I should have got this round of chemo last week, but my white cells were low and my consultant regarded it as “a bit gung-ho” to dole out drugs which batter the immune system while it was already punch-drunk.
Dear Auntie Beeb,
Can I call you that? It’s just that I’ve known you since I was a wee boy, ever since Brian Cant was the coolest thing on the telly. It’s like we’re family.
Anyway, you might have heard I've not been too well, recently. Just a spot of light brain cancer, nothing to worry about, but it has meant that I've been spending quite a lot of time in front of the TV. I get quite tired, you see, and it's as good a place as any to have a slump.
But I can't say I’ve been very impressed.
It cheered me up immensely, though. Since no news is good news, and I hadn’t heard anything from the head doctors since my MRI at the end of June, I was pretty confident there would be nothing to report. But it was still nicely reassuring to see the scans from March and June side-by-side and note little change.
It's quite handy: not worth growing a glioblastoma for, but a useful thing to have.
It's mine because the DVLA won't let me have a driving licence at the moment, for fear I should embark on another bout of side-on disco dancing, this time at the wheel.
Since I've only had the one fit, and that nine months ago and before the tumour was cut out, I can't help feeling this is a bit over-cautious. But there it is – no more vroom-vroom for me until a year after the surgery.
So to speak. It was my regular three-monthly MRI, and the first which may or may not give any useful information about how the hole in the head's getting on and, more importantly, if it's still empty. The hole, I mean. Not my head.
I've had a few of these now and they're getting almost routine.