Local anaesthetic. Some of that gel they put on a pregnant mother to be to aid ultrasound vision of a newborn. In my case, the second known natural child of Stringer will be born of an orifice somewhere near my neck.
A bit of prodding about with injections and then four tissue samples taken for analysis. If any show cancer, I’m assuming my chemotherapy won’t restart. In that case we can train Oncobabe how to do the paperwork to prescribe my new to NHS miracle immunotherapy drug. We have the document with her instructions. She seemed unable to find her copy previously, saying its not yet available. It really is!
If there is no cancer in this sample, chemo will continue. I’d be amazed if this was the case, but ignoring medical opinion isn’t really an option. Logically, this option means I live more months. Not a lot. But better than nothing.
Right now, with no treatment, I feel dog rough. Moving is tough. Thinking is tough. Doing things I enjoy is tough. Managing my bodily functions continues to be a challenge. Maybe the next drug will restore confidence in my own dignity for many of those extra months. Tough to find that information online.
Meanwhile, despite best intent, I’m struggling to be social. There’s a good Saturday routine going with Chris that we amended last week. Even if the season ends, as seems likely, in relegation I want to see the last two games. One in Oldham, one in Northampton. Travel for the latter may be a problem. Travel is tougher than ever.
Too many things are a problem. This isn’t a state of mind. It’s my current reality. I don’t like it.