Carpe diem wotsit

My brain has turned to mush. On a mush scale of 1 to 10, 1 being like a somewhat firm pear, 10 being an explosion in an overripe pear factory, I am about 11 like my Spinal Tap friends. I cannot think properly, make decisions or cross roads. Actually, I do cross roads but with no confidence that I will get to the other side before being hit by something. My senses of distance, time and judgement are all impaired. It is obviously at this point that one would think to change everything and go down a more stressful road. So, yes, we are thinking of moving. The plan had been to move a couple of years ago but that pesky little inflammatory breast cancer got in the way so we postponed. Once I was NED, we thought about it again and, it being a daunting task, went slowly so that by the time we made the decision, that little bugger had got back and in touch and made residence in my lungs. Such a killjoy.

The week is blessed by a visit from Ms Mason from far flung fields. She gamely agrees to come on a house hunting trip with us which involves holding the bag of treats in the back of the car and complaining about the sat nav. The chemo regime I had begun in June seems to be doing a bad job. My lungs are worse and, as you possibly read before, resulted in me being detained after a meeting with the oncologist. There is a tense period while I am discussed at the Multi Disciplinary Team Meeting and, late on a Friday, I am told I can have oral chemotherapy which will start the following Monday. I see Fica, the lovely registrar who explains everything and passes me on to the secondary breast cancer nurse who goes through things in more details. I am adding another 9 tablets a day to my current level and have to take them at the same time each day with roughly the same amount of food in my stomach. Hmmmm. And to manage to take the steroids for my lungs which have their own considerations. I start to add up the ‘essential’ drugs and stop when I get to 29. I cannot cope with the numbers. My mushy brain can’t seize the information and I know I have to also take some every day and others get reduced. I need a whole new drug diary and my head just isn’t up to working the dates out. Yet.

I have been wearing a scarf or hat to cover my lack of hair but while we are away, I decide to dispense with it. We go into a coffee shop for a late lunch and the young man serving clearly thinks I am under supervision of two carers. He smiles widely and shows me two menus on the wall. “This is food” he beams, “and this is for drinks!” He alternates his head, indicating each one. “Food and drink!” He is nothing but polite but clearly thinks I am not capable of deciding and refers visually to Mr and Ms Mason before allowing me an Orange Fanta and a smoked salmon bagel. Throughout our stay he smiles encouragingly at me. I am too weak to protest his happy conclusions.

At this point, you may realise this is all old news. I don’t find the energy to blog because I feel so ill. A wheelchair has been ordered and my chemotherapy has been changed. Sorry, too tired mentally, physically and emotionally to do more but please be assured I am OK, just needing to recover strength as even standing is hard at the moment. Normal service, as always, will be resumed and it will be worth waiting for as Mr Mason helps me take a bath. The bath bit is not too bad but getting me out is another matter. Something to look forward to, I hope.

The case of the incredible shrinking woman

Last week I spent time with my girlfriends, happily painting woobs. This week is somewhat different. Still not learning from the idea that I cannot plan a single day without things potentially going awry, I whizz off to my oncology appointment, telling Mr Mason that it will just be a normal appointment with nothing to worry about. I get blood taken and am called in to see the registrar as my consultant is on holiday. She asks me how I am and I tell her my breathing isn’t too good. I have noticed over the last few days that going upstairs makes me feel really out of breath. She is immediately worried and questions me about my temperature and any other symptoms. She decides to have my blood oxygen measured immediately and also to get me an emergency ct scan but first to go and get an x-ray to see what fluid is in my chest. Luckily, my friend Ms Marsden is on hand to keep me entertained and hold bags and clothing. The x-ray technician recognises me as is happening increasingly often, even in a hospital of this size.

The x-ray technician shows me a copy of the x-ray compared to the last one done in July and we agree there is less fluid there than before. He also comments on the camisole I am wearing in that the straps have plastic attachments whereas the ring which holds the straps is metal and therefore shows up on the x-ray. He tells me this is to do with costs and maximising profits. I wonder if he is doing a business degree in his spare time. We trot back to the oncologist who sees me again and she arranges for a nurse to insert a canula for a ct scan. The nurse who inserts the canula is friendly and comments on the bruising already on my arm from the blood taken earlier in the morning. Ms Marsden and I grab some food from the cafe and go to the ct scan area. Once inside, I am laid on the table while the iodine contrast is pumped into my arm. Now, with a ct scan you can feel the iodine go around the body as a flush which ends up by making you feel as though you have wet yourself. This happens within seconds but doesn’t happen this time and I can feel the iodine going into my arm but not the vein. I call out to get them to stop and the technician comes and rather techily detaches the iodine pump and tells me to sit with my arm up and an ice pack on. Then come the words I don’t want to hear. “You are going to go up to 6 South”. Aaarrrggghhh! This is a precursor to being kept in overnight which I really don’t want. I ask them to bring Ms Marsden in and we sit and make small talk until the porter arrives. He is also familiar.

