Monday, the team troop in to deliver the good news that the op was as successful as they'd ever expected it could be and they have high hopes I will retain some level of mobility.
I may never throw shapes around a pole again (but let's face it, at 43 and overweight it had stopped being a good look to everyone except me many, many years ago.)
Now the cancer shit.
They'd done a CT scan just before surgery and the odds hadn't changed. The other bit of bad news was that although Mr. McKenna (all bow down now) had removed what he could, it would take a few days to 'culture' that to truly understand what it was, so they may not be able to tell us which version I had before Easter weekend.
Great. A week of waiting for a death sentence.
We had all 'the' conversations. My overriding terror was of a slow, miserable death,so we agreed that if it was worst case scenario, I was going to come out (as in from hospital not in a sexual way - far too late for that), have a massive party, then bugger off to Switzerland to die with some dignity and under my own control.
If if was the other version, I was going to tell this Cancer bastard to fuck off. And when it got there, to fuck off again.
Apologies for the swearing here, but sometimes only certain words work for me.
We waited. And waited. And waited. And waited.
Amazing!!!!!!!!!!!!!
ReplyDeleteOk, so I've added the comment to the completely wrong page - this was meant to be against your 1st July post....
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