Minding chemo

In regards to the previous post, I'm sorry to add that the cancer has returned.

I found out a while ago but didn't want to mention it until my parents returned from visiting the family in London (Dad reads this). I wasn't going to ruin their time with their grandchildren.

I'm just over half-way through six weeks of radiotherapy, with added Chemo Mondays. The latter has proven to be not nearly as horrific as I was led to believe by every medical practitioner (and person who knows someone who's had chemo – you have no idea how many).

The upside – as yet no ill-effects whatsoever from the chemo, at least. No nausea, no peripheral neuropathy, even my hair remains in my head.

For now. 

I'm touching every piece of wood in the house (given Mick's auction habit, that can take a while).

One minor disappointment: Unlike last time, when I was being zapped by Titan and Phoenix, the dernier cri in radiation machines, I have been relegated to their slightly older cousin, Lawson:

In an ill-advised moment of levity I said to one of the technicians, "I presume the machine's named after Nigella, not [Australian poet] Henry."

She replied flatly: "Actually, it's named after a doctor who died."

Don't you hate it when you accidentally kill the mood?