll let me borrow it to warm it up for them). And all the other people who bought me many, many lovely things - all of whom, I am embarrassed to admit, I still owe thank-you letters.
But what I have mostly been doing is sleeping. I do believe that the Tuesday of the chest clinic was in fact the last time I left the house. Which is a bit bad. As I write this, I am trying to muster up the energy to stagger - and by 'stagger' I mean 'get Judy to drive me' - up to the doctor's to pick up a prescription, and then into town to get it filled. Running out of codeine would be a pooey start indeed to the New Year.
A New Year that I do very much hope will be better than 2011. 2011 sucked!
Thursday, 29 December 2011
Saturday, 17 December 2011
... and so to bed
La, my dears, if Pepys had been as bad a diarist as I am, we would now know fuck-all about the 17th century. (Incidentally, it is Quite Interesting how Pepys's diaries came to be decoded and transcribed - but I digress.)
Since last we spoke, I have been visited by persons from my place of work, to wit, my line manager and someone from HR, which went off quite well. I was worried they might hassle me about getting back to work which, pas possible, but they didn't, although, as feared, my SSP is about to run out, and the HR lady arrived bearing a form to claim further benefits from the Guvmint which, in my case, I do not think I qualify for; however, I sent the form in anyway, so as not to drop off the grid. I should hate to wake up one morning and find I was no longer entitled to NHS care. (I'm not so worried about my Old Age Pension, as I doubt I shall be around to need it. Morbid, but sadly true.) Wendy, my line manager, had just come back from Florida Disneyworld, which to me seems an odd choice of destination for a child-free adult, but to each their own. She brought me some choklit and a poinsettia, both v welcome.
On the Thursday of that week we had the ex-YBP dinner at a local pub (The Plough, should you ever be in Bicester; the food's quite good). I had rather an embarrassment of riches in terms of people making sure I could get there okay, and Stuart kindly drove me home - and Nairne walked me out of the pub to make sure I ended up in the right place! Oh, chemobrain, you have a lot to answer for: I used to be a fully-functional adult and now I can't tie my own shoelaces, if I had shoes with laces and could reach my feet to tie them in the first place. The YBP family got rather rudely broken up two years ago when [company merges and takeovers, blah blah blah], as a result of which those of us who survived the process - I only very narrowly qualified, and that was largely due to YBP in America saying lovely things about me, thank you, guys! - clung together in much the manner of survivors on a freezing life raft ...
... wait: wouldn't survivors on a freezing life raft be more inclined to chuck each other overboard and increase their own chances of survival? Bad analogy. Anyway. We all got very close, much more so than colleagues normally do. It was quite an odd group already, including as it did two people heavily involved with amateur dramatics, one movie buff, several SF readers, one convention-going Supernatural obsessive, and me, all of which merely reinforces my conviction that there are no normal people. Heck, even the little girl who used to live next door to me when I was a teenager grew up to marry a man who's into historical re-enactment, and I'm sure that had nothing to do with me. *thinks back* Did it?
So, anyway: very nice dinner, although the vaguely exotic fish (haddock with ginger) went rather oddly with traditional roast veg, and they served Yorkshire pudding with the turkey which, what? Then on to Friday, and what would have been a lovely visit from my lovely brother and was, in fact, a lovely visit from my lovely brother, only somewhat mitigated by the fact that when I bent down to feed the cats that morning my back pinged out and I was in agony, and remained so for another week - it still isn't quite right, in fact.
Somewhere in amongst all this we started becoming festive. Judy got lumbered with the traditional job of cleaning up the sitting room so that Father Christmas won't think we're slobs - it's the only time the bookshelves get moved so we can clean behind them (yes, yes, but you haven't seen our bookshelves). I couldn't be much help, or any help, really, but I took on the job of LibraryThinging the books from the shelves behind Judy's chair (somewhere along the way we drifted into the habit of appropriating chairs of our own, we are very middle-aged now) and then sorting them, which I have actually been itching to do for some time and have never had the energy to do. I didn't really have the energy now, either, but it's amazing what you can do when you are determined, and when someone else pulls the furniture out of the way for you. So now the philosophy books are all organised although not, alas, by discipline, merely by philosopher and/or author. (Not me. Judy. Open University.)
The Christmas tree, which we bought a couple of weeks ago, has been brought inside, and is now about three-quarters decorated. The amount of tree-decorating I can do at any one time is severely limited, not so much by spoonlessness, although that too, but by how much prickliness I can take at the any one time in question. My fingers may be numb, but they still feel pain, which seems unfair somehow. And there are pressies and cards all over the place and, all in all, it is v exciting.
