Yesterday was a struggle. Niggling pain frustrating me. Low level. And while it might not be a howling in agony situation, low level niggles of pain caused by my tumour are just about the most frustrating part of it. Notwithstanding the death sentence they precede.
My nightly nocturnal visit to the little boys room revealed no improvement to my mobility and, certainly between the end of the England match and sleep I was staring at my range of painkillers trying to work out which ones I’d failed to use and which ones I could next use. I downed my paracetamol, made a mental note of 3am for slow release morphine and slept.
An I got a good nine hours of slumber, minus my necessary visit. Waking up I turn over to check the tine on my phone and think I’ve moved quite freely to do that. I adopt my standard lying position which tends to find me least discomfort. My right leg is still full of pins and needles. My right buttock pain, checked with an unsubtle clenching movement, is virtually nil.
I ponder the painkillers. The whole collection is now out of my body and I can start again. If I want to. Do I want to? I decide to leave it until later.
In other words, I’ve woken up in minimal discomfort with no inclination to take pain relief. Now if this is a result of osimertinib I’m a happy man. As its average successful usage period is a tad short of a year, all I need now is to drag it out for three decades or so.