I’ve decided to do no more travelling between now and heading Down Under in November. Other than, perhaps, the occasional relax in Anglesey at my sister’s place.
My three long trips this summer have taken it out of me. All three of them fabulous experiences though. But it’s time for a break and it’s necessary to give the doctors a chance to prod my body to determine my next treatment.
Of the minor things, my feet appear to be improving. Regular salty foot baths helping. The Bell’s palsy appears kinder. My face is still contorted, my eye remains open and my right ear is deaf. My nose still bleeds. But the eye stings less.
The major issue remains the lung cancer. Monday will see if the blood test confirms I can go on osiminertinib. Or if I need a more invasive bone biopsy to establish this. It’s a life extending drug, not a life saving one. But I’ll take that. It might only buy months of comfort but that’s time to enjoy life more and, just maybe, an opportunity for further treatments to evolve. For now, my right buttock remains a source of pain, pelvis gripped by a tumour. I fear a similar problem in my right chest. Hopefully that’s a strain and not a tumour. Assuming I’m given a X-ray on Monday maybe that’ll tell me.
My declining stock of prescription painkillers were issued in December last year. The initial success of afatinib has meant I didn’t need them until June, and only on occasion since then. For the last few weeks I’ve been piling down the Walmart purchased paracetamol and naproxen. Effective most of the time. Occasionally needing a boost from last year’s prescribed amitryptolene and tramadol. It’s these last two that are running out. My GP won’t repeat prescribe without seeing me. Monday evening.
“Why do you heed painkillers?”
“Cancer is killing me”
“Here’s a prescription”
I’m assuming it will be that straight forward. I’d rather get my painkillers from Oncobabe but it doesn’t work that way apparently.
Meanwhile I have the ongoing saga of Oldham Athletic to entertain me. Apparently Clarence Seedorf, Dutch legend, is in line to manage them. If a Moroccan chap takes over ownership of the club.
“Meat Pie, Lamb Tagine, Come on Abdallah, build us a team” and “Ooh, we got a couscous” might be the new chants. Hopefully I’ll still be around to see the story pan out successfully.
After three weeks together in the USA I’m really missing Rachel.