Thursday

We go into the ward - on the assumption it's always better to go in person than just ring up.  We bump into Dr G who says - "Ah, I was just talking about you".  A few minutes later, a result.  Chemo will now be on Monday, not Thursday.  Good news.

Meanwhile, off topic, I love this - a translation table for British politeness.

For example -
What we say:  With the greatest respect...
What we mean:  You are an idiot.
What foreigners understand: He is listening to me.

Wednesday

Dr G rings with follow up from yesterday.  He says the full results look more consistent with a good response to treatment than progression of the disease.  He chooses his words very carefully - no doubt through years of experience, not wishing to give someone in my position false hope.

So, chemo will be rebooked, with the same drugs as before.  We will have two more sessions, then another CT scan, then another rethink.  It could be Thursday next week.  It could be before.  But, for today at least, the rollercoaster is pointing upwards.  

While we're on the subject of Rollercoasters...

I'd quite like to get off this ride now.  

Tuesday

Hmmm.

CT scan, blood test, meet Dr G.  Dr G says, the news is mixed.  I don't have the full results of the CT yet.  But early indications are that the lung is stable, but the liver and bones may be getting worse.

So, tomorrow (Chemotherapy session 3) is on hold for now, until the full results are in.  The options then will be either - continue with the current drugs, change the drugs (probably, this time, involving hair loss), or look for a trial in London.

It is like a punch in the stomach.  Not least because it doesn't match with how I'm feeling - I feel like the treatment is doing me some - a lot of - good.  I guess this is what people mean when they say it's a rollercoaster ride.  Such a simple phrase, but the reality is not pleasant.

So, this development looks like it will take away my cosy little schedule which I have grown used to.  It might postpone the party we have planned - or mean that we have to cancel it - again.  We just don't know yet.  It is an almighty pain.  I don't want to sound too English and understated, but the whole thing is just so...bloody inconvenient.

Meanwhile - http://www.noonedeservestodie.org

Apparently, "Many people believe that if you have lung cancer you did something to deserve it".  Really?  Really?   If that's true.  I'd like a word with those people.  Each and every one of them, individually.

Monday - Transfer deadline day.

Medical week comes round again.  It is like transfer deadline day - get everything done by the end of tomorrow, because then the window of opportunity slams shut for a while.

We see the Macmillan doctor, Dr D.  We talk about the effects of the chemo, and she draws me a back-of-an-envelope diagram of what chemo is doing.  The bottom (x) axis is time, and the side (y) axis is number of cancer cells.  Dr D explains that each treatment should attack the bad cells (as well as my useful ones, like platelets, and white and red blood cells), although they might start to re-multiply as we get to the end of the three weeks.

I point out - jokingly - that I like the look of the graph Dr D has drawn, as after the fourth treatment it seems to show that there are no cancer cells left.  She looks at me sympathetically, and explains very gently that it isn't accurate.  I know, and I'm not being serious.  I know this isn't going away.  But I have to joke about it, even if, somewhere in the distance, the clouds couldn't be much darker.

Later this afternoon is my second CT scan - to try to work out the effect chemo is having.  More warm iodine.  Tomorrow is the pre-chemo blood test, x-ray and talk with Doctor G.  Finally Wednesday is Chemo session 1.3, and all the anti-sickness drugs invented.

Before all of this, we see Mrs M.  I may have to ban people being nice to me, concerned about me.  Everyone is, in their own way, but there is something in Mrs M's manner - she tells me I look so much better, she will do anything to help, and is full of energy and vigour - that sets me off.  Hardened as I am, I have to walk away a bit quicker than normal.

Diogenes

Dealing with other people's reactions is, if not the hardest part of all this, well, still pretty hard.

Because H and I live this every hour of every day, we are hardened to it now.  And mostly everyone treats me normally.  Sometimes when I meet people, especially for the first time, or at least the first time since diagnosis, I can see a little suppressed look of panic as to what to say to me.  I don't blame them.  I never knew what to say to people either.  Mostly, I just want to talk about the football, everyday stuff, although I'm very open and matter of fact about my condition and am very happy to talk about that too.

And it's great seeing friends, just being normal.  But sometimes, just occasionally, it's nice not to talk at all.  Not to be the centre of attention, the subject of conversations and sympathy.  Whenever I feel like this, I think of the Diogenes Club.

In "The Greek Interpreter", Sherlock Holmes describes this (fictional) club, where his brother often spends his time, as "the queerest [strangest] club in London", and as follows,

"There are many men in London, you know, who, some from shyness, some from misanthropy, have no wish for the company of their fellows...It is for the convenience of these that the Diogenes Club was started, and it now contains the most unsociable and unclubable men in town. No member is permitted to take the least notice of any other one. Save in the Stranger's Room, no talking is, under any circumstances, allowed, and three offences, if brought to the notice of the committee, render the talker liable to expulsion".

It sounds like heaven to me - not all the time, you understand, but maybe an afternoon a week.  Ironically, I suspect they wouldn't have me, as you could be expelled not only for talking, but also for coughing.

Looks

What I think most people find odd is that I don't look unwell.  The only difference - if I'm out of the house and moving about, so two weeks out of three - is that I've gained some weight, due to the fact I don't walk as much as I used to and don't play football anymore.  I glance in the mirror, and while I don't flatter myself that I'm Brad Pitt, think I look indecently well.

I shouldn't complain.  It is guaranteed not to be a permanent state of affairs.  But right now, I almost feel like apologising.

On the subject of staying well, H mentioned to me that maybe I should try some of the local "healing" groups.  I laughed out loud.  Crystals, chanting, healing hands.  I'm afraid I just...don't believe a word.  It is best - out of respect for the no doubt good, well intentioned people there (and who knows - maybe they're right and I'm wrong - more fool me) - that I stay away.  The last thing they want is a newbie, sat in the corner, smirking.