On Monday of this week (see, I am almost up to date now) we were off once again to the Churchill - although Judy had to chase them up for the appointment, sigh - to see the consultant for my pre-chemo appointment. She's cleared me for both my upcoming session and the following one, which is early in January, and has taken me off Taxol, so it will only be ... oh, I can't remember the damn names, the other thing - this time. Which, I hope, will mean a much shorter session, and possibly also no need for an emergency stop at Sainsbury's. *hopeful*
I just about had enough spoons after that for a ginormous shop at Big Tesco, after which, somehow, we still had no actual food to speak of. The cats are all right, though, as the Who never sang, so that's okay. At some point we must buy vegetables. We really must. We must buy potatoes and sweet potatoes and butternut squish and parsnips and carrots and broccoli and courgettes. And then we must cook them and eat them. Yes. Also, cranberries. ("Hey, you forgot cranberries too?!")
On Thursday I had Plans to go into Oxford, since Judy was going in anyway for what I am sure was a thrilling lecture on Restorative Justice - Plans that neither spoons nor bad back nor threat of snow could cancel. And so I did. And I managed a wander round the Covered Market, remembering to buy mistletoe (should you ever want to buy mistletoe from the Covered Market, remember to get it from the other florist, who sells big bunches for £2, where the first florist only sells sprigs which are also £2); and a moderate-sized shop in Boots, gaining (amongst other things) Gü Christmas crackers and some Simple facial wipes for which Macmillan will gain the princely sum of 10p; and a Lush shop; and a big old collapse in Pret a Manger, involving a tuna melt and a lemon pudding and two lattes, and I wasn't even sick afterwards! I was very, very glad to see Judy, though, so that we could go home.
And so, as I said, to bed. I have not quite been there ever since - for a start, I'm obviously not there now, I can't do this much typing on the netbook - but pretty much. As I also said: very, very tired, and very, very breathless. This coming week, as well as chemo, I have an appointment with Dr Naj at the chest clinic. I think Naj thinks he's going to sign me off his books. I think he's wrong. I only hope I have enough breath to argue. I have a number of new spoons, including a small wooden Welsh lovespoon on a chain that Judy gave to me yesterday (and what I suspect is a spoon from LM, although it is wrapped in Christmas paper and is thus, obviously, currently unopened), so perhaps those will help.
Our friend Penny is visiting at the moment, bringing with her, as though she were not welcome enough already, Christmas Lush stuff, and a lovely M&S nightie and another of her wonderful knitted blankies for ME. We were planning to have celebratory Indian food last night; it's a measure of how poorly I feel that I wasn't up to it. WOE, and, indeed, WOE!!! Luckily, my friends are fast becoming used to visiting only to have me languish on the sofa at them - and sometimes go to sleep mid-sente...
Since last we spoke, I have been visited by persons from my place of work, to wit, my line manager and someone from HR, which went off quite well. I was worried they might hassle me about getting back to work which, pas possible, but they didn't, although, as feared, my SSP is about to run out, and the HR lady arrived bearing a form to claim further benefits from the Guvmint which, in my case, I do not think I qualify for; however, I sent the form in anyway, so as not to drop off the grid. I should hate to wake up one morning and find I was no longer entitled to NHS care. (I'm not so worried about my Old Age Pension, as I doubt I shall be around to need it. Morbid, but sadly true.) Wendy, my line manager, had just come back from Florida Disneyworld, which to me seems an odd choice of destination for a child-free adult, but to each their own. She brought me some choklit and a poinsettia, both v welcome.
On the Thursday of that week we had the ex-YBP dinner at a local pub (The Plough, should you ever be in Bicester; the food's quite good). I had rather an embarrassment of riches in terms of people making sure I could get there okay, and Stuart kindly drove me home - and Nairne walked me out of the pub to make sure I ended up in the right place! Oh, chemobrain, you have a lot to answer for: I used to be a fully-functional adult and now I can't tie my own shoelaces, if I had shoes with laces and could reach my feet to tie them in the first place. The YBP family got rather rudely broken up two years ago when [company merges and takeovers, blah blah blah], as a result of which those of us who survived the process - I only very narrowly qualified, and that was largely due to YBP in America saying lovely things about me, thank you, guys! - clung together in much the manner of survivors on a freezing life raft ...
