CTedium

(Republished with permission: cancerouscapers.blogspot.com)

CT results days are quite nerve-wracking. It’s a bit like exam results day, except that you can’t hide bad results from your parents as your cunning plan would unravel when you died in horrendous pain. However, I was quite looking forward to today’s results putting an end to a month of uncertainty with one of what I was told were three possible options.

The first was yet more chemotherapy which would obviously be rubbish, the second was radiotherapy which would be slightly better as there’d be a small chance that I could gain super-powers and the third was getting the all-clear.

Which do you think it was? Are you ready? Are you sure? The results of my scan were…

…I need another scan! After another entire month of tedium! Huzzah!

Initially, this slightly annoyed me because I assumed that they had just arsed up the first one, but I was mistaken. Apparently, of the four areas that were affected, two of them have entirely disappeared but the other two remain slightly suspicious. By that, I mean they can’t really decide whether they’re cancery or not from the information that they have, so I have to undergo a more in-depth scan to be sure - a PET scan to be precise. It’s only after this, that I’ll know what further treatment I need - if any.

Big Doctor G, as I obviously never call him, claimed that he was very pleased with the results that they have so far but it’s a bit of a ball-ache for three reasons:

One

PET scans don’t lend themselves to the multitude of brilliant puns that CT scans do, unless I lazily feign confusion over why they need to scan my pet.

Two

If more treatment is required, I’ll be getting it at the exact point when my hair should begin to resurrect itself. As I’ve explained before, my treatment leaves some original hair behind and new hair can be an entirely different colour. If I need more treatment, it’s quite possible that I’ll end up with a ridiculous tri-coloured Neapolitan haircut that strangers will assume I specifically demanded at a hairdresser’s.

Three

How the ruddy h*ll am I meant to keep this blog rolling for yet another month of inactivity? I’m quite certain that, after an entire month of ‘what I had for breakfast’ blogs, not even my own parents will care when I’m eventually declared healthy.

Anyway, we’ll just have to wait and see what happens. At least I can take solace in the fact that another chemotherapy-free month means I’ll continue to feel healthy enough to carry on my exercise regime. I was given a Wii Fit for my birthday last week and, although I’ve borderline crippled myself eight times in as many days, it does appear to be doing some good according to my daily weigh-ins. However, I’m not entirely sure how much to trust it.

When I first weighed myself I was told that I had a BMI of 22 which led to a jubilant little voice saying, with no apparent sense of irony, “Great! People with a BMI of 22 are less likely to get sick!”. Its prematurely-balding, chemotherapy-ravaged, cancer-ridden pupil looked on with both disbelief and contempt.

I’ve taken to exercising between two and four in the morning to prevent my attempts being inhibited by self-consciousness. When everyone else is in bed I have no fear in furiously gyrating around in my living room, thrashing a pretend hula-hoop around my sweat-sodden waist with an unforgiving, steely grimace on my face until the point when I’m both physically and emotionally exhausted. Already, my female trainer, who represents my most promising romantic liaison in seven months, has remarked upon how I’m “clearly no stranger to exercise” - fact.

Anyway, apologies if you were expecting the dramatic conclusion of Cancerous Capers in this post but hopefully our journey will soon be at an end. In the meantime, look forward to ‘Bran Flakes or All Bran - The Definitive Answer’ next week.