Up on the ward, a nice oncology doctor, James, comes to see if he can canulate me. He removes the canula and puts a dressing on it. I seize the moment and nip to the loo only to find blood coursing down my arm and dripping on the floor, soaking my gown and causing me to shout “Oh, shit!” which Ms Marsden says was clearly audible from the ward. I grab a wad of paper towels and holding my arm up, make my way back to James who is slightly alarmed to see all the blood. He tries to clean me up and stop the flow of blood. The next thing is to put another canula in. But where? Another oncology doctor arrives. I have no idea of her name but she points to areas on me as though I am a piece of meat, taking my shoes off an examining my feet. i want to tell her she has to actually communicate with the patient rather than look at me like something on a slab but I am tired and really can’t be bothered to tell her something she should know.

Mr Mason arrives and relieves Ms Marsden who has stayed with me all day. The canula is inserted in my foot, an arterial blood sample is taken from my wrist and after the results come back, I am wheeled down to the first floor for another ct scan. The technician is tetchy, it being midway throuh the evening and she is even tetchier when she seems the canula is in my foot. She thinks this might not work but will grudgingly have a go. At least the iodine gets round my system this time and the technician says she thinks it will have worked well enough. I am back to the ward and Mr Mason goes home, without me. As there is no room on the proper oncology ward, I am left on the assessment ward but they give me a nice side room of my own and only disturb me 3 times during the night to monitor my vital signs and to give me a blood-thinning injection which hurts.

The next morning I am desperate to get out and go home. I don’t feel ill, just breathless, and I’m sure I can have a much better rest at home. Also my phone and ereader are rapidly running out of charge so I find myself resorting to reading an old copy of Chat or something similar and going over all the wrong answers on the crossword page. The consultant comes in to see me to say there is no blood clot, which is a relief, but that they don’t know why my breathing is so bad. They think it is damage from chemotherapy but that could be from a previous time or the 2 sessions I have had recently. It certainly means there will be no chemo today which is a bit of a blow. They are going to put me on steroids to try and help my lungs and then I may be able to have chemo the following week. Mr Mason arrives with toiletries and chargers and I clean myself up and plug in all the essentials. The registrar comes back at 3pm to say I can be discharged and we then wait, wait and wait some more. Finally, at around 7.30 I am given the all clear and we are on our way home. Why it takes so long to discharge me is not quite clear but apparently involves the length of time it takes to get drugs from the pharmacy. I am also being given antibiotics for what they think is a fungal infection which might account for the pain in my osophaegus when I am having steroids. We shall see.

I arrive home to find a copy of a letter from my consultant written to my GP. She updates her on what had been happening (although the letter is now out of date) and tells her that my weight has dropped to 1.4kg. This is a shock even to me. I know my weight has been dropping but to be the size of a very small cat is beyond even my capabilites. Just another case of the incredible shrinking woman, I guess.

First treatments

It has been a very trying week. After being in hospital to get some more fluid drained off, the next day we go to see the oncologist. She is frustrated. There is still no news on the plueral fluid but we all agree to go ahead with the chemotherapy. I will also get a referral to and ENT specialist as I have so much pain in my osophaegus which no-one can seem to understand. I am already sleeping propped up at night and still taking a mixture of pain killers to help dull it. The phlebotomist who takes blood is not the usual one and he seems obvlivous to the fact that inserting the needle in and pushing it around under the skin actually causes a lot of pain. After fifteen minutes of so of this, he hands me over to a colleague who gets into a vein on my forearm straight away. There are 2 research nurses waiting to take extra blood but the vein will only give enough for the basic tests so they fade away like sad vampires.

