The failure of a fax to either be sent, or be read on receipt, rather annoyed he last week.  As I’ve hit the “chemotherapy then die” point of conventional treatment for my stage four lung cancer the last hope of joining the Matrix Trial – a significant drug company sponsored clinical trial – was rather important to me.  The fax fail not fun given the quick death alternative.

As I went into a resigned acceptance of my fate, including a relaxing pyjama day on Friday, my sister hit the phones.  Chased people around.  Got people talking to each other. Rattled some cages.  Stuff I was never particularly good at in my working life.  Stuff I’d have just accepted as inevitable if I’d been making those calls myself.

But she’s hit the jackpot.  Or at least got me an appointment at St Jimmy’s in Leeds on Friday with the top onco person there.  Whether she’s a babe or not is something to find out.

It does seem from a conversation between this doctor and my cancer nurse that there is still a preference for me to go through chemotherapy before experimental drugs are brought into play.

But it’s a foot in the door.  Granted, they can still reject me from the trial for any one of numerous reasons.  But I’m on their radar and there’s a little bit of hope.  Perhaps I can be among a group of patients who show significant recovery.  If not, it’d be nice to croak knowing I’ve contributed a statistic to a trial where some people are doing well.

It’s a result.  A bit of good news.  There are no guarantees.  Even if accepted for the trial the chance of a significant extension to reasonably healthy life is slim.  But I’d love to be a ground-breaking medical miracle.

That Familiar Feeling of a Sore Buttock