The West Wing and Project Mayhem

It has occurred to me that I would have welcomed a little look-see of the place-where-they-give-me-Domestos.

In fact, it has occurred to me that I really haven't been given that much information really. Not really. I know I said I want to be a little ignorant...but I think I am beginning to think not all ignorance is bliss.

I calculated that I have spoken to the healthcare professionals treating me (Scouse, House, nursey) for approximately 35 minutes in all...that's it. I don't include the phone call I made to Nursey to find out when Domestos kicks off. I initiated that.

35 minutes. Give or take.

That's how much preparation I have had and input from them. I wonder if this is going to be a learning-on-the-job experience? Because I can assure you I have the very bare bones of it so far...the diagnosis, the treatment, the drugs used and a run down tick list of side effects.

Consequently, I am wondering about the West Ward (the-special-place-where-they-give-cancer-people-Domestos). I call it the West Wing...I can remember that.

I mean, I know getting chemo is not like going to the Cowshed at Babbington House...it won't be spa treatments and candles...but it has got to be better than the waiting room of the Suite, hasn't it?

Will it be dark...sinster...like Stulag 17 where prisoners-of-Domestos secretly attempt to dig themselves out when the nurses aren't looking? Will it be bright and airy in an attempt to make us think we are not lab rats and X Files abductees? Do they give you Hello and OK! to read, like Ollie the Hair does in his salon? Will there be free coffee and tea and biscuits?

See. A little guided tour of my second home for the next 6 months would have been welcome...

Anxiety levels have risen a little. Sometimes I have to remind myself that I have cancer. I haven't forgotten exactly. It's just this dead-time is taking its toll on me. You can't entirely shop yourself out of forgetting, but I have given it a good go. I have become somewhat glib about it all...'yeah, I start chemo in a few weeks time', like it is going on holiday or starting a new job.

People ask, as people do...'how are you?'. I say 'I am fine thank you, how are you?'. Sometimes, it's people who know I have cancer...and I am fine for now. It's not a lie. But there is a little bit of me that wants to say the Tesco line 'No, I am not fucking ok, I have got cancer and I am going to be r-e-a-l-l-y fucking poorly because of it. How do you think I am?'. I don't, of course. I wouldn't. I am far to polite and it isn't their fault, is it?

I mean, what do you say to someone who is about to start chemo and associated shit in an attempt to save their life? 'Sorry'? Why are you 'sorry'? Is it your fault? Could you have prevented it? Made it go away? I must say, I would rather like someone to say 'hey this fucking shit is just so...shit' to me. That would be nice. But people are far too polite, aren't they? I will be interested to hear what they say when I am puking my guts up, bald and bloated...

This chemo thing. Perhaps I should think of it in terms of a new job. Or training for something...like a marathon or a triathlon...I do think chemo will be like a 6 month boxing match...8 rounds of pure chemical-driven fight club. You knock me down, chemo and I will get up again, bloodied but not out. I think. I don't know. Just how bad is this whole thing going to be???

I know I said I didn't like the language of cancer...the war thing. But the thought of Edward Norton and Brad Pitt is rather appealing...Fight Club.

This is your life and it's ending one minute at a time...