... wait: wouldn't survivors on a freezing life raft be more inclined to chuck each other overboard and increase their own chances of survival? Bad analogy. Anyway. We all got very close, much more so than colleagues normally do. It was quite an odd group already, including as it did two people heavily involved with amateur dramatics, one movie buff, several SF readers, one convention-going Supernatural obsessive, and me, all of which merely reinforces my conviction that there are no normal people. Heck, even the little girl who used to live next door to me when I was a teenager grew up to marry a man who's into historical re-enactment, and I'm sure that had nothing to do with me. *thinks back* Did it?
So, anyway: very nice dinner, although the vaguely exotic fish (haddock with ginger) went rather oddly with traditional roast veg, and they served Yorkshire pudding with the turkey which, what? Then on to Friday, and what would have been a lovely visit from my lovely brother and was, in fact, a lovely visit from my lovely brother, only somewhat mitigated by the fact that when I bent down to feed the cats that morning my back pinged out and I was in agony, and remained so for another week - it still isn't quite right, in fact.
Somewhere in amongst all this we started becoming festive. Judy got lumbered with the traditional job of cleaning up the sitting room so that Father Christmas won't think we're slobs - it's the only time the bookshelves get moved so we can clean behind them (yes, yes, but you haven't seen our bookshelves). I couldn't be much help, or any help, really, but I took on the job of LibraryThinging the books from the shelves behind Judy's chair (somewhere along the way we drifted into the habit of appropriating chairs of our own, we are very middle-aged now) and then sorting them, which I have actually been itching to do for some time and have never had the energy to do. I didn't really have the energy now, either, but it's amazing what you can do when you are determined, and when someone else pulls the furniture out of the way for you. So now the philosophy books are all organised although not, alas, by discipline, merely by philosopher and/or author. (Not me. Judy. Open University.)
The Christmas tree, which we bought a couple of weeks ago, has been brought inside, and is now about three-quarters decorated. The amount of tree-decorating I can do at any one time is severely limited, not so much by spoonlessness, although that too, but by how much prickliness I can take at the any one time in question. My fingers may be numb, but they still feel pain, which seems unfair somehow. And there are pressies and cards all over the place and, all in all, it is v exciting.
On Monday of this week (see, I am almost up to date now) we were off once again to the Churchill - although Judy had to chase them up for the appointment, sigh - to see the consultant for my pre-chemo appointment. She's cleared me for both my upcoming session and the following one, which is early in January, and has taken me off Taxol, so it will only be ... oh, I can't remember the damn names, the other thing - this time. Which, I hope, will mean a much shorter session, and possibly also no need for an emergency stop at Sainsbury's. *hopeful*
I just about had enough spoons after that for a ginormous shop at Big Tesco, after which, somehow, we still had no actual food to speak of. The cats are all right, though, as the Who never sang, so that's okay. At some point we must buy vegetables. We really must. We must buy potatoes and sweet potatoes and butternut squish and parsnips and carrots and broccoli and courgettes. And then we must cook them and eat them. Yes. Also, cranberries. ("Hey, you forgot cranberries too?!")
On Thursday I had Plans to go into Oxford, since Judy was going in anyway for what I am sure was a thrilling lecture on Restorative Justice - Plans that neither spoons nor bad back nor threat of snow could cancel. And so I did. And I managed a wander round the Covered Market, remembering to buy mistletoe (should you ever want to buy mistletoe from the Covered Market, remember to get it from the other florist, who sells big bunches for £2, where the first florist only sells sprigs which are also £2); and a moderate-sized shop in Boots, gaining (amongst other things) Gü Christmas crackers and some Simple facial wipes for which Macmillan will gain the princely sum of 10p; and a Lush shop; and a big old collapse in Pret a Manger, involving a tuna melt and a lemon pudding and two lattes, and I wasn't even sick afterwards! I was very, very glad to see Judy, though, so that we could go home.
And so, as I said, to bed. I have not quite been there ever since - for a start, I'm obviously not there now, I can't do this much typing on the netbook - but pretty much. As I also said: very, very tired, and very, very breathless. This coming week, as well as chemo, I have an appointment with Dr Naj at the chest clinic. I think Naj thinks he's going to sign me off his books. I think he's wrong. I only hope I have enough breath to argue. I have a number of new spoons, including a small wooden Welsh lovespoon on a chain that Judy gave to me yesterday (and what I suspect is a spoon from LM, although it is wrapped in Christmas paper and is thus, obviously, currently unopened), so perhaps those will help.
