Chemo number 23. Acceptance

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Or round 3 cycle 2. Or cycle 2 round 3. It’s the 2019 version I’ve had a 2017 and a 2018. It’s the 23rd time and probably the 12th I’ve gone off to into space and wrote about it on here. It’s like a diary for me, I don’t mind if nobody reads it, it started that way. With me not minding that is. A lot read it. Some even sent shit samples in to their Docs. Some said stuff in reply. Some called me an attention seeking like whore. All good then. I appreciated all of it.

They seem to have got the anti sickness drugs right. My hair is coming out more this time. Not the grey hair. Grey hairs must be hardier as there are none round the plug holes. Fucking typical. The chemo nurse has just said ‘silver foxes are in’. Excellent I’m about to be fashionable. Or bald. Sorry bald people I’m sure you can be both.

The other hair is on its way too. Pubes, armpit, chest, eye lashes, brows, probably arse crack but I haven’t checked that bit. No doubt ear and nose will hang on until the end. And I’m tired. Chemo itself drains energy like nothing else. It’s difficult to even lift an arm sometimes but I have a shitload of support around to help with stuff. My little dog is a favourite with everyone, she is very popular and there are no shortages of volunteers to take her out and whatnot. I got her when I had those few months in the clear so feel a bit guilty I’m calling in support. I didn't expect I would need it. Good job she’s the best dog on the planet.

My ‘area of concern’ first noted in February grew from 3cm to only 4.3cm from a scan in May. I thought it would be worse to be honest as my treatment didn’t start until the later scan. The NHS is wonderful but it is slow. I knew I had an aggressive tumour growing but could I fuck get back on the chemo quickly.

Get private health insurance if only for the speed boost. Oh and access to other drugs not available on the NHS. Like Avastin, which I am paying £10000 for 5 cycles of it. It’s coming out of my pension lump sum but it’s still a kick in the bollocks. Oh and there’s another bit -17mm - near the Gall Bladder. They’re not sure. So I won’t worry about it.

In fact all this shite has been going on so long I have acceptance. Maybe I’ve been through that fucking curve they used to bang on about at work. Denial depression acceptance. I do remember the denial stage. It was all surreal just over two years ago. It was like I was watching a play. I was just a lad who went to work, looked after me bairn, went out with the lads and oh aye our lass. It was all mundane. Work, holidays, stuff. Just stuff. Then I was in hospital with a pipe up me tail, half a bowel and a big scar. I don’t know if I had a depression stage. I never felt any hopelessness. If anything it brought out a fighter, a closeness to those who mattered, an anonymous writer of feelings on a message board I’d been on for years as a part of the curse that is being born and raised to support the greatest football team the world has ever seen. Til I die. Obviously.

I didn’t have to go to work anymore. They eventually retired me and I had enough service to not have to worry about finances. I’m not rich by any means but I have enough to do anything I want. Only because I don’t want to do very much. I lead such a simple life now. And if it wasn’t for the health stuff I would be the most content person there is. The happiest even.

The bairn. 20 on Saturday. But always the bairn. The number one priority by a million miles from number two. I don’t even know what number two is. I have other priorities and they are all people and very important. I'll let them know they are all number two's. The acceptance part includes me disappearing off the earth from this mortal form. My biggest problem with that was always about the pain it will cause to those closest. Particularly the bairn being number one and my big pile of number two's. But I’ve lived with it so long I have acceptance about that too. None of us live forever, I’m just being substituted near the start of the second half. 50 plus minutes in. A bit sooner than I would have liked. But I'm not going to kick the Lucozade bucket and storm off down the tunnel.

Further surgery gave me a second extension. I wrote about it. There may even be more surgery. Durham and Basingstoke, bless them for trying, have said no more. I did find a surgeon who has said maybe. I’ll take that. I might get to the final whistle but it’s unlikely.

There are parents who leave their younger children at a younger age than I will probably leave mine. That is tragic but it happens. I used to read and hear about people with cancer. The stories got more widespread with social media and whatnot. The first I remember was Roy Castle, other people's smoke, then Helen Rollason. On the telly. Young. Died. And now there’s an award on SPOTY so she won’t be forgotten. Then fast forward a good while, there was Bradley. One of us. Very very young. Always smiling. Absolutely heartbreaking but humbling at the same time. Brave brave young man.

