“You’ll need a scan before your next chemotherapy “. Fair enough. An image to make a stick or twist decision on continuing with treatment, being referred to drug trials or, bluntly, being left to die.
Thirteen days after that message, encouraged by my sister, I thought I’d better chase up the scan appointment. It is, after all, only two weeks until they plug me in again and pump me full of poison.
I rang my cancer nurse who answered immediately. Quiet day at the office! She spent a couple of minutes playing with her computer, muttered something in cover up language about scans not having to be on the system (I call bullshit) and eventually said she’d chase it up with Oncobabe in the morning.
The morning has now passed. No update. The chances of now being able to organise a scan and specialist report before the key meeting of medics that decide my fate is slim apparently.
So where does this leave me?
Treatment deferred, risking nasty things growing inside me?
Have the treatment anyway, even though it might not be working?
Unable to be referred to trials, as there’s no way of identifying where to take a much needed biopsy from.
I need to keep Oncobabe on board to get me onto these drug trials. But I feel very let down right now. And those Milton Keynes statistics around lung cancer, chemotherapy and death are niggling away somewhere in my head.
Time for those looking after me to get their elbows and posterias sorted.
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