foggy
Striker
So here we go again, the poison is going in soon, the magic potion. Go on chaps do your stuff, get into them, fuck them up. The oncologist has already said I’m incurable so it’s merely sparring with the tumours. She told me if I stopped chemo I would have 2-3 months left before the big sleep. I’m paraphrasing but the facts are there. My tumours, I need to take ownership, I made them. Now I need to control them. I’m so f***ing happy in life and would appreciate a bit more of it, so tumours just behave yourselves and no growing or spreading your death sentence to my other working parts. Please.
On a much better note, those formerly mythical creatures at Basingstoke Hospital have invited me down to discuss my options. Well whoop de f***ing do. My options are simple to me. Please fix me, even if it is a temporary fix or a life extension as they call it. Anyway just slice me open, do the Hipec, take out my gizzards like a Monty Python sketch, cut out the baddies plus the margin, slow cook my belly bits that are left in, with hot chemo, put the gizzards back and stitch me up. Another scar. My midriff is already a swear word in Mandarin as it is so, so fuck. I read recurrence is ‘very common’ but a life extension is far better than a house extension or a peni… well I’ll leave it there but it’s just the best extension ok.
I’ve been here for 4 hours now and they’ve had to take my bloods again. I haven’t even started the chemo. Something clotted up. Dinnar what that means, so fuck, they’ll get round to me at some point. There’s an old bugger across the way who has been here an hour and he’s moaning on. There’s another over there who is having tea made and he’s not a patient, they don’t normally get fed and watered. That’s for us patients. Us long termers know not to bring anyone along. It’s a small room with not many seats. He’s taken one of the electric lazy boys. They’re meant to make us chemo bods feel better, or less shit, not some grumpy old entitled get. Maybe I’m generalising and being harsh but after 15 months of this I’ve found it’s the old buggers that are the miserable rude bastards. No please’s or thank-you’s. Lots of how long is this going to take’s. Anyway I’ve got the plipper for the telly so the football is going on at 3 and they can all get to fuck.
Today I am the Grouty of the chemo ward. Been here forever and in charge...
of the telly anyway.
For the keen eye’d you will notice it has been 3 weeks since my last ramble proper. Because, ladies and gentlemen, I had a holiday. I went to York at the weekend, met up with friends, barbecue, beer, crack, stayed over, city centre, pub, food, crack, train home with the hoi polloi. A bit of normalty. I don’t put the i in as it’s not quite there but it’s close. We’ve done the York thing for a few years, I missed last year altogether with my bit of a bugger on but before that it was a day long piss up by the river. But now normalty. I came home at 4 and left them to it.
Chemo started. After 6 hours and that’s fine. Shit happens. Now with the machines that go ping so thanks for your company. I bring the same book along - Backroom Boys : The Secret Return of the British Boffin - but never read it. Too busy rambling on here. I did 12 x Folfox last year and read When Breath Becomes Air - a book by a brilliant surgeon who was diagnosed with lung cancer. Sorry to put a spoiler in but he dies in the end, but it’s not like a Darth is his dad moment or owt, these things tend to turn out like that in cancerland, fantastic read though. The chemo nurses must have thought I was a bit odd but now I’m on number 21 including part 1 last year, I think they know me. I ask them how they are, how was their weekend, how are their families, where are they going for their holidays. And it’s not smalltalk, I am genuinely interested. I know who has cats, dogs, who have kids, who has twins, they’re 9 years old, who are divorced, even who has a twat for an ex husband. He pays no maintenance the absolute bastard.
These are real people, not uniforms and they are part of my keeping me alive world, they are wonderful. They are matter of fact too, we discuss constipation out loud. We all hear about each others poo. Hazey talked a lot about shit, I talked to him on here back in the day, about his childhood perversions I think it was, he left nothing out, bought the book 10 years ago but I get it more now. Here I am with my own Dark Friend except we’re not friends, fuck that, you sting like a bastard and never let me forget you’re there, I f***ing hate you truth be told.
Every 2 weeks I get plugged in via Metal Mickey’s poison pump knowing I am going to feel like absolute shit for the next week, medicated to try and ease the nausea and whatnot. I take shitloads of pills, the steroids are the worst, dexamethazone. No sleep and a cranky head, but it suppresses the nausea along with the help of the other pills. They IV the first Dexa just before my starter, if they inject too fast, it lights up my arse ring - Johnny Cash style. I have my own cannabis oil, the legal one no THC like that poor lad with the epileptic fits. Even without that, it’s the nuts.