Cancer was always something that happened to other people. Some I heard and read about. Nobody from my family had or died from it. Heart attacks. We are all coronary. In Universal terms we are alive for a blink in time. Bradley only had a small bite out of the b. I’m optimistically staring at the beginning of the n so can’t complain. I’m 50 in a couple of months. Not bad. Not bad.
So, cancer. That thing that happened to other people. Until a big fat malignant tumour in my bowel presented itself. Left to grow over years until it blocked the bowel. Then a two month pain period with me banging on medical doors before collapsing when it finally breached the wall and let all the bad stuff out into other areas. When what is in your bowel meets what isn’t it can kill you. They saved my life but it was an emergency operation. No time to scan and have a clear out first. Just open up and remove.

I have dirty cancer. Brown cancer. Not pink. We don’t have badges to wear, like a little pile of shit on a pin, even though we’re up the league table of cancer deaths.

They got to me too late. I was latterly staged at 4. The last one. If I had any other symptoms, or even if they had done something before when I was banging on doors, I may not be stage 4. But there is no space for regret and what ifs. I am where I am. And that unfortunately is dying with a terminal illness.

Apart from the possible third time surgery that may be it. The chemo will slow it but all cells build a resistance to treatment so it will grow, spread, lead to organ failure and then death. And I have acceptance about that too. Life expectancy for stage 4 bowel cancer is 12 months. I am on month 27 since diagnosis. However, like a life sentence prisoner, you aren’t part of the statistics until you die, or are released, so fuck em.

I may have acceptance but I certainly don’t have surrender.

Practically, my biggest problem is that my innards have been chopped and stapled so much they don’t work very well anymore. I’ve have a lot removed. Not just bowel. My umbilicus and a bit of my anus. I have adhesions which means my should be slippy tube for food and stuff, is sticky. And there are ridges and corners. So what this means is if I eat the wrong stuff or too much I end up puking. The pain reaches the stop breathing for a bit and count stage. I get to around 10. Then my sticky bowels say no, pushes it back up and I puke it back out. This is a short description of a process that takes on average 4 hours from chew to spew.

This first happened not long after my first operation and it was an ambulance to hospital job. The last bad one was after the Coventry match. I was in Quinny’s Bar and had a beef carvery. I’ve never had beef since. Terrible puking session witnessed by the bairn. Shit day all round really.

So I am now very restricted on what I can eat. Fish and chicken seem ok. As do noodles. It’s a shame as I loved me food. I can drink alcohol on non chemo weeks. I don’t go out which is a pity. I’m just a bit weak and in some level of constant pain so even a trip to the pub is difficult now. I have a mate who comes round, watches all the sport, does the beer trips to the fridge and it’s all good. I’ve even discovered that real beery hoppy ales are tasty. I had a few Stella’s watching us not get promoted which was ok but I prefer me proper beers. Is is craft beer? Dinnar, I don’t care what they’re called they are just tasty in the main.

The fella next to me is in for his first chemo and it has been leaking outside the vein. Which is a bad thing judging by how the nurses have just gone up a gear. I have a proper port in my chest so that is very unlikely to happen to me. The poor bugger might have ‘permanent damage’ in his arm. Just had a peek. Oh dear it’s swelling up like a balloon.

It’s quite toxic this stuff. I’ve opted to not have Atropin first. It was a fuck on. It stung like fuck and had my eyes popping for the rest of the day. It was supposed to stop instant shits and stomach cramps but I seem to be ok and the main course has been pumping in for an hour now.

Fell asleep. Woke with a sweaty head and a need to shite. That’s not having the Atropin. Oh well it’s better than having rice crispie eyeballs. It’s time to go. Our lass has been out shopping. I’m having mince and dumplings tonight. A proper meal. But oh fuck it’s beef. I can’t say no. I love mince and dumplings and it’s semi digested what with being minced and all that.

I just hope it can navigate the corners and be digested. It can’t be as bad as the Coventry day. In all ways.

All the best
 
Last edited:

zwartekat

Striker
Or round 3 cycle 2. Or cycle 2 round 3. It’s the 2019 version I’ve had a 2017 and a 2018. It’s the 23rd time and probably the 12th I’ve gone off to into space and wrote about it on here. It’s like a diary for me, I don’t mind if nobody reads it, it started that way. With me not minding that is. A lot read it. Some even sent shit samples in to their Docs. Some said stuff in reply. Some called me an attention seeking like whore. All good then. I appreciated all of it.

