Let the good times begin.
‘Let the good times begin’
Condor Ferries obviously knew all about me. They knew that I was in for a load of fun. I couldn’t wait.
For the first time ever, I managed to sleep on the overnight ferry. How come? Has my mind totally
detached itself from the next 12 weeks of my life? I feel strangely calm. We arrived at the sophisticated Premier Inn, where they kindly gave us a room at 8.30am. We were impressed with the beautiful view of a brick wall. The tatty place served its purpose, but I would have preferred luxury at this stage.
We wandered into the City Centre on Sunday. Serious Bloke ( long story ) AKA Cabin Boy, AKA Mike was surprised to see all the shops open. It frightened him. He has led a sheltered life, poor soul. We got a UK SIM card and nasty little phone, being reassured it would cover our beloved island on its bargain bundle of £10 per day for all calls and texts. After 2 days we had run out of money and had to top up.... No, it did not include our little island. It appears that no others do either. We are an expensive island to contact. Back to Whats App.
The day of reckoning arrives. Hospital. We got lost (again) finding the Chemo unit. We are bumpkins. Finally I was put on a short, but suspiciously powerful infusion. That was followed by my first radiotherapy. The place is chaotic. Masses of people with various types of cancer, trying to be patient, while the machines break down, the engineers arrive, your times are wrong on your schedule,
etc, etc. The radio therapists remain serene , calm and professional throughout. I am told to drink nearly a litre of water in order to shove my bladder out of way. After about half an hour, I am about to wet myself. Due to the stroke, it can happen. I also come from a long line of knicker wetters. Laughing, which I frequently enjoy, can prove embarrassing. Do I tell them? I must. I am told to then empty my bladder, and drink 2 more cups. Relief. I am then ushered into the tiny changing room. A basket to put your clothes in, which you take with you into the treatment room, and the next person moves in. We are on a conveyor belt. I am placed on a cold hard table, with the amazing staff positioning me, heaving lumps of fatty hips into place. My knickers are then pulled down round my ankles, I try to look sophisticated, I sense I’m not. I am guided in to place like a plane making a difficult landing. They finally have all my bits in place and leave the room. I have a scan first, then this kind of machine that looks like something from space moves around my lower half making strange chugging noises. I am there for about half an hour. I then leave, walking down the corridor with the back of my gown open, knickers on view to all. On my way out, I notice a number of masks laid out like something from a horror film. It brings back memories of Cabin Boy’s experiences. I’d rather have my knickers round my ankles than wear one of those.
On day 3 we move into our apartment. We are pleasantly surprised. Everything seems to be provided, and we are welcomed by a delightful young lady, who acts as the liaison person. If we crane our
necks, we can see the Marina. Even better, if the handle on our balcony door was mended, we could have some fresh air. We could even sit on the balcony. We make a fuss, and are told they are coming next week.......They have been saying that for 5 weeks apparently. We can only hope.
And so ends the first week. Patience is a virtue. Hours are spent waiting for appointments. Confusion with timings, bladder bursting, knickers all over the place, feeling sick, headache, dizzy,
and what’s more have discovered we have made a mistake with the dosage on my chemo tablets, and I have only been taking half the prescribed dosage. And Serious Bloke is a Maths Teacher. God help me when I start taking the full dose.
So the good times are nearly into the second week. 3 days off now due to a Bank Holiday on Monday,
thank God.
Fucking Cancer
Condor Ferries obviously knew all about me. They knew that I was in for a load of fun. I couldn’t wait.
For the first time ever, I managed to sleep on the overnight ferry. How come? Has my mind totally
detached itself from the next 12 weeks of my life? I feel strangely calm. We arrived at the sophisticated Premier Inn, where they kindly gave us a room at 8.30am. We were impressed with the beautiful view of a brick wall. The tatty place served its purpose, but I would have preferred luxury at this stage.
We wandered into the City Centre on Sunday. Serious Bloke ( long story ) AKA Cabin Boy, AKA Mike was surprised to see all the shops open. It frightened him. He has led a sheltered life, poor soul. We got a UK SIM card and nasty little phone, being reassured it would cover our beloved island on its bargain bundle of £10 per day for all calls and texts. After 2 days we had run out of money and had to top up.... No, it did not include our little island. It appears that no others do either. We are an expensive island to contact. Back to Whats App.
The day of reckoning arrives. Hospital. We got lost (again) finding the Chemo unit. We are bumpkins. Finally I was put on a short, but suspiciously powerful infusion. That was followed by my first radiotherapy. The place is chaotic. Masses of people with various types of cancer, trying to be patient, while the machines break down, the engineers arrive, your times are wrong on your schedule,
etc, etc. The radio therapists remain serene , calm and professional throughout. I am told to drink nearly a litre of water in order to shove my bladder out of way. After about half an hour, I am about to wet myself. Due to the stroke, it can happen. I also come from a long line of knicker wetters. Laughing, which I frequently enjoy, can prove embarrassing. Do I tell them? I must. I am told to then empty my bladder, and drink 2 more cups. Relief. I am then ushered into the tiny changing room. A basket to put your clothes in, which you take with you into the treatment room, and the next person moves in. We are on a conveyor belt. I am placed on a cold hard table, with the amazing staff positioning me, heaving lumps of fatty hips into place. My knickers are then pulled down round my ankles, I try to look sophisticated, I sense I’m not. I am guided in to place like a plane making a difficult landing. They finally have all my bits in place and leave the room. I have a scan first, then this kind of machine that looks like something from space moves around my lower half making strange chugging noises. I am there for about half an hour. I then leave, walking down the corridor with the back of my gown open, knickers on view to all. On my way out, I notice a number of masks laid out like something from a horror film. It brings back memories of Cabin Boy’s experiences. I’d rather have my knickers round my ankles than wear one of those.
On day 3 we move into our apartment. We are pleasantly surprised. Everything seems to be provided, and we are welcomed by a delightful young lady, who acts as the liaison person. If we crane our
necks, we can see the Marina. Even better, if the handle on our balcony door was mended, we could have some fresh air. We could even sit on the balcony. We make a fuss, and are told they are coming next week.......They have been saying that for 5 weeks apparently. We can only hope.
And so ends the first week. Patience is a virtue. Hours are spent waiting for appointments. Confusion with timings, bladder bursting, knickers all over the place, feeling sick, headache, dizzy,
and what’s more have discovered we have made a mistake with the dosage on my chemo tablets, and I have only been taking half the prescribed dosage. And Serious Bloke is a Maths Teacher. God help me when I start taking the full dose.
So the good times are nearly into the second week. 3 days off now due to a Bank Holiday on Monday,
thank God.
Fucking Cancer
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