The first cut is the deepest

Hello, blog.

The last time we spoke, as you may remember, I had had a post-chemo check-up which had been indecisive, to say the least, as the oncology team hadn't then come to any real decision. However, then I had a phone call to say that they would like to do a second laparoscopy (funny things some people do for fun), to get a look inside my innards and see what's going on there. To judge by the way Crabby has been carrying on recently, he has joined the Tiller Girls - remember them? Eh, ask yer Mam - and is practising his high kicks, the artful wee blighter.

So, anyway. Today we have been to the JR - and where the Churchill is relatively new and shiny, as hospitals go, the JR is, to put it bluntly, a grothole - for what we thought was a pre-op assessment. It turned out it wasn't for that at all, though, it was to talk to the head of the oncology team, the lovely Mr Sean Kehoe and his sweater. (He really is quite lovely, but his sweaters look like his Mum knits them for him for Christmas. And who knows, maybe she does.)

Actually, Sean did most of the talking, he was discussing things that might have to come out, depending on what the laparoscopy shows, and by 'things' I mean 'bits of me'. Quite honestly, by the time he was through it would have been quicker if he'd just made a list of what would be left. Scary and depressing. I was doing okay ("Ha! What's a spleen or two between friends?") until he implied that I might be on the guest list for the next Poobaggers' Picnic. No disrespect to the current Poobaggers; much like the nursing profession itself, I admire them without wishing to be a part of their number.

I do hope it won't come to that. Quite aside from the fact that I don't want to lose bits of me, I am sure god gave them to me for a good reason, just thinking about a fortnight in hospital, some of it in intensive care, is enough to spark a panic attack. But as I responded so well to the chemo, and my cancer markers are now so low - down to 100something from somewhere in the thousands - I'm hoping there's very little in the way of tumour left.

Anyway, however it turns out, I'm sure we'll deal with it. I must admit, I do rather wish it were all over, though. Whatever novelty value there was in being ill has long worn off, and I just want to get back to what passes for normal. Or something a bit nicer than normal, I think I've earned that.

Oh, and a quick bitch about hospital waiting times - we were hanging about so long that I read nearly the whole of The Penelopiad. It's a slender volume, true, and I already knew the story, but nevertheless ...

Time passes slowly

I used to love Saturdays. I'd leave the alarm set, get up at the usual time, feed the cats, clean the litter trays, make a cup of coffee, and then take it back to bed and snuggle up with Phoebe and Sounds of the 60s. But Phoebe's been gone for four years now, and the NuCats aren't much for snuggling: they want to head out for a frolic as soon as they've had their breakfast. And, now that I'm not at work, Saturdays are much like any other day: just an empty space to be filled as best I can. Which isn't very; which, in turn, makes me feel guilty and miserable.

Sometimes I worry that I'm turning into my mother. I'm not as prejudiced, or as right-wing as she was - at least, not yet. But, like her, I wear the same frumpy old clothes, day in, day out; I sit endlessly doing nothing; I can't be bothered to eat properly; I occasionally throw food over myself. I haven't yet started pooing myself, but I daresay it can be only a matter of time.

My lovely friend Joan tried to help with the problem and found me this list of hobbies: http://www.notsoboringlife.com/list-of-hobbies/. It's supposed to be comprehensive, but I see they have omitted 'watching paint dry' and 'yearning for merciful death', either of which would be as attractive as anything on the list. Although both Joan and I were very taken by 'rocking AIDS babies'. #1 is that actually a thing, and #2 how does it work, do you just walk into a children's ward and grab a sick kid? Whatever.

So you can imagine how thrilled I was when I visited the oncology department the Monday before last to have my post-chemo assessment and was told it would probably be another three months of wait-and-see. Another three months of boredom; or not even boredom, that would at least be some kind of actual sensation. Three months of nothing.

Which is why I was actually quite pleased when the doctor phoned me last Monday to say that the team had decided to do another laparoscopy and see what was going on with Mr Crab. It isn't much; but it's something to look forward to.

If anyone has any better ideas, please let me know.

No news is, in fact, no news

For those of you following the ongoing Cancer Saga - and if you have dropped dead of boredom along the way, I cannot say I blame you - today I had my post-chemo appointment with the oncology consultant, which I'd been quite looking forward to, having been hanging around in a kind of limbo for the past month. Results! I thought; Conclusions! Decisive Action! That sort of thing!

Alas, no. I have neither good nor bad news. The tumours - and I appear to be absolutely riddled with tumours - have shrunk, but are still hanging on, and the oncology team hasn't decided whether to try surgery or leave things as they are and see what happens. They're discussing it at their meeting next week. ("Any questions?" "Yes, why didn't you discuss it at last week's meeting?")

I suppose it could've been worse, but it leaves me in limbo still, and I HATE that; I'm still too ill to go back to work, but not so ill that I am not going off my head with sheer boredom. Impasse.

I am off to try to find a game that involves SMITING, so as to relieve my feelings. And also to try to stop singing "Uh-uh-oh-oh-oh, little Cancer Girl" to myself, as that helps exactly no-one.