I forgot -- a friend is having chemo right now, and has found 2 lumps under her armpit, something that would make me vomit of fear. She has shown them to the BC nurse, and after consultations they have been diagnosed as "whatever, they will go away eventually" and now she's cool as a cucumber about them.
Sometimes I wonder if the fact that that therapy is so hard to follow doesn't contribute to its reassuring value, a bit like me being disappointed of not getting pain from the radios (but I've got a slightly cooked feeling tonight, yay~~~). The bitter drugs that heals, the disinfectant that stings... sigh, how innocent we are, deep inside.
You didn't do chemo (and neither did I): remember that that doesn't make that the destiny will punish us, or something like that. We are really not exposing ourselves more than due with our semitransgressive choice: virtually nothing for you, definitely more for me, but still not that much.
One thing I didn't write about because it's a tiny can of worms is that the Royal Marsden eventually did call me. The nurse told me that the consultant there would be happy to see me if I were "willing to do my chemotherapy" [I thought you were supposed to stop speaking like that at people when they passed being six years old?] or if the Charing Cross Hospital had been criminal to me, otherwise there was no point because everyone is able to prescribe a bunch of radios and letrazole. I told them politely that then there was no point. I was beyond appalled at that attitude of conditional help; for once, I was positively revolted with rage and didn't speak with anyone for one day (then I forgot. Sorry Dee, I know you love them, but I am a bit of a black sheep and they haven't been so accomodating of my blacksheepness). Now the receptionist at my GP has called me to tell me that my GP wants to make an appointment to discuss the letter than the Marsden has sent to her. Now, I can't stand that receptionist, she's the worst epitome of unempathetic jobworthiness that you can imagine, and I get sick only by hearing her tone of voice, let alone hearing her unearthing that lil' can of worms. I wriggled out of the appointment, I have way way too much on my plate as it is.
V. tired tonight, not because of treatment but because of life, lol. Sleeping little, bussing here and there, coding, rejecting offers: how sad that business has never ever been so good. Ok, it has been on average very good in the last two years, but now it's stellar: if only I cared, if only I were a lil' bit more in a self-congratulatory mood, if only I didn't have cancer 😄 Otherwise, I feel great, in fact I feel so great that it feels extremely strange to have therapy every day, I tend to treat it as it were some odd form of sunbed.
I am writing from a bar in High Street Kensington, I must go home now. Speak later xxx