They seem to have got the anti sickness drugs right. My hair is coming out more this time. Not the grey hair. Grey hairs must be hardier as there are none round the plug holes. Fucking typical. The chemo nurse has just said ‘silver foxes are in’. Excellent I’m about to be fashionable. Or bald. Sorry bald people I’m sure you can be both.

The other hair is on its way too. Pubes, armpit, chest, eye lashes, brows, probably arse crack but I haven’t checked that bit. No doubt ear and nose will hang on until the end. And I’m tired. Chemo itself drains energy like nothing else. It’s difficult to even lift an arm sometimes but I have a shitload of support around to help with stuff. My little dog is a favourite with everyone, she is very popular and there are no shortages of volunteers to take her out and whatnot. I got her when I had those few months in the clear so feel a bit guilty I’m calling in support. I didn't expect I would need it. Good job she’s the best dog on the planet.

My ‘area of concern’ first noted in February grew from 3cm to only 4.3cm from a scan in May. I thought it would be worse to be honest as my treatment didn’t start until the later scan. The NHS is wonderful but it is slow. I knew I had an aggressive tumour growing but could I fuck get back on the chemo quickly.

Get private health insurance if only for the speed boost. Oh and access to other drugs not available on the NHS. Like Avastin, which I am paying £10000 for 5 cycles of it. It’s coming out of my pension lump sum but it’s still a kick in the bollocks. Oh and there’s another bit -17mm - near the Gall Bladder. They’re not sure. So I won’t worry about it.

In fact all this shite has been going on so long I have acceptance. Maybe I’ve been through that fucking curve they used to bang on about at work. Denial depression acceptance. I do remember the denial stage. It was all surreal just over two years ago. It was like I was watching a play. I was just a lad who went to work, looked after me bairn, went out with the lads and oh aye our lass. It was all mundane. Work, holidays, stuff. Just stuff. Then I was in hospital with a pipe up me tail, half a bowel and a big scar. I don’t know if I had a depression stage. I never felt any hopelessness. If anything it brought out a fighter, a closeness to those who mattered, an anonymous writer of feelings on a message board I’d been on for years as a part of the curse that is being born and raised to support the greatest football team the world has ever seen. Til I die. Obviously.

I didn’t have to go to work anymore. They eventually retired me and I had enough service to not have to worry about finances. I’m not rich by any means but I have enough to do anything I want. Only because I don’t want to do very much. I lead such a simple life now. And if it wasn’t for the health stuff I would be the most content person there is. The happiest even.

The bairn. 20 on Saturday. But always the bairn. The number one priority by a million miles from number two. I don’t even know what number two is. I have other priorities and they are all people and very important. I'll let them know they are all number two's. The acceptance part includes me disappearing off the earth from this mortal form. My biggest problem with that was always about the pain it will cause to those closest. Particularly the bairn being number one and my big pile of number two's. But I’ve lived with it so long I have acceptance about that too. None of us live forever, I’m just being substituted near the start of the second half. 50 plus minutes in. A bit sooner than I would have liked. But I'm not going to kick the Lucozade bucket and storm off down the tunnel.

Further surgery gave me a second extension. I wrote about it. You tried. There may even be more surgery. Durham and Basingstoke, bless them for trying, have said no more. I did find a surgeon who has said maybe. I’ll take that. I might get to the final whistle but it’s unlikely.

There are parents who leave their younger children at a younger age than I will probably leave mine. That is tragic but it happens. I used to read and hear about people with cancer. The stories got more widespread with social media and whatnot. The first I remember was Roy Castle, other people smoke, then Helen Rollason. On the telly. Young. Died. And now there’s an award on SPOTY so she won’t be forgotten. Then fast forward a good while, there was Bradley. One of us. Very very young. Always smiling. Absolutely heartbreaking but humbling at the same time. Brave brave young man.

Cancer was always something that happened to other people. Some I heard and read about. Nobody from my family had or died from it. Heart attacks. We are all coronary. In Universal terms we are alive for a blink in time. Bradley only had a small bite out of the b. I’m optimistically staring at the beginning of the n so can’t complain. I’m 50 in a couple of months. Not bad. Not bad.
So, cancer. That thing that happened to other people. Until a big fat malignant tumour in my bowel presented itself. Left to grow over years until it blocked the bowel. Then a two month pain period with me banging on medical doors before collapsing when it finally breached the wall and let all the bad stuff out into other areas. When what is in your bowel meets what isn’t it can kill you. They saved my life but it was an emergency operation. No time to scan and have a clear out first. Just open up and remove.

