My treatment has always been palliative.  Google was the first to tell me about certain death but the doctors, keen to pack rooms with note taking, evidence extracting underlings, weren’t far behind with the message.

I’ve been lucky to benefit from two pill a day drugs that simply didn’t exist a few years ago.  Indeed, osimertinib only became available on the NHS as my back surgery happened.  And afatinib had me feeling good for a fair few months during which I delivered on my desire to travel.  And admired acne on my face and torso in the mirror daily.

But my body and mind are limited now.  I won’t get much further than the odd football match and Anglesey.  There’s still a chance of two Wembley visits which would be nice.  Ljublana and Chile seem a long time ago.

Treatment wise though, it’s old school.  Radiotherapy.  Chemotherapy.  That’s your lot.  Bye Dave.  Effectively treatments that can wipe me out and are only likely defer the inevitable a little.  I’m assuming they should be beneficial from a purely comfort point of view.  But they’d better not stop me from getting to Wembley in the unlikely event of Oldham or Stockport getting to the final of their respective Micky Mouse cups.

There is, of course, the Matrix trials.  While today I have my Zometa treatment and have my chemotherapy plan confirmed by Oncobabe, tomorrow I play away in Leeds to find out more about the miracle punt.  Being accepted to join the trial is unlikely.  But Oncopooj (the oncologist in charge, called Pooja) will talk to me.  Test me.  And I’ll eventually find out if there’s hope, and what they measure that hope at in terms of extra months.  They have a few years of records now!

While my outlook is positive towards what life I have, it isn’t positive towards life expectancy.  I know this disease has got me beaten.  I know that the spread in my body has been rapid and powerful and the fact it’s seen off two decent drugs so soon doesn’t augur well.  But you never know.

Radiotherapy Baby