On a much better note, those formerly mythical creatures at Basingstoke Hospital have invited me down to discuss my options. Well whoop de f***ing do. My options are simple to me. Please fix me, even if it is a temporary fix or a life extension as they call it. Anyway just slice me open, do the Hipec, take out my gizzards like a Monty Python sketch, cut out the baddies plus the margin, slow cook my belly bits that are left in, with hot chemo, put the gizzards back and stitch me up. Another scar. My midriff is already a swear word in Mandarin as it is so, so fuck. I read recurrence is ‘very common’ but a life extension is far better than a house extension or a peni… well I’ll leave it there but it’s just the best extension ok.
I’ve been here for 4 hours now and they’ve had to take my bloods again. I haven’t even started the chemo. Something clotted up. Dinnar what that means, so fuck, they’ll get round to me at some point. There’s an old bugger across the way who has been here an hour and he’s moaning on. There’s another over there who is having tea made and he’s not a patient, they don’t normally get fed and watered. That’s for us patients. Us long termers know not to bring anyone along. It’s a small room with not many seats. He’s taken one of the electric lazy boys. They’re meant to make us chemo bods feel better, or less shit, not some grumpy old entitled get. Maybe I’m generalising and being harsh but after 15 months of this I’ve found it’s the old buggers that are the miserable rude bastards. No please’s or thank-you’s. Lots of how long is this going to take’s. Anyway I’ve got the plipper for the telly so the football is going on at 3 and they can all get to fuck.
Today I am the Grouty of the chemo ward. Been here forever and in charge...
of the telly anyway.
For the keen eye’d you will notice it has been 3 weeks since my last ramble proper. Because, ladies and gentlemen, I had a holiday. I went to York at the weekend, met up with friends, barbecue, beer, crack, stayed over, city centre, pub, food, crack, train home with the hoi polloi. A bit of normalty. I don’t put the i in as it’s not quite there but it’s close. We’ve done the York thing for a few years, I missed last year altogether with my bit of a bugger on but before that it was a day long piss up by the river. But now normalty. I came home at 4 and left them to it.
Chemo started. After 6 hours and that’s fine. Shit happens. Now with the machines that go ping so thanks for your company. I bring the same book along - Backroom Boys : The Secret Return of the British Boffin - but never read it. Too busy rambling on here. I did 12 x Folfox last year and read When Breath Becomes Air - a book by a brilliant surgeon who was diagnosed with lung cancer. Sorry to put a spoiler in but he dies in the end, but it’s not like a Darth is his dad moment or owt, these things tend to turn out like that in cancerland, fantastic read though. The chemo nurses must have thought I was a bit odd but now I’m on number 21 including part 1 last year, I think they know me. I ask them how they are, how was their weekend, how are their families, where are they going for their holidays. And it’s not smalltalk, I am genuinely interested. I know who has cats, dogs, who have kids, who has twins, they’re 9 years old, who are divorced, even who has a twat for an ex husband. He pays no maintenance the absolute bastard.
These are real people, not uniforms and they are part of my keeping me alive world, they are wonderful. They are matter of fact too, we discuss constipation out loud. We all hear about each others poo. Hazey talked a lot about shit, I talked to him on here back in the day, about his childhood perversions I think it was, he left nothing out, bought the book 10 years ago but I get it more now. Here I am with my own Dark Friend except we’re not friends, fuck that, you sting like a bastard and never let me forget you’re there, I f***ing hate you truth be told.
Every 2 weeks I get plugged in via Metal Mickey’s poison pump knowing I am going to feel like absolute shit for the next week, medicated to try and ease the nausea and whatnot. I take shitloads of pills, the steroids are the worst, dexamethazone. No sleep and a cranky head, but it suppresses the nausea along with the help of the other pills. They IV the first Dexa just before my starter, if they inject too fast, it lights up my arse ring - Johnny Cash style. I have my own cannabis oil, the legal one no THC like that poor lad with the epileptic fits. Even without that, it’s the nuts.
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