I have dirty cancer. Brown cancer. Not pink. We don’t have badges to wear, like a little pile of shit on a pin, even though we’re up the league table of cancer deaths.

They got to me too late. I was latterly staged at 4. The last one. If I had any other symptoms, or even if they had done something before when I was banging on doors, I may not be stage 4. But there is no space for regret and what ifs. I am where I am. And that unfortunately is dying with a terminal illness.

Apart from the possible third time surgery that may be it. The chemo will slow it but all cells build a resistance to treatment so it will grow, spread, lead to organ failure and then death. And I have acceptance about that too. Life expectancy for stage 4 bowel cancer is 12 months. I am on month 27 since diagnosis. However, like a life sentence prisoner, you aren’t part of the statistics until you die, or are released, so fuck em.

I may have acceptance but I certainly don’t have surrender.

Practically, my biggest problem is that my innards have been chopped and stapled so much they don’t work very well anymore. I’ve have a lot removed. Not just bowel. My umbilicus and a bit of my anus. I have adhesions which means my should be slippy tube for food and stuff, is sticky. And there are ridges and corners. So what this means is if I eat the wrong stuff or too much I end up puking. The pain reaches the stop breathing for a bit and count stage. I get to around 10. Then my sticky bowels say no, pushes it back up and I puke it back out. This is a short description of a process that takes on average 4 hours from chew to spew.

This first happened not long after my first operation and it was an ambulance to hospital job. The last bad one was after the Coventry match. I was in Quinny’s Bar and had a beef carvery. I’ve never had beef since. Terrible puking session witnessed by the bairn. Shit day all round really.

So I am now very restricted on what I can eat. Fish and chicken seem ok. As do noodles. It’s a shame as I loved me food. I can drink alcohol on non chemo weeks. I don’t go out which is a pity. I’m just a bit weak and in some level of constant pain so even a trip to the pub is difficult now. I have a mate who comes round, watches all the sport, does the beer trips to the fridge and it’s all good. I’ve even discovered that real beery hoppy ales are tasty. I had a few Stella’s watching us not get promoted which was ok but I prefer me proper beers. Is is craft beer? Dinnar, I don’t care what they’re called they are just tasty in the main.

The fella next to me is in for his first chemo and it has been leaking outside the vein. Which is a bad thing judging by how the nurses have just gone up a gear. I have a proper port in my chest so that is very unlikely to happen to me. The poor bugger might have ‘permanent damage’ in his arm. Just had a peek. Oh dear it’s swelling up like a balloon.

It’s quite toxic this stuff. I’ve opted to not have Atropin first. It was a fuck on. It stung like fuck and had my eyes popping for the rest of the day. It was supposed to stop instant shits and stomach cramps but I seem to be ok and the main course has been pumping in for an hour now.

Fell asleep. Woke with a sweaty head and a need to shite. That’s not having the Atropin. Oh well it’s better than having rice crispie eyeballs. It’s time to go. Our lass has been out shopping. I’m having mince and dumplings tonight. A proper meal. But oh fuck it’s beef. I can’t say no. I love mince and dumplings and it’s semi digested what with being minced and all that.

I just hope it can navigate the corners and be digested. It can’t be as bad as the Coventry day. In all ways.

All the best
The nurses gan berserk when there is a leak. Nasty business and usually leaves a mark.

Keep going. Great to hear you're still living a life.
 
Keep fighting @foggy. Judging by the number of baldies that post on here there must be loads of the buggers so you will blend in. Don't forget to buy some extra Mr Sheen.
 

Lexingtongue

Striker
I hate how adversity brings out the beauty on this board. Hazey and now you. A painful, inspiring read that has tears in my eyes. It should make the windup merchants on here cringe with shame. I sincerely hope you fight that fucker for all it's worth and get a shedload of valuable time more with your bairn.
 
Enjoy your mince and dumplings foggy.

Keep us updated and keep battling.

PS I have very little hair (some may say I'm bald) but still fashionable. I think....
 

maygo

Winger
@foggy i don’t know you but I fucking love you
Get amongst the craft ales whenever you can, and remember- bald is cool as fuck, I would know xx
 

TheGreenMan

Central Defender
Bloody hell. There I was having a strop because I've just lost 3 hours of work on code changes because I forgot to back it up as I went along and managed to trash it. Need more perspective.

Best wishes Foggy
 

Keawyeds

Striker
I’m having mince and dumplings tonight. A proper meal. But oh fuck it’s beef. I can’t say no. I love mince and dumplings and it’s semi digested what with being minced and all that.
I had that for lunch! A man after my own heart.
The bairn seemed to like it too when she had it so that's a good sign!

I hope you've kept a log of all your posts. You'd be able to teach Shane Meadows a thing or two.

Keep defy the odds, foggy. We're all rooting for you
 
Or round 3 cycle 2. Or cycle 2 round 3. It’s the 2019 version I’ve had a 2017 and a 2018. It’s the 23rd time and probably the 12th I’ve gone off to into space and wrote about it on here. It’s like a diary for me, I don’t mind if nobody reads it, it started that way. With me not minding that is. A lot read it. Some even sent shit samples in to their Docs. Some said stuff in reply. Some called me an attention seeking like whore. All good then. I appreciated all of it.

They seem to have got the anti sickness drugs right. My hair is coming out more this time. Not the grey hair. Grey hairs must be hardier as there are none round the plug holes. Fucking typical. The chemo nurse has just said ‘silver foxes are in’. Excellent I’m about to be fashionable. Or bald. Sorry bald people I’m sure you can be both.

The other hair is on its way too. Pubes, armpit, chest, eye lashes, brows, probably arse crack but I haven’t checked that bit. No doubt ear and nose will hang on until the end. And I’m tired. Chemo itself drains energy like nothing else. It’s difficult to even lift an arm sometimes but I have a shitload of support around to help with stuff. My little dog is a favourite with everyone, she is very popular and there are no shortages of volunteers to take her out and whatnot. I got her when I had those few months in the clear so feel a bit guilty I’m calling in support. I didn't expect I would need it. Good job she’s the best dog on the planet.

My ‘area of concern’ first noted in February grew from 3cm to only 4.3cm from a scan in May. I thought it would be worse to be honest as my treatment didn’t start until the later scan. The NHS is wonderful but it is slow. I knew I had an aggressive tumour growing but could I fuck get back on the chemo quickly.

Get private health insurance if only for the speed boost. Oh and access to other drugs not available on the NHS. Like Avastin, which I am paying £10000 for 5 cycles of it. It’s coming out of my pension lump sum but it’s still a kick in the bollocks. Oh and there’s another bit -17mm - near the Gall Bladder. They’re not sure. So I won’t worry about it.

In fact all this shite has been going on so long I have acceptance. Maybe I’ve been through that fucking curve they used to bang on about at work. Denial depression acceptance. I do remember the denial stage. It was all surreal just over two years ago. It was like I was watching a play. I was just a lad who went to work, looked after me bairn, went out with the lads and oh aye our lass. It was all mundane. Work, holidays, stuff. Just stuff. Then I was in hospital with a pipe up me tail, half a bowel and a big scar. I don’t know if I had a depression stage. I never felt any hopelessness. If anything it brought out a fighter, a closeness to those who mattered, an anonymous writer of feelings on a message board I’d been on for years as a part of the curse that is being born and raised to support the greatest football team the world has ever seen. Til I die. Obviously.

I didn’t have to go to work anymore. They eventually retired me and I had enough service to not have to worry about finances. I’m not rich by any means but I have enough to do anything I want. Only because I don’t want to do very much. I lead such a simple life now. And if it wasn’t for the health stuff I would be the most content person there is. The happiest even.

The bairn. 20 on Saturday. But always the bairn. The number one priority by a million miles from number two. I don’t even know what number two is. I have other priorities and they are all people and very important. I'll let them know they are all number two's. The acceptance part includes me disappearing off the earth from this mortal form. My biggest problem with that was always about the pain it will cause to those closest. Particularly the bairn being number one and my big pile of number two's. But I’ve lived with it so long I have acceptance about that too. None of us live forever, I’m just being substituted near the start of the second half. 50 plus minutes in. A bit sooner than I would have liked. But I'm not going to kick the Lucozade bucket and storm off down the tunnel.

Further surgery gave me a second extension. I wrote about it. There may even be more surgery. Durham and Basingstoke, bless them for trying, have said no more. I did find a surgeon who has said maybe. I’ll take that. I might get to the final whistle but it’s unlikely.

