Bye-bye tap. Part 1

The PICC, sticking out of this guy's arm, provides access

to a tube which extends 42 cm into his chest cavity

and down which the chemo flows. It seems from his

expression he later faced a firing squad; not me though

When bowel cancer was diagnosed I never asked for a prognosis. There didn’t seem any point, it would be no more than some medic’s guess. And not knowing this vague date might help me ignore it. I know it sounds unlikely but this actually worked. I’d have something else on my mind and I’d notice – from facial expressions – that this form of escape wasn’t necessarily available to other members of my family.

One of the chemo nurses said they never volunteered such information but might if asked. The surgeon went some way towards a prediction but only mathematically, rating percentages against the passage of time. In fact, probability. It’s a technique politicians often use, ensuring obfuscation by missing out any exact totals. As a journalist I’ve enjoyed decades of listening to – and distrusting – politicians and fashioning my own form of the truth. But the surgeon was cleverer than the pols and I let him have his way with me.

Besides, there’ve recently been some real facts to gnaw on and they’re encouraging. It was said that the first chemo session would – probably – last six months. No guarantees, of course. Chemo has different effects on different patients. In fact that first estimate was pessimistic. Five fortnightly sessions and, for the moment, I’m done with absorbing prototoxins.. A scan is due in late July and we’ll take it from there.

Better still, on Wednesday my PICC (peripherