A Letter to the Ed and Picture from Medicare Central….

Dear Mike,

The white coated kadaitcha men gathered at the bottom of my bed this morning, sagely conferring over my latest blood  and urine results. “Looks like we’re getting it.” one of them opined under his breath, though there was still a little uncertainty in his tone. “Mmm”, said  the other, not committing either way. One of the little nurse angels grips my hand quietly and Sche, who has been a tower of strength, an absolute brick, smiles indulgently and kisses me, whispering, “You’ve won a heart there.”

The kadaitcha men continue to confer. They are now looking over pathology results relating to some grotesque little section of tissue that was previously me, but is now the object of their arcane interest. Apparently they’re quite pleased with themselves, their results. I remind them, in a quick efficient display of charm, that I’m in the room, I can both see and hear them, and they can include me in the conversation if they like. The tiny nurse angel giggles under her hand.

My intrusion into their collogue seems to surprise them. “Yes, of course,” says the consulting oncologist, a small Greek chap with an odd fancy for tweed suits and velvet waistcoats. “Well look, it’s all good news. All your results are within expected parameters, some are very good. In fact we think we’ve got it. You’re not clear yet but these numbers are very encouraging.”

Of course I immediately turn to Sche and sing, “By George I think they’ve got it!” Sche laughs and replies’ “indeed they have.” All of which goes over the doctors’ heads because neither of them has probably ever seen “My Fair Lady”.

To cut to the chase, it turns out that my cancer was or is, as the kadaitcha men said at the beginning, tiny, early and entirely manageable. I probably could have shouted at it and it would have run away. However I still have to continue with the treatment they say, though it will get easier now, and there’s a possibility that they will be able to limit the course to a mere six weeks depending on next weeks’ results.

The treatment remains much worse than the disease, though it transpires that my extraordinarily uncomfortable passage through last week was “not normal” and resulted from a faulty catheter messing up a particular dose of the genetic wonder drug they’re using on me. I’m assured that there has been no lasting damage and indeed the higher dose may have helped bring on the results the kadaitcha men are so happy with. No harm no foul.

So, it’s all good, and as I said to the oncologist, “Cancer can kiss my crease!”

In a few weeks anyway.

(“Ommmmmmmm, every day in every way I am getting less and less cankerous, ommmmmmmmm”)

Fondest regards to the pork chops.
W

Digital Mischief by Warrigal MirriyuulaDear Mike,

Dear Patrons de la Maison de Porc,

Apparently it gets worse before it gets better. That’s where I am now.

I remain in good spirits and confidence is high, though vigour and concentration seem at a premium at the moment.

However my tiny nurse angels continue to do a great job and are constantly stopping by to amuse me. (See attached image.)

Not much energy for anything more but I’m there in spirit.

Regards,

W

The doctors were either planning Waz's complex treatment on their iPads - or playing the new release of Star Wars

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.