Autobiography by the Grand Waz

My treatment began today so I am not yet better but certainly on the mend. I am being ministered to by a team of tiny nurses specially inducted into the deeper mysteries of my exquisite little inconvenience. Like the vestals of some inner cankerous sanctum, they gently push me this way and that, apply apparatus, inject fluids and rub in unguents and embrocations. It all smells like a reagent vat, then it all gets a little hazy, and I am transported……, for the next twelve weeks or so.

There are several white coated medical kadaitcha men who throw bones and ponder monochrome pictures and tabulated numbers, mmm and ah at one another and nod knowingly. But whatever they’re knowing, all they’re saying to us is,

“No mate, you’ve got no worries. Oh yeah, it is a high grade cancer all right. Left untreated it’d kill ya, or probably secondaries would. But it’s early, it’s tiny, no chemo no radiation; just this new viral therapy. This used to be a treatment for tuberculosis but it works for you too. No mate, twelve weeks and this is over, gone, history. You’ve just got to lay off the gaspers. No more lung biscuits rightto!?”

Well that’s my interpretation of what they’re saying, because what they’re saying, they’re saying in the impenetrable dialect of the initiates to the inner sanctums of the consulting oncologist and their teams of tiny nurse angels. (I swear not one of them would fill a tea cup. Tiny little nurses, eeny weeny little nurses, moving like a well oiled machine.) So professional the old boy begins to wax up to them about a volcanic province in western Sri Lanka, (one of them came from there), and before you know it……, well actually it’s all just a little unpleasant, but ultimately I have a great deal of optimism that this will end well and the white coated wizards are talking about golfing dates when it’s all over. I haven’t got the heart to tell them I don’t play.