Have I been back from the hospital a week or two weeks? When you’ve been lying on your back in bed perspiring or shaking with cold with just enough strength to steadily deplete your surprisingly modest Twitter following with lame tweets about football, then time becomes somewhat elasticated (all football tweets are lame by the way, because whatever you think you’ve come up with and how original it is, you can guarantee it has been written at least 200 times that same day with varying levels of literacy. Just type “Juan Mata” into Twitter search when he’s been brought on late as a sub and will barely affect the outcome of a game, and you’ll see what I mean).
My Google Nexus might be able to tell me how long its been since I’ve been home, because it seems to know all sorts of things about me that I haven’t specifically told it, but which it has found out through the process of spying. For a while it thought I supported West Brom and West Ham, presumably made socially acceptable in digiland by the Prime Minister, but now it’s worked that little kink out (supporting two teams might be okay for some, but placing your old chap in a dead pig’s face is still interdict with most members of the public). Another thing the Android has got slightly confused about is the location of my work (ha!), as it now gives me daily updates about traffic to the hospital, which it calls “work”. That’s right, I’ve spent so much time there recently that it thinks I actually have a job at the Pitié Salpêtrière, the befuddled little A.I. dunce.
You might be able to guess that I’m stalling a bit here while I collect my thoughts, because I don’t really know what to feel right now given what I’ve just heard. You might also be wondering why I’m not telling you this on the phone or by way of email or whatever, so apologies if it feels a little impersonal, but please accept I have a lot of people to get around and I’m still in a fairly weakened state. Listen very carefully, I shall say zis only once (probably not true)…
The operation on my liver was a success, there seems to be no doubt about it. In fact to a scientifically inept twit like myself, I’d be tempted to chuck words like “miracle” around, but let’s not get carried away, not yet. After thoroughly examining the chunk of liver they took out, they’ve not been able to locate any trace of cancer. My surgeon says chemotherapy has completely destroyed it, though to find no trace at all is very unusual. It makes me wonder whether it was there in the first place, but I will care precisely no fucks whatsoever if it means there might be an end in sight to the misery.
It hasn’t been decided yet whether I will need more chemo, but my surgeon expects not. I have a meeting with my oncologist next week and will find out more. So anyway, if I don’t sound like I’m ecstatic then I can only say we’ve been here before. After the bowel cancer surgery was so successful, they were stunned when metastasis appeared in the liver. In fact I was told to go home three times before a call came that filled us with existential doom all over again. Presuming this is all correct, and I still can’t quite accept that it is, then there will be three-monthly check ups and all the usual shenanigans for some time yet.
So then, here comes the most tentative high five in history, why cinq you very much! I’m not going to dare to dream its over by any stretch of the imagination, but I’d like to take this opportunity to thank all my friends who’ve been nothing short of fantastic so far, and also ditto to the good people at the Pitié Salpêtrière. And let’s hope they’ve got more of a clue than my Google Nexus has.Follow @jeres