Thursday sees me in the chemo suite for the first time in a year. I am starting with Herceptin which has to be loaded. This means they deliver it over an hour and then I have to wait for 6 hours to see if I have a reaction to it. Firstly, getting a canula in is a major job and they use a vein in one of my fingers which is a little painful. I feel fine after the infusion although that feeling gradually fades away. By the time Mr Mason arrives at 5pm, my blood pressure is shooting up and my heart rate is high. A doctor is summoned. She has to take a full history which takes some time and I am constantly monitored. The unit has emptied out and apart from 2 patients who are waiting for transport, it is just me, Mr Mason, a doctor and nurse. The doctor asks for some bloods to be taken. I feel so ill and it takes quite a while for the nurse, who should already have left, to get anything out of me. The doctor rings the on-call oncologist who agrees I can go home if I take some blood-pressure medication as soon as I get in. We finally get home at 8.30pm

Friday I am back in the suite and they are very unhappy about trying to canulate me again as Docetaxel is not something they want to put in a vein that might burst. The nurse takes around 45 minutes to get a canula into my next finger and it is strapped down as firmly as possible. The first drug, Perjeta, goes in over an hour and I manage to sleep through it. After that, we have to wait for an hour to see if I have any reaction to it which, thankfully, I don’t. Then the anti-sickness meds go in and finally Docetaxel. Somewhere around 5pm I get a visit from Ms Cantini and Mr Tozer who have been to the radiotherapy unit. I also get a visit from Steve, the unit’s administrator, who tells me he is leaving during the middle of next week to go temping. He had seen my name and remembered me from last year and I feel so touched he has come to say goodbye. Steve was the person who was so witty during the ‘Dont’ call her Beryl’ incident nearly 2 years ago. You’ll probably have to delve into the archives for that one.

We eventually leave the chemo suite at 6pm, tired and just weary of the whole thing, My appetite is not great at the moment so we stop at Tesco Express to buy some eggs and, a current favourite, trifle. Scrambled eggs and trifle slip down easily so they are currently on the menu quite a bit. Mr Mason gets some fish and chips from our favourite shop as he is so hungry and I know he is tired. He is always up earlier than me and is also decorating my office in addition to doing all the housework and walking Dog. It’s such a lot for him so fish and chips is the least I can do. He breaks off a little piece of fish and puts a few chips on a plate and that’s enough for me. I take a raft full of drugs and then get into bed. I am so physically and mentally tired, I just need to get into bed and stare into space. It’s such a lot to take in but at least we’ve begun the treatment which I am glad about. The oncologist did say that if I tolerate Docetaxel well, I may be able to stay on it long-term. Hmmm. Not so sure how happy I feel about that but we’ll have to see how things go. We are hoping to treat this as a chronic condition but won’t know if that’s possible until after we have a couple of treatments under our belts.

So were basically doing OK and looking forward to visits by two separate groups of friends next week. It’s not going to be an easy road this time, not that it was last time but last time we had hope of cure and this time that’s not possible. Sorry, a bit gloomy this time but that’s probably all the drugs and I know I have loads of people routing for me and that feels good. Thank you.

Where’s Wally?

It’s funny how people react when you say “I have cancer again”. It almost sounds as though I have been careless or negligent and have let it back into my life through neglect. Instead of coming in all guns blazing, this one has crept under the radar and has disguised itself as something much more benign. It leads me to wonder what you do say when someone tells you they have incurable cancer? Often “I’m sorry” comes to mind but I find a far greater need to apologise to those around me for having this bloody disease than accepting someone else’s commiserations. It’s hardly on a par with anything else. “I’m sorry you didn’t get the job/your relationship broke down/you lost your wallet/you got burgled”. And yet here I am, a bit breathless and with a husky voice but apart from that appearing perfectly fine. Just staring down from the precipice. A lot of messages I received were not only apologetic but remarkably sweary. Some contained only swear words which I could really relate to.

On Tuesday I have a heart echo at the hospital. It’s a pretty dull sort of test which involves a man leaning across me and pressing an ultrasound device (what on earth is it called?) into my chest quite hard to get pictures of my heart. While he is sorting out images he leaves his arm draped around me in a friendly sort of way and at the end tells me my heart is as good as it was the last time they looked at it which was at the end of my year of Herceptin treatment. One thing going well! He even gives me the report to take to the oncologist tomorrow in case the online version gets lost. After this I trail over to Maggie’s, aware I will be spending a lot of time here again this year. My friend Ms Marsden is waiting for me as we plan to visit Ms Cantini who, as you know, stalks me like crazy. She is actually in isolation (possibly because of bad behaviour). Word of my secondaries has started to get round and a couple of the centre’s workers come up to speak to me. I cannot imagine how difficult their jobs must be. It would be impossible not to become attached to or fond of centre users and yet they must bear their loss time and again. Ms Cantini is in isolation because her neutrophils are a big fat zero. Ms Marsden and I clothe ourselves in gloves and plastic aprons looking more like redundant dinner ladies than anything else and then wade in. Ms Cantini is, understandably, bored by being in hospital so long and also so very tired. I fulfil a promise I made Mr Tozer which is to behave like a cat by rubbing my face on the end of her bed. We saw a video on You Tube which demonstrates how bizarre it would be if people behaved like cats. Ms Cantini is a bit puzzled but goes with the flow as it’s just like a passing show and will soon be gone. We leave her to the delights of hospital luncheon.

Wednesday brings an appointment with the oncologist. It’s a bit of a frustrating meeting as results of the pleural fluid drained off are not available and at present we are playing a game called ‘Hunt the Tumour’. It’s a bit like Where’s Wally only less fun. The oncologist is sure I have secondaries. She thinks they are in the lining of the lung but, like anyone would, she wants evidence of this. She is very apologetic about the lack of results and tells us that if the pleural fluid comes back showing no cancer cells, she will want to do a biopsy. I don’t think to ask many probing questions about this as I don’t think I want to know right now. She tries to phone cytology but the phone service has a voice recognition system so instead of cytology, it offers her psychology. She gives up. Mr Mason and I trundle off to x-ray but the oncologist has forgotten to book it so we go back to oncology and ask one of the nurses to remind her. We sit and wait for a while and then I think “sod it!” I could be in my Maggie’s group instead of waiting there so that’s where we go. Mr Mason settles down with his book and I burst in and possibly ruin a good moment but it’s lovely to be back with all my girls. Afterwards, we go back to x-ray and eventually the authorisation comes through and I am x-rayed. The radiologist looks at me and says “Have I x-rayed you before?” so I know I am becoming a frequent flyer.

So now I just wait to hear results and see where that will take us. Whatever happens, I will be starting chemotherapy on Thursday and Friday of next week. Whatever I do, I can’t shake cancer from my mind. It’s a bit like having a job I don’t like. I can’t act and then be done with it. It slips in and fills all the cracks and I suspect it will be like this for a while. So no point in having my legs waxed or my hair cut or coloured. It will all be gone in a couple of weeks. Unfortunately, the cancer will not

Hello, hello I’m back again…

Perhaps it’s not the most tasteful of blog titles with it’s unsavoury connection to Gary Glitter but it just pops into my head today while we drive home from the hospital. As you might know from the Venice Chronicles, my breathing hasn’t been great and you possibly read of the trials of My Best Vein as well. Today is the turn of the oncologist. As usual, the clinic is running late so we sit and wait patiently, allowing the volunteer to bring Mr Mason cups of tea while he flicks through old copies of Heat! and Now! When a breast care nurse appears to take us to see not the registrar but the oncologist herself, my antennae are really twitching. When the first words are something akin to “Have you been informed about the treatment plan?” we know we are in deep waters. The CT scans shows that there are some nodules in my lung and the oncologist is surprised I am still feeling pain in my trachea when I eat toast or something scratchy. Even tablets feel as though they get stuck. She thinks perhaps a throat man should have a look. Anyway, the plan is to admit me to hospital and drain the fluid off my chest. I am feeling better than I did last week and think that perhaps the fluid has almost been reabsorbed. Off to x-ray with me then, in case there is nothing to drain. Mr Mason nips out to put yet more money in the ticket machine while I get x-rayed and then whizz up to the 5th floor to book an echocardiogram. The clerk is nice and manages to squeeze me in on Tuesday which means that chemotherapy can go ahead next week as planned. Back to clinic 8 to see the x-ray results which show there is double the amount of fluid in my lungs there was last week. This is puzzling as I feel so much better than I did last week. A final wait for blood to be taken and then we are free.

Taking in this big news is hard. We do not skip into the clinic thinking all will be sunshine and roses. Whatever the results of the CT scan, we know the fluid has to be drained off but this news is much, much bigger and has a nasty sting in the tail. Secondary cancer, for those of you who don’t know, can be managed but not cured. The treatment plan is for 6 to 8 doses of Herceptin, Perjeta and our old favourite, Docetaxel. If that dampens things down, I will go onto a maintenance dose of probably the first two drugs to keep things at bay. This throws lots of things into question. Moving, for one thing. It also means hair loss which, though relatively trivial, is just another thing to endure. So it’s back to painting nails a dark colour in an attempt to keep them, dealing with a runny nose as nasal hair is decimated and finding natty ways of tying scarves.