Our friend Penny is visiting at the moment, bringing with her, as though she were not welcome enough already, Christmas Lush stuff, and a lovely M&S nightie and another of her wonderful knitted blankies for ME. We were planning to have celebratory Indian food last night; it's a measure of how poorly I feel that I wasn't up to it. WOE, and, indeed, WOE!!! Luckily, my friends are fast becoming used to visiting only to have me languish on the sofa at them - and sometimes go to sleep mid-sente...
Saturday, 3 December 2011
The two-cannula job; or, double, double, toilet trouble
Let us pretend, for the sake of - oh, I don't know, just pretending, perhaps - that today is Monday, 28 November, that I have just come back from chemo, and that I am blogging about it promptly in order to keep my memories up to date.
Ah, the heck with it. Let's not. It's actually the Saturday after, and this is as close as I've got all week to feeling well enough to write. Just the sitting up at the PC to type is an effort, and typing itself isn't made any easier by the fact that my finger ends are now almost entirely numb, where values of 'numb' = 'still hurt when you bang the keyboard a bit too hard by accident because you can't feel you're hitting anything until you do'.
The most that can be said, really, for chemo #4 is 'well, that happened'; it was pretty unremarkable. I've got to the point now where I just click into hospital coma mode as soon as I step inside the ward: lie down wherever they point me to lie down, rest my arm on a pillow, and let them get on with it.
Monday sessions are less satisfactory than the now-defunct Saturday sessions, for a number of reasons - traffic, parking, clinic busier, we don't get hands-on service from the very efficient Rosita - but the Saturday sessions ain't coming back, so there's no point bitching about it. The one thing that would've annoyed me if I'd had the energy to be annoyed is that the chemo staff have a team meeting from 9.00 to 10.00 in the morning and, my appointment being at 10.00, the nurse left in charge wouldn't let us in and give me my bed until then. When we went back in the room had filled up, so I think someone told her not to be so stupid. Anyway. I got a bed, Judy got a chair, we got medicated - well, I did; Judy worked on her cross-stitch; those are the main things.
Judy, as promised, remembered to let the nurses know that I wanted the cannula in my arm, not my hand. I still have a whacking great black bruise on my right hand from the blood transfusion cannula a week ago (also the bruise on my arm from the defective pressure cuff). I don't think, given what else they have to contend with, the chemo nurses fuss too much about bruising, but, as a patient, I say that every bit of pain I'm saved is ... I dunno, a penny earned, or something. A Good Thing. Anyway: cannula #1 failed, and I ended up with it left in my arm for the duration, even though the Team Leader herself came and put it in. Cannula #2 went into my other arm quite happily though, and did its thing, so all was well. Well, well-ish; I'm not entirely sure I got all the pre-meds I should've done, but I'm still here, so it can't matter too much.
Once I'd slipped into my usual state of oblivion, I think Judy had the more exciting time. From what I can tell, one and all around us were full of admiration for her cross-stitch; plus at one point the woman in the next chair was using a cold cap (no-one ever mentioned the cold cap's existence to me when we were talking about chemo, but it doesn't matter, I couldn't have used it anyway - claustrophobia) (yes, my claustrophobia is a real thing, and pretty bad; I shall be so fucked if I ever have to have an MRI), which first gave her a splitting headache and then made her vomit. I have to ask whether, in this case, the game is worth the candle. Someone did stop and admire my toenails. Now I think of it, that seems rather an odd thing to do. Never mind.
That's about it, I think, except that I had an upset stomach again on the way home and, once again, had to thank heaven fasting for Sainsbury's and their utilities. It cleared up reasonably quickly but, you know, it's never quite quick enough, and does make you most awfully miserable at the time.
Post-chemo hasn't been much fun this week; I've been less mopy and whiny than last go-round, I think - I hope; or at least, I've been trying to be - but I've suffered badly from fatigue, from aches and pains, in particular in my hip and knee and back joints, extra pain and fatigue from sitting, the aforementioned fuzzy fingers, breaking nails, garbage mouth, and acute chemo brain. It's started to have a deleterious effect on my vocabulary; I'm getting words confused, sometimes coming out with completely the wrong thing altogether, and, playing WWF just now, I could not for the life of me remember how to spell 'quiet'. This really hacks me off, words being pretty much my stock-in-trade, but ... once again, we file it under 'means to an end' and 'this too shall pass'. I hope. Also, the chemo smell is particularly smelly this time, or maybe I'd just forgotten how bad it was before. I have to say, "You have a life-threatening illness, the treatment for which is painful and deleterious, oh, yes, and also: you smell" is really just a low blow.
