Today marks the start of B’s sixth and final round of chemo, hurrah! He was supposed to have it last week but it was delayed due to a lack of pellets. The next ‘big thing’ will be the first post-treatment MRI in late April.
We’ve been in hibernation lockdown mode lately at our Haus, as the cruelly cold spate of ‘spring’ weather continues in London. I only willingly leave the flat to attend Hot Yoga – I’ve taken to arriving at least 15 minutes early, just to lie on my mat and soak up the warmth. I wonder if anyone would object to me bringing in a bucket of sand, spade and mini paddling pool? ‘Indoor beach yoga’ could be the next big thing.
I also have a cold, which isn’t improving my mood. B may feel tired and nauseous this week, but that’s old news. I have a sniffle, goddammit!
On the sleep front, I’ve moved back into the marital bed and gone cold turkey on the white noise. I haven’t missed it at all – I’ve slept soundly almost every night. B’s sleep continues to be inconsistent, so clearly it wasn’t all my fault (good to know). A few nights ago I could hear him huffing and puffing at 2am – he can get himself into a right state when he can’t sleep. I said ‘please get up for a while, drink some warm milk and watch tv’. He got up and went into the kitchen, I could hear the BEEP BEEP of the microwave as he complied with my directive. He said the next day that it made him sleepy and he was able to nod off when he returned to bed. Which just goes to show that he should never deviate from the mantra “wifey knows best”.
I’m not sure what he watched on tv that night, but chances are that he would not have been lulled back to blanket street by any of the shows about childbirth that are currently gracing our televisions. So far we have Call the midwife, One born every minute, Home delivery and The baby bomb, with others sure to follow. I may have embraced the recent programmes on brain surgery, but I do not want to watch women giving birth. Not now, not ever.
We must watch whatever’s on before One born every minute, as we often unwittingly catch the start of it – at which point we both leap up, shouting LALALA to cover the sound of the animalistic horror on screen until one of us locates the remote control and manages to change the channel.
If this trend for distasteful medical tv continues, I wonder what’s next? Here are a few ideas that spring to mind:
Page the Proctologist
Boil Lancing Live!
Great British Gangrene
- You’ve Been Sectioned!