228. Ostrich neck aching a bit

 

Mentally I still feel I’m in a good-enough place, though I felt this evening like I imagine a cat must feel after a trip to the vet’s - the need for time and space to lick my wounds. This has surprised me as nothing spectacular occurred today, but I think Dennis’ tuts and “I could do without this” makes me want to turn round and ask who the hell has an “incurable disease???” So, time for me, time to deal with the reflux the contrast dye has caused, time to work out what I want to say, what I need to say and who needs to hear.

Today my lovely neighbour Lisa picked me up at 8.50 and we headed for St James’s. She dropped me and sat in the car studying her antiques and, I imagine, freezing. FOUR hours!! I was at the clinic by 9.30 and informed my appointment was at 10. Why does lovely Dr U not pass things on?? One of the nurses thought she knew about it and checked my notes and yes, the plan was for the CT scan at 10.  Got into to see Dr U at 9.45, quite a useful discussion, then upstairs to the ward to be cannulated (presumably a sop to whoever was doing him a favour in Radiology as my notes say “difficult to cannulate”.)  Yep, I lived up to it. 20 minute wait for a nurse, then she bustled along and said they send all the difficult cases to her. 

Two veins failed in my hand, despite her admiration for them - touch of the vampire there. Painful doesn’t describe it but needles don’t faze me so press on. I asked about inside my elbow so she played with them for a bit and went in. Aaargh. Dead end. Even she agreed (no blood coming out). Attempt 4 worked, though with a lot of bleeding, so I got the lift down to Radiology, realising my arm hurt like b****ry cos it had to be kept ramrod stiff. Nope, no appointment. Next Wednesday at LGI. I explained that the oncologist had sent me down so off she went to enquire. Nope, no one knew anything. She would ring the breast clinic. Now she could have spoken to anyone who might have a snowball’s chance in hell of finding Dr U. 30 minutes later, I asked if I should go upstairs and ask myself. No, no need.

Another 20 minutes and I just picked my stuff up and walked out. I parked myself outside Dr U’s office so

I could grab him when he came out for his next patient. It worked. He marched downstairs, came back and said to go down and wait. By this time I was a bit edgy so I resorted to half a lorazepam and then I was straight in. It was different this time - the contrast dye affected me differently. Last time it was a weird  feeling that disappeared in seconds. This time, parts of my body felt like they were in fire (ok, exaggeration, a strong internal warmth) including my hands. Weird. 

Then home to tell Dennis. Tell him what. I had no intention of telling him that Dr U looked at the unhealed  spot at the top of my vertebrae and decided it looked very much like what happened with my eye. He encouraged me to have a photo taken (Lisa did it) and I do see what he means. So now we wait on the CT scan. Is it better than the MRI at picking up cancers? I thought the MRI was infallible! We moved from it’s possible this may be the only site of the new cancer to it’s possible it has spread... so I don’t know what to think. He wants radiotherapy for the medial canthus but my eyelid isn’t sufficiently healed. One tiny bit isn't healing at all, as far as I can tell! So that’s a handy delay. But maybe I’m being stupid and I should go for treatment asap. Big sighs.

Full picture next Friday. Oh, yeah, I nearly forgot. None of the team have ever seen breast cancer in the medial canthus. I just want to be normal.

And yes, I did tell Dennis :)

I see I have acquired a comment. My first! Unfortunately Google won;t allow me to reply so I’ll do it here:

Dear Alan. Thank you for your effusive comments. I’m sure your husband’s erectile dysfunction must have been a source of great distress to you both but comparing a floppy dick to the harsh realities of cancer isn’t appreciated. Perhaps Dr Itua could cure you of your insensitivity and poor blog etiquette as well as the diabetes. Regards, Jan.