In an attempt to show bravado today, I go to the hospital wearing mascara and a pair of trousers with skull and crossbones on them. Obviously I have other clothes on too, but later on Mr Mason and I share a very dark joke about the inappropriateness of wearing such a garment to an appointment when you are told you have incurable cancer. So yes, the humour is alive and well and still flowing freely. We have been knocked by this news but tomorrow we’ll be up and fighting again. On the way home, we go to the supermarket and stock up on essentials like toilet paper and cake, the latter probably being more essential than the former at the moment. It’s clearly a time to hunker down and dig deep. Please feel free to insert your own favourite metaphor.

Normal service will be resumed shortly.

Mr Mason and the Hitler moustache

Some time ago, Richard Herring, the comedian, thought about reclaiming the toothbrush moustache. Obviously heavily identified with Adolf Hitler, it was a tough challenge and he received quite a lot of stick for even raising the subject. As I watched his efforts some years ago, little did I realise I would have my own toothbrush moustache kerfuffle to deal with. I am resting in bed before I head off to the hospital to have my arm wrapped in an effort to reduce the lymphoedema. It’s a long process that requires doing on a daily basis. Luckily it also involves a very soothing massage as the nurse moves lymph fluid around my body. She mentions that Mr Mason could help with massaging my back for when she is not around and I mention it to him later but he looks dubious. A look he quite often adopts these days. As Mr Mason finishes his ablutions in the bathroom, he wanders back into the bedroom with a piece of toilet roll pressed tightly to his face. In the olden days, it was not uncommon to see men wandering around with small pieces of toilet paper stuck to their faces from where they had cut themselves shaving. There seemed to be no embarrassment or sense that this was not the most stylish way of looking. I have to say that I haven’t noticed toilet paper stuck to men’s faces for ages. Presumably the rise of modern razors with their millions of blades has put paid to the need but today, Mr Mason is on a time warp, big style.

“I have cut myself shaving” he says. “I appear to have given myself a Hitler moustache”. Once he removes the toilet paper, I can see that he has, indeed, given himself a Hitler moustache of sorts. He appears to have sliced a chunk out of his upper lip and the resulting dried blood looks very much like a toothbrush moustache. We are very fortunate Mr Mason does not have dark brown hair or he would have to stay indoors.

Mr Mason offers to give me a lift to the hospital so I can get my arm bandaged. In order to lure me in, he says “I have a bag of cat litter and a pack of toilet rolls in the boot” with a slightly mad look on his face. He is such a smooth talker. In spite of my better judgement, I accept and my journey goes smoothly. As I am early for my appointment, I go into Maggie’s first and catch up with some friends. Firstly I announce to my friend Tamsin that Tamsin will not be able to meet us this morning. She gives me an old-fashioned look (how I love that phrase) and I realise I have confused her with my friend Tatum. This is the first in a litany of frustrating dead-ends in my verbal dexterity. My mind is like a complicated maze at the moment and I continually run headlong into the hedges, bouncing off as I grab at words that elude me. I have quite a long conversation about going to Bakersfield in California some years ago and explaining we had gone to see XXX XXX who had a hotel and club there. Who is XXX XXX? they ask. I cannot tell them but I can tell them a lot about our visit, including that he had a young protegee who is current in country music. Who is that? they ask. Ah, that I cannot tell them that either. We have seen him play, I tell them. Both of them. And XXX XXX was elderly and forgetful but could play guitar although his singing voice had deserted him. He died a little while after we saw him although the two things are unconnected. This is despite the fact I told Master Mason that XXX XXX only died after he saw him and that the two things were undoubtedly connected, he being possibly on a silent rampage, killing elderly musicians. Some of the Village People  died after he saw them at the age of 5. I am saddened to say that his very first gig was to see the Village People (who were great) and Gary Glitter who has since been exposed as a paedophile. Gary Glitter did not perform as he injured his back, probably by falling off his platform shoes or so we posited. This early exposure to entertainment and very dubious individuals does not seem to have affected him unduly although he would tell you he needs counselling, should you ask him.