Because troubles never come singly, our plumbing decided to back up over the weekend, with the bath making scary glugging noises as it drained and then trying to flush two of the loos (we have three, that's how posh we are!) from the wrong direction. We really suck at being grown-ups, and we hate having to deal with this sort of thing. It turned out okay, though: Judy has emergency plumbing insurance with the water board and because it was drains and also, I say with a touch of pride because of me - because I'm an invalid, dontchaknow - it did qualify as an emergency, and they sent a plumber out as soon as possible on Tuesday, and it didn't cost us anything. One of the drains was, it turned out, pretty much flooded, so he de-clogged it, then plunged the bath and removed what appeared to be a small werewolf pelt but was, in fact, my chemo-ified hair - I apologised nicely - and all was well. At least, it's well at the moment, and I hope it stays that way.
Speaking of the hair, it's trying to grow back, or bits of it are, but so unsuccessfully that we took pity on it; Judy volunteered to clip it back down. Given the scant handful she accumulated from this, I'm glad I didn't get it done at a hairdresser - it really would have been almost £1 per hair!
While she was on a roll with doing grown-up things, Judy investigated the wilds of Launton and found that the rumours of a glass warehouse were true, so has now bought the piece of greenhouse glass she needed to replace the one that got knocked out by the wind a while back. It may not sound like much to you, but it's these little victories that pave our way through Life.
We have also, this week, been to Tesco, got my assorted prescriptions re-filled, bought a rather premature Christmas tree and wreath - the tree was in a pot, and Judy has given it a better pot and more soil, so it should be okay - and I've broken the back of my Christmas shopping without breaking my own back, although the same cannot be said of my bank balance, but the hell with it. This isn't going to be my last Christmas, but I'm jolly well going to enjoy it as if it might be. After all, it might be, and have nothing to do with Mr Crab. A toilet could drop on my head at any time. These things happen.
Most important of all, Judy went online to the early sales site on Thursday morning and bagged us a pair of tickets to Springsteen at something-or-other-stadium in Manchester in June. We have been going to Springsteen gigs now for some thirtyodd, sometimes very odd, years, and the ticket procuring process never gets any less traumatic. I think it's actually worse now than it was in olden days when you had to send an SAE off to Harvey Goldstein and hope for the best. You build up so much tension and adrenaline, crouching over the keyboard, desperately waiting for the site to go live - then crash, it always does - then refresh, it's a wonder that the rush of ticket sales isn't followed by the wail of many ambulances as half the Springsteen stalwarts in the land, none of us spring chickens, keel over from a string of heart attacks.
It will be strange to see Bruce without Clarence Clemons. That was just one of the shitty things that has happened in this shitty year: Clarence died of a stroke. My favourite writer, Diana Wynne Jones, died of Fucking Cancer early in the year. My brother set the scene by falling out of a loft trap when the year was barely new. Two other women writers who influenced me profoundly, Joanna Russ and Anne McCaffrey, have died this year. Judy was made redundant. And me ... well, you know about me.
But set against this the kindness of strangers. I was just looking at the cards ranged on my bookshelves; there are so many there that I actually can't see all of them, some have got lost behind others. Stuart dropped by this week, unexpectedly and bearing unexpected cake, which was delicious, by the way. A delivery that I thought would be my Christmas orders turned out to include Green & Black's choklit from lovely friend Ellie. And my sister sent me a new and rather fetching cancer hat ("It goes with your ensemble," said Judy; well, yes, given that the ensemble in question is a denim pinafore dress, black leggings and teeshirt, style queen that I am), and also made me a Mr Crab pincushion so that I can have the pleasure of stabbing him for a change. She even supplied the pins!
And that's just this week. I should have made a note of everyone who's sent cake or chocolate or spoons or cards or flowers, or any combination - or hats, or Trollbead bracelets!! Chemo-brain is making them blur. That doesn't mean I don't appreciate them; I do. I can't begin to tell you how much. Dealing with Mr Crab is a hell of a fight. I am inexpressibly lucky to have so many people fighting by my side.
Next week, I have actual Things in my diary: a visit by my office HR person and my line manager on Wednesday; a meal with former colleagues - which I hope I shall be able to taste by that time - and a visit beforehand by one of them on Thursday; and my brother who, I believe, is currently in Amsterdam and lamenting the de-potification of the coffeehouse, is, I hope, coming by on Friday.
This is more excitement than I ever had, pre-cancer. Thanks, Mr Crab!
Wait - what'm I saying?!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)