Odds are for bods

It’s been a strange week, an up and down week, a week where I have aged literally, spiritually and metaphysically. .........

Paul had one of those visits from the doctors where they do a bit of solemn faced straight talking. They basically said the fact his lymph nodes were up again was a bad sign and might mean that the Codox hasn’t worked or that the Lymphoma is more aggressive that they thought. Either way his prognosis is worse because of this. To throw into the mix is the fact that his lungs are pretty tattered and torn so, administering the Chemo with the likelihood that he will get some sort of infection because of his lowered immunity, is a massive risk. So basically the cure could be the killer. Talk about a rock and a hard place. Paul said it was like a funeral procession when the docs filed in. I realise that it’s the first time for Paul where he has had the experience of being given that kind of news. Each time I have been told to expect the worst, or that there is no way Paul will make it out of ITU, he has been sedated so he hasn’t had to actually hear the words. So that knocked him for six for a bit.

But you know what? It took him all of about 8 hours to get over the shock and send me a feisty text telling me the cancer can go fuck itself! I was busy self medicating with red wine and Jack Daniels when I got the message from Paul that we were back in business and that was the best birthday present I could have asked for.

And yesterday we had a big cry and then a big sigh and then a giggle and a cuddle and decided that – prognosis? Shmognosis….. this changes nothing at all as far as me and Paul are concerned. The plan is still the same – Paul gets better – we live happily ever after and at some point manage to get to the beach. Paul said that odds only matter if, when it comes to crunch, you fall on the wrong side of them and he is so right. How many stories have you heard where people are given a month to live and 20 years later they are happy smoking fags and sipping margheritas in Costa fucking Rica?

A wonderful Professor ( Montgomery that gave us the second opinion when Paul was in Whipps) once said to me “We are not prophets we are doctors” and he said this in response to someone telling me categorically that Paul would not pull through. That was 5 months agao and those words have stuck with me. They would not be treating him if there was no hope and without hope we may as well give up – and that IS NOT going to happen. OH I WOULD WRITE ALL OF THIS IN UPPER CASE JUST TO GET MY POINT ACROSS IF IT WASN’T SO ANNOYING!

So Paul would like you all to focus on him not just beating the cancer but on not getting an infection when he is neutropenic (this is when he has no white blood cells and no immune system). So we have to chant about that specifically please. He has started the Chemo tonight so it’s game on – restart the positive vibes in full force. Sometimes it’s good to get a big kick up the arse like this because it’s a call to action. Chant, pray, hum, jog, smile, laugh, drink, toast, dance, skip, sing, sleep, sweep, play, type, eat. Whatever you are doing for the next month or so, sneak a thought and a chant for Paul in there, even when you are on the loo - ‘Poo for Paul’ – that’s a slogan. Oh Dear I think many of you will no longer be able to go to the toilet with out thinking of Paul. Tee Hee! Not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing….

Anyway keep the faith people – me and Paul most certainly are.

xxxxxxxxx

P.S. He’s eaten the mustard seeds so we have the Dalai Lama on side.

P.P.S. Have not eaten any lamb yet but have licked a spoon when making a shepherd’s pie for Cass – does that count?

P.P. P.S. Cass won a prize for making an Easter bonnet in a parade this afternoon – was very proud and so was Paul.