In the end I save the day by shouting out “Buck Owens!” for it is indeed he who is XXX XXX. My memory is definitely getting worse. Having expected improvement, I am rather depressed by its decline and don’t know how I can rescue it. Chemotherapy has torn a large, ragged hole and is holding my memories hostage. If anyone sees them, please let me know.

Seriously, really?

I have gone beyond the pale, so far I am a mere whitewashed speck and I don’t like it. When Miss Mason was small, she used to say “I don’t like it!” in a very peculiar voice that I still find myself using today. Toddler speak. Anyway, on Tuesday I go to Charing Cross to see two friends, one of whom is having surgery and the other who is having a new drug, TDM1. So new is this drug that it is not on the NHS prescribing list and no-one seems to know anything about it. What are the side effects likely to be? I ask. “Don’t know. No-one knows. It’s a mystery” she says with resignation. Yep. Nothing to do except take the drugs and hope for the best. I am actually hoping for more than best because she is one diamond in my depleted night sky at the moment. My other friend is having herself tidied up. This is short-hand for removing a radiotherapy damaged implant, re-doing the reconstruction and up-lifting the other breast so it will resemble the other. When I go to visit her, there is a woman in the bed opposite she describes as ‘a shouter’. Oh, yes, indeed she is. She shouts at every approach from a nurse. “Don’t do that! Don’t touch that! Don’t move it!” As soon as one nurse has seen to her she is ringing the bell again with a delighted look on her face. It is time to go when she orders a commode. As the curtains are drawn we are hoping it will just be for a wee. Some things should really be private. However, it sounds as though she has a racehorse in there as a Niagara Falls sound-a-like issues forth which continues far longer than nature intended. Henceforth she is known as Shergar. I hitch a ride home with my TDM1 friend who is already feeling the effects. The only information she has been given is a brochure for health professionals. Sigh.

Today I have a meeting at Kings Fund which starts at 11, leaving me time to have a slow start to my day. I admit I have been feeling more and more tired recently and am glad it does not start at 9. I work out what time I will have to leave by and then work back from there, giving myself a time I must get up by. I have coffee, I shower and then dress as I listen to a really interesting Radio 4 programme on women in Islam. I keep glancing at the clock to make sure I am on time. When it says 10.33, I go downstairs and gather my things together before Mr Mason gives me a lift to the station. Fellow Londoners will be spotting the deliberate mistake here. If you ever ask someone in London how long it will take to get from point A in London to point B in London, they will overwhelmingly say 1 hour. It will take me almost an hour to reach Kings Fund and I am leaving the house at 10.45. Hmmm. My brain does not detect the mistake until I am on the train and glance at my watch which says 11.10. I am absolutely thrown by this as though I have gone through a time warp. It then dawns on me that I am out in my timings but a whole hour. Given that some people at the meeting have travelled from Whitby and still arrive on time, I hang my head in shame as I sidle into the room.

Sometime during the course of the morning, the second bombshell drops. Mr Mason rings to ask where my passport is. He has looked in the drawer and cannot find it. Now, I have a memory of doing something with my passport in the last few weeks but I am not sure what. I feel I needed to enter the details on a form for, possibly, insurance. I remember showing it to Mr Mason and saying how I looked like a peasant or Russian hit woman. I could not decide which. What became of the passport after that, I am not sure. All day I worry about it. I absolutely hate that cancer and chemotherapy has so massively robbed me of my memory. I know I joke about it and everyone says “Oh, my memory is terrible, too” but it’s not the same. I had a good memory. I could file things away mentally and then retrieve them. I knew where I had put things. My brain worked. And to have that suddenly taken away is – well, devastating. A part of me has gone and while I was so ill I didn’t notice because I was only focusing on hour to hour or day to day. Now I am attempting to reconnect with my life in a meaningful way, I am reminded time and again of what I have lost. “It will come back!” people say, reassuringly. When? Just when will I be able to remember what I did and when, who said what, where I put something? How long does it take? Like this, I am not me. Perhaps, more tellingly, I am not accepting the me I have become. The person I do not want to be. I am not angry I had cancer. I am angry with the effects of the disease and treatment and where that leaves me. Yes, yes, things could be a lot worse, I know. But that doesn’t take away from how I feel about being different.

So, I need to turn the house upside down in an effort to find my passport which I will need in the next few weeks. It’s a real pain and I don’t like it.

Just to cheer myself up and because I have learned how to, crank up the volume and enjoy 3.21 minutes of  The Hives  🙂