Midweek moan

The trouble with writing sweeping statements such as 'My cancer has gone' is that it is a) tempting fate and b) possibly not true. Depressing trip to see the oncologist yesterday where among other less important things he expressed his deep concern over the ufo on the other side - the one that I just have to live with until another MRI scan becomes possible in 6 months -though he did say it was highly unusual for a woman of my age to have cancer in both breasts. Well that's a relief.

He was rushed off his feet with several people waiting and clearly did not have the time or the inclination for a heart to heart chat about my situation. I realise intellectually that his attitude means I am becoming generally less interesting to him as his work is largely done - and only the radiotherapy remains - but it is impossible to explain how demoralising a meeting of this kind can be.

Cancer patients hang onto the doctor's every word. They try to read between the lines. They analyse every sentence, every look and every movement, looking for those vital clues that could mean the difference between life or death. Sometimes it takes days or weeks to unravel a 7 minute interview.

In any event, nothing new came of our brief chat - he is satisfied with the impact of the chemo - despite the fact that active cancer cells still remained before surgery - it is indeed good news that the lymph nodes were not affected - but there is always a possibility that it will come back.
He confirmed that I will have 25 sessions of radiotherapy (still to be arranged) every day for 5 weeks after which time I must put it all behind me, 'look after my children and get on with my life'. All good advice but a crystal ball would have been better.

Francois very sweetly offered to take me to John Lewis after the appointment (desperate times) but I didn't have the heart. Just wanted to go home and worry. He then suggested a quick trip to the pub as kids were both out which I initially refused on the basis that 'I can never drink alcohol again or I may get secondaries...' but then realised how pathetic I was being so reneged. There is always a choice - but sometimes it's hard to see it.

We were going to go to the old fashioned, friendly pub on the corner, but while passing Ryan's Bar on Church St Francois spotted friend through the window so we changed plans. While he was catching up on old times, I was left at the bar next to a drunken old Scot who lunged at my headscarf, nearly knocking it sideways, saying 'You in chemo then?'

Having asked me what my prognosis was (I only forgave him because he was drunk as a skunk) he declared that he was an alcoholic (no kidding) which meant that luckily he'd have a fast and painless death from a heart attack or stroke and not a slow painful one from cancer.

Oh my God!

Have ordered a book called 'The certainty of uncertainty' from Amazon and am never leaving the house again.