There are parents who leave their younger children at a younger age than I will probably leave mine. That is tragic but it happens. I used to read and hear about people with cancer. The stories got more widespread with social media and whatnot. The first I remember was Roy Castle, other people's smoke, then Helen Rollason. On the telly. Young. Died. And now there’s an award on SPOTY so she won’t be forgotten. Then fast forward a good while, there was Bradley. One of us. Very very young. Always smiling. Absolutely heartbreaking but humbling at the same time. Brave brave young man.

Cancer was always something that happened to other people. Some I heard and read about. Nobody from my family had or died from it. Heart attacks. We are all coronary. In Universal terms we are alive for a blink in time. Bradley only had a small bite out of the b. I’m optimistically staring at the beginning of the n so can’t complain. I’m 50 in a couple of months. Not bad. Not bad.
So, cancer. That thing that happened to other people. Until a big fat malignant tumour in my bowel presented itself. Left to grow over years until it blocked the bowel. Then a two month pain period with me banging on medical doors before collapsing when it finally breached the wall and let all the bad stuff out into other areas. When what is in your bowel meets what isn’t it can kill you. They saved my life but it was an emergency operation. No time to scan and have a clear out first. Just open up and remove.

I have dirty cancer. Brown cancer. Not pink. We don’t have badges to wear, like a little pile of shit on a pin, even though we’re up the league table of cancer deaths.

They got to me too late. I was latterly staged at 4. The last one. If I had any other symptoms, or even if they had done something before when I was banging on doors, I may not be stage 4. But there is no space for regret and what ifs. I am where I am. And that unfortunately is dying with a terminal illness.

Apart from the possible third time surgery that may be it. The chemo will slow it but all cells build a resistance to treatment so it will grow, spread, lead to organ failure and then death. And I have acceptance about that too. Life expectancy for stage 4 bowel cancer is 12 months. I am on month 27 since diagnosis. However, like a life sentence prisoner, you aren’t part of the statistics until you die, or are released, so fuck em.

I may have acceptance but I certainly don’t have surrender.

Practically, my biggest problem is that my innards have been chopped and stapled so much they don’t work very well anymore. I’ve have a lot removed. Not just bowel. My umbilicus and a bit of my anus. I have adhesions which means my should be slippy tube for food and stuff, is sticky. And there are ridges and corners. So what this means is if I eat the wrong stuff or too much I end up puking. The pain reaches the stop breathing for a bit and count stage. I get to around 10. Then my sticky bowels say no, pushes it back up and I puke it back out. This is a short description of a process that takes on average 4 hours from chew to spew.

This first happened not long after my first operation and it was an ambulance to hospital job. The last bad one was after the Coventry match. I was in Quinny’s Bar and had a beef carvery. I’ve never had beef since. Terrible puking session witnessed by the bairn. Shit day all round really.

So I am now very restricted on what I can eat. Fish and chicken seem ok. As do noodles. It’s a shame as I loved me food. I can drink alcohol on non chemo weeks. I don’t go out which is a pity. I’m just a bit weak and in some level of constant pain so even a trip to the pub is difficult now. I have a mate who comes round, watches all the sport, does the beer trips to the fridge and it’s all good. I’ve even discovered that real beery hoppy ales are tasty. I had a few Stella’s watching us not get promoted which was ok but I prefer me proper beers. Is is craft beer? Dinnar, I don’t care what they’re called they are just tasty in the main.

The fella next to me is in for his first chemo and it has been leaking outside the vein. Which is a bad thing judging by how the nurses have just gone up a gear. I have a proper port in my chest so that is very unlikely to happen to me. The poor bugger might have ‘permanent damage’ in his arm. Just had a peek. Oh dear it’s swelling up like a balloon.

It’s quite toxic this stuff. I’ve opted to not have Atropin first. It was a fuck on. It stung like fuck and had my eyes popping for the rest of the day. It was supposed to stop instant shits and stomach cramps but I seem to be ok and the main course has been pumping in for an hour now.

Fell asleep. Woke with a sweaty head and a need to shite. That’s not having the Atropin. Oh well it’s better than having rice crispie eyeballs. It’s time to go. Our lass has been out shopping. I’m having mince and dumplings tonight. A proper meal. But oh fuck it’s beef. I can’t say no. I love mince and dumplings and it’s semi digested what with being minced and all that.

I just hope it can navigate the corners and be digested. It can’t be as bad as the Coventry day. In all ways.

All the best
Keep fighting lovely man, lots of love (and inspiring, brave writing fella - you're amazing xx).
 
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