And as if feeling grotty wasn't bad enough, the above photo was taken during my last visit to the Christie and shows just how attentive and alert Nev can be during my appointments.
A short break in the whinging though, to tell you the good news. I had scan results last week and amazingly, after eight cycles of the trial chemo SYD985, there has been a slight shrinkage in the cancer in my lungs. I was staggered and, obviously, very pleased.
I hope you made the most of that bit of good news because I'm about to start moaning again. I do want to try to be honest here and not be some sort of happy clappy falsely cheery cancer blog, so here goes.
Even though I had good results the breathlessness has got worse and worse. I'm fine if I sit still but any sort of movement makes me completely out of breath. As you can imagine this makes doing anything, let alone getting out, really difficult. It's not like I have a wild social life but even so I've lost count of the things I haven't attended due to breathlessness and fatigue. Thankfully I did manage to get to a recent appointment with the Palliative Care Consultant at my local hospice, who is worth her weight in gold. She could hear a deterioration in my breathing but thinks the problem might not be a result of the cancer (although it might be chemo damage). She has referred me to my local hospital's respiratory bods. I'm currently waiting for an appointment and I really cannot wait. If there's anything that can be done to ease my poor lungs I'd be extremely grateful.
Also, if truth be told, I'm pissed off with looking dreadful. I've got thin hair, no eye lashes, hardly any eye brows and watery eyes. My appetite has gone west and so I've lost weight and am looking extra haggard. Ah cancer, the gift that keeps on giving.
In other news my Eddie Redmayne look-a-like doctor at the Christie is moving on to other
Meanwhile, in spite of everything, life goes on. And I do appreciate it, honest. Christmas preparations are underway. The festive twig is decorated and on display (we don't run to the extravagance of a tree at Discombobulated Towers), Hot Fuzz is on the telly and, hurrah, it's very nearly present time.
I leave you with evidence (as if any were needed) that a three-legged monster cat and a cream sofa are not a good combination.