Countdown to D-Day

You know, I actually haven't any idea what the 'D' in D-Day stands for. Isn't that shameful? I assume I must've been told, at some point in the past fiftyveryodd years, but it's gone. Gone with the wind. (Even more shamefully, I could tell you the plot of that.)

Anyway, I think that E-Day would be more apposite: 'e' for 'evisceration', given how airily the consultant was rattling off his list of things that might have to come out. You can have my ovaries, matey, but you take my small intestine from my cold, dead hands!

Which is, just remotely, possible, as there is a 2% chance of the operation being fatal. However, I prefer to take this as a 98% probability that it won't. Man, am I just PollyfuckingAnna, or what?

So: the operation date is 25 April, probably a couple of days in intensive care afterward, and then an estimated 10 days on the ward after that. So far, so quite nasty enough. The official letter came through this morning, though, which tells me to report to the ward at 10.00 am on the 24th. That's a whole extra day of my life you're stealing there, Churchill! What they want to do with me that day, I do not know. Probably nothing: just leave me bored to death and on nil by mouth. Eh, well. Could be worse. At least we do still have a bit of an NHS, at least for the moment.

On the upside, I'm reporting to the Jane Ashleigh Centre - everyone calls it Jane Asher, that's inevitable - which is quite new and modern and pleasant, insofar as a hospital ward can be. I don't know whether I'll get to recover there, too. The oncology ward is not actually as bad as I'd been told, but Jane Ashleigh is nicer.

It's funny how one's mind works ...

Yes, yes, okay. Get it out of your systems, and don't forget to tip your waitresses.

Everyone quietened down now? Then I shall continue.

Anyway: it's funny how one's mind works. With a major operation hanging over me, not to mention that 2% chance of not coming out the other side, all I can think of is "How am I going to put my toenail varnish back on?" and "I won't be able to shave my legs!" (Our friend Penny points out that women's legs are supposed to have hair - she got a bit cross with the JLo ad for lady razors last night - but I have to admit, I do prefer mine without; that was about the only good side-effect of chemo.) When I consider how hard I always am on people who make a fuss about losing their hair during chemo, I should undoubtedly be ashamed of myself. I'm not, of course. I figure this is just displacement activity, and if I were a cat I would probably be washing my bum.

Are you not glad I'm not a cat?

You can't choose your relatives

My pratty brother Jeremy - the one who isn't speaking to me, for reasons which I have never quite figured out, largely because who the hell cares? - has just sent my nice brother Tim the following email, which Tim has forwarded on to me and Penny:

The funeral is at [somewhere in Leatherhead] on Tuesday 27th March at 11.00 a.m.

James and Doreen’s phone number is [number] if you’d like to let them know you’re coming.

I expect you’ll want to let our sisters know the news, if you think they’ll be interested.

Good lord. Could the guy be any more of a dick?

You may note that there is a crucial item of information missing from that message. I have no idea who's dead. I assume it's either James's father or his mother. Not, one hopes, both, which would be, as per Oscar Wilde, unfortunate.

At the risk of confirming Jeremy's unfavourable opinion, I'm afraid I can't say that I'm particularly bothered about this, other than in the most remote oh-that's-sad-but-he-was-in-his-80s-so ... sort of way. I saw my uncles and cousins maybe a couple of times a year when I was growing up, if that much, then at my sister's wedding in the early 1970s, and the surviving cousins (one of them had died In The Gutter in the interim, a fact of which I am obscurely proud) turned up at my dad's funeral in 2003. That's it. Bosom family they are not, in fact I have to stop and think which of the four cousins belongs to which of the two uncles, and which ones have died. I'll send them a sympathy card, of course, if anyone lets me know who I'm sympathising about and where to send it to, but I don't see us hacking over to Leatherhead to say goodbye to somebody I barely knew.

Maybe I'm hard-hearted and unnatural. Eh, well, too late to change now.

Being bored

My dear mamma used to tell me that only boring people were bored. This is a painful thought; I must be positively stultifying, because, as things stand at present, I am pretty much climbing the walls - or I would be, if the walls in our house weren't made of cardboard, or close enough, and probably wouldn't take my weight. I'm thinking of poking out my own eyes just for the sake of something to do.

I still can't walk very far, and I hate having to depend on Judy to ferry me around. And people have stopped coming to visit, the novelty, presumably, having worn off. I can't say I blame them; since I never go anywhere or do anything, I have nothing to talk about. Hence: boring.

What can I do? Cook? I'm just not that enthusiastic about food at the moment. Garden? The garden is Judy's domain, plus the last bit of garden work I did knocked me out for several days afterward. The same goes for housework: I try and keep up with what really needs doing, but it's knackering. I did sew a button on a jacket the other day. I damn near broke out the flags and bunting to celebrate that achievement. Retail therapy is out of the question, as there's no money coming in - which is depressing enough all by itself. As for games ... I swear, when I come out the other side of this, assuming I do, I shall never want to play another game again.

About the only thing I have been doing is reading, and then writing snarky reviews of better writers than I am. (Here if you were wondering, which I doubt you were.)

And just about everything is depressing: the news, the weather. The fact that the most excitement I'm likely to have in the near future is major surgery, which will then involve a long and grim-sounding recovery ...

It's being so cheerful as keeps me going. But, honestly, I think I'm about to grind to a complete .

Regrowth

There's enough hair there now that I can go out without a hat. Not that I was wearing the hat for anyone's benefit but my own; nevertheless.