The blasted generation game

The blasted generation game

 

Hey Hey! Just how much I missed you!

Me again. I just LOVE this process, with bits and pieces revealing themselves. It’s all about learning.

I’ve decided that I am like a TripAdvisor for C C C – cancer. See? I can say it; then, so can you. To me.

I will talk to you later about someone who calls it ‘the blasted business’ in front of me. That’s fine! That’s him, and how he goes about it – brilliant.

In fact, I think I am becoming a seasoned pro, and that is absolutely fantastic! See what you think of my latest idea.

So the plan is, I visit a few cancers, see how I get on with them, then give them a rating, or some tips, or places to avoid. You can ‘like’; find the information useful; book in on my recommendation; do whatever you choose! I am here to help, after all. I do hope life, if it so chooses, gives you my 5* preference.

I’m taking you on a new tour, as it’s summer, of lung cancer. Want to join?

It’s interesting this time, because people (not you lot – you are completely, and utterly, beyond amazing) are much more guarded. I think it’s because this stop on my research tour is a direct result of what I have done in the past. I smoked. A lot. For many years. The good Lord knows I have put the bloody hours in – dedicated as ever to the task in hand! I can honestly say, I gave it my ALL, lol!

I gave up 6.5 years ago; but the damage was seeded. It’s come to call. I accept that, completely. 90% of lung cancer patients are smokers or ex-smokers. I played with chance; it kicked me back where I belong. So, rather than have people tell me ‘it’s my fault’ (which they rightly can), I’d prefer to say that I have done all I can to earn this 🙂

So now that’s out of the way, I must update you on many hilaaaaaaaire moments since we last spoke.

On Monday, I contacted the Onc. I know I revealed his first name last time, but trust me; it was like witnessing your parents having sexy time; it was wrong, on all levels. He has to remain Onc or I will be disobeying some enormous code and he will give me a shit chemo cocktail because he is actually quite nasty. Yeah, ‘Tim’, that’s you. That is the LAST time I will mention his actual name. Urggh, weird parent sexy time shivers have descended.

So as far as I had understood it, following me and the male carer’s meeting with the hugely dreamy Mr ‘I Can Get That Out of You Probably Reasonably Successfully ’ thoracic surgeon last week (Note: I am wondering if he can do it under local anaesthetic so I can just sort of look at him for four hours: turns out he can’t. Bum.), it’s all going ahead in early September. We won’t find out whether it’s a lung cancer primary, or a breast cancer spread thingy until after that. That said, I had questions for Onc. I had to email him.

 

Me: Onc. How big is it and does size matter in staging or prognosis?

Onc: I don’t know how big it is.

Me: Are you going to cook up another vile chemo cocktail for me afterwards?

Onc: Won’t know til it’s in a pot and we can poke at it.

Me: If it’s a new primary are you going to fix it again?

Onc: It depends.

Me: If it’s a spread of breast cancer, are you going to fix it again?

Onc. No. We move to palliative.

Me: Fine. Bring on the op.

Onc: [nothing]

 

Anyway, having overdosed on Onc’s humour, literally splitting my sides and possibly my right lung (whereupon spread would be like Utterly Butterly left out in the sunshine on a warm afternoon. By the way: you must never eat that sh*t), I then had the good fortune to spend five days with an elderly male relative (EMR from now on) of mine. He was nowhere to be seen in the last episode – that matters not. He is with me now for this run out. In his, um, unique way.

We’re trundling off on a road trip together, which, I had had to warn him, may not have happened at all, but had not explained why. We’re chatting away and he is planning future road trips with me as chauffeur. In October. Time to act.

 

Me: EMR, I am not sure if I can commit to that just at the moment, as I am going to have to have an operation soon.

EMR: Oh blast. When will you be back on form?

Me: Don’t know. I will keep you posted.

EMR: It’s not to do with that blasted business that you had is it?

Me: Yes EMR. It is.

EMR: Not the other side is it?

Me: Oh no! I am fine with all that one, I’ve just been checked again. I’ve got a new one! Lung cancer this time!

EMR: That will be all that sunbathing you did I expect.

Me: No, EMR, that will be all the bloody fags I smoked!

 

I had heard via a friend, during the last episode, that EMR put my breast cancer down to ‘all the blasted sunbathing she did!’. Hmm. I can see some work needs to be done here! It is not his fault; he is quite old and his wife died of skin cancer. I get it.

Silence pervades the car.

Some minutes on, still silent, my EMR passenger starts softly, but awkwardly, patting my left forearm, as I drive.

 

 

Back to HQ, and luckily, and timely-ly (soz Jane Kingers) enough, we’ve only got people in to remove some blasted bonded asbestos, of the non-dangerous (UNLESS DISTURBED) kind. I could be wrong but I am not certain it was around in 1703 when Barratt’s or Wimpey (or whatever it says on the receipt written by quill and ink but with an interesting addition of a QR code and Queen Anne on live chat) built the house- BUT, somewhere along the line, this stuff has entered our garage. (We’re still a bit annoyed the builder didn’t think of putting in an en-suite at the time, but hell, our garden soil is good – so, we thank you, olde English peasants. Our vegetables are marvellous.)

We booked the works pre-diagnosis. We dutifully moved the entire contents of our DOUBLE LENGTH garage outside, as instructed, the day before the works were due. The morning arrives: call from company. ‘We are going to have to delay a week.’ Not happy, but… what can you do.

The following week, an intelligent, lively, energetic and qualified bloke arrives with what can only be described as a Mute Brute. MB’s job is to assist with the removal of the offending ceiling panels, help clean down thoroughly, then assist with the erection (stop it Sara G) of new boards. Simple, right?

I think I knew things were going to go wrong when I offered the pair tea or coffee.

The smart one said, ‘Oh yes please, tea with one sugar.’ The Brute went ‘UGGGHHH?’ then took a screwdriver to a slate, and slowly, carefully, with all his might, carved out …. ‘X’

I wasn’t sure if he was mid-Facebook response or … but then again, he didn’t add ‘You ok hun?’. To be honest, that’s WAY many letters/thoughts/words than it seems he is able to enunciate.

Oh dear.

The nice one left and said all would be fine with the MB. Not so.

Upshot is, four weeks later, after more comedy (if it were funny) – – MB was actually left untethered from his chain that day; he managed to smash through to next door’s ceiling (I am reminded of Muttley- ‘medal, medal”), the finishers came in (not Danny Care, unfortunately) but refused to work in there because MB hadn’t even cleaned down, and had disturbed the A stuff; new people came in to clean and one lamped his head on a light he’d unscrewed 3 weeks earlier, hit the deck unconscious, and I was there with the blood, the plasters, the paracetamol, the vomit, as his employer was telling him to just carry on. I called 999 and the bloke got carted off. Still not resolved, four weeks on.

 

All the time, they knew of my condition. At every stage, right from the start.

 

Do you know what? I feel like lighting up a fag after 6.5 years. Thing is, I don’t want skin cancer, do I, EMR?

 

Pip pip 🙂