9. Planning Application Denied

Firstly, an apology for the delay, it seems my adoring public cannot get enough. I’ve had several requests for the next update, but the truth is I am an incredibly busy man. Unlike myself, you’ll just have to show a little patience.

Round Two

Each chemo sessions means having to be in London the day before treatment, so that my bloods can be taken to ensure that I am fit to undergo the treatment, this somewhat inefficiently, means a three-night stay for each visit. The flights just don’t work timing wise for other options. Given that taking bloods takes less than an hour, I’m generally left kicking my heels for the rest of the day.

The middle of March does of course mean one thing though. The Cheltenham Festival. My appointed chaperone for the week and I, spend the afternoon in the bookmakers attending to business. Some with more success than others.

The second chemo session itself was uneventful and followed the same pattern as the first, suffice to say there is once again a 7-hour process with lots of liquid in and lots of liquid out.

Race against time

My main concern is the state of my hair. It’s struggling to remain in situ, and I have promised the girls they can shave it off when I get home. So, for now, it is handled with extreme care in the shower.

But cling on it does, barely.

On returning home, and after some initial bravado, they’re both a little tentative. This quickly subsides. Particularly in Liv’s case, who gets to work with a very large, slightly psychotic grin.

Job done and I’m not sure it suits me to be honest.

Scratch that. I am sure. And it doesn’t.

Still, there are bigger issues at hand. Quiet literally. My hands are cracking and split, opening up papercut like sores which are really quiet painfully. I’ve got some delightful cotton gloves to wear for bed so that I can lube them up, all I’m missing is a whistle and a glow stick.

Otherwise, the side effects from the second session have been much subdued. Some tiredness aside, the increase in the prescribed medication has put paid to the nausea I had experienced first time around.

By the end of March, I am called back to London for another PET Scan, an ECG and an echocardiogram, all of which I can thankfully fit into a day trip.

The PET Scan, for those that have been paying attention, and there will be a quiz, uses small amounts of radioactive tracer to show how the body is functioning. In my case, is the chemo doing anything useful? Are there new growths? Have the bastard nodules finally agreed to a truce?

We’ll know soon enough.

We will await a call from the oncologist, who will review and come back to us. To be honest, as pragmatic as I am, I’m not holding out much hope of the chemo continuing and I’ve aligned myself to this being the case. I’ve felt no real change in how my body has reacted, and it genuinely feels much the same. If not worse, in terms of the pain in my back.

A Disturbing Lack of Bad News

The call comes the following day, and I am a little taken aback to be told that the plan is indeed working. There are currently no new growths and those that have enveloped their individual habitats have remained the same. Seemingly having had their planning applications declined.

Good news?

Say it isn’t so.

We generally don’t deal in good news. I can’t recall the last time we’ve had any. Mel is smiling as we come off the phone and again that is a first for these types of conversations.

So, the chemo will continue. We have dates set for the remaining sessions, which means for the first time in a long time we can makes some plans. The first thing on the agenda is a holiday, actively encouraged by the oncologist with a couple of provisos; keep it within Europe and keep the accomodation within 30 minutes of a major hospital. Both reasonable enough!

The girls have once again shown remarkable patience throughout my treatment, often having to make sacrifices, so it really will be nice to get away and spend some quality time together. Probably easier said than done with a couple of teenagers, but we’ll give it a shot.

Back in London in early April for session three, and again there is nothing major to report. The treatment and recovery are following the same pattern, much to my relief. So far, so good and just like that we are half way through.

Three more sessions to go, ending in early June.

Chaos in the kitchen

Eating remains the biggest chore. There are lots of foods I miss, and some I can’t taste in the slightest. Retaining my weight and the dieticians ‘eat what you want’ policy is going well, but the weight it seems wants to gather in one place! I’ll definitely need to get back to something a little more balanced, and reinstating some regular trips to the gym probably wouldn’t hurt.

There is no doubt that my patience has often taken a hit. Apologies to those affected. Living with me at times cannot be easy, but living with three hormonal ladies does at least provide them with a little, or dare I say, a lot, of payback.

Although I have managed to get out on the course, the golf has once again taken a bit of a back seat. I am particularly gutted to missing my first trip since the inauguration of the Manx Mayhem annual jaunt, which began, I believe in 2012. Unfortunately, without any clear indication of where I would be in my treatment, it has had to take a back seat. Maybe next year. Enjoy yourselves, boys. I hope it pisses down all week.

Swimming though will keep me busy over the next few weekends, with 3 trips scheduled into the middle of May. One each with the two girls, which will again hopefully give us some quality time together, or more likely, just the odd cursory glance up from their phones, with a quick ‘you say something?’

My back continues to give me the most grief, despite the lack of any further growths. There are some very interesting new noises as I get up out of my seat. Like a rusty old hinge that hasn’t seen any oil in years. I’ll just self-medicate with the morphine for now and hopefully get it approved, which it ultimately is. Apparently, there is still plenty of room for manoeuvre on this front, which is reassuring.

Chemo session number four was completed yesterday without any fuss. I even managed to escape on this visit without a well-meaning chaperone, but honestly, I see little point in both of us hanging around for the duration when there really isn’t anything to do. I managed to get back to the hotel, have dinner, a good sleep and get myself up in the morning. All groundbreaking stuff.

Just two more sessions to go!

Finally, I have arrived in Manchester today, ahead of watching both girls swimming over the weekend. No sign of them yet though as their flight is delayed, which could be problematic.

Unwarranted feedback

I almost forgot. I had a homeless woman shout at me today outside Victoria Station.

Well, not at me. More in my general vicinity and presumably at anyone else that could hear her within a 2-mile radius.

Stupidly I’d caught her eye and knew instantly it was a mistake.  She sprang to her feet and, in her best Audrey Hepburn / Eliza Doolittle-styled shrill, bellowed:

‘Ugh. What’s wrong with that man’s face. I don’t like it. I don’t like it!’

You and me both, love.

You and me both.