You may think that a subtle dose of terminal lung cancer might create a feeling of no hope. But a series of possible new treatments remain close.
Bells palsy on the other hand is my absolute lost cause.
My attendance at the Halifax Eye Clinic started badly. No record of my appointment on the interactive check in screen. Eventually I was seen by a different doctor who told me off for not spraying my eye enough with medication, making it dry. Odd, given that it spouts tears at great regularity in a simple response to eating, talking and breathing. Odd, given that he told me off for over lubricating the eye with the other ointment.
A few further tests and my hope of getting a golden eyelid shattered. Piss off with a new prescription and come back in two weeks. Oh, and the pharmacy have issued an alternative prescription because the one issued was out of stock.
Stay deaf. Retain a sore eye. Keep that face wonky forever. There’s no real treatment in this postcode area. There’s little hope your face will fix itself before the cancer kills you. See you in a fortnight.
There is a despondency around this affliction that somehow outdoes my more serious condition.
I can’t think for a second that the ointment issued is a remotely suitable substitute for the spray prescribed but unavailable.
I’ll lie down in a darkened room and hope that helps the eye as it’s had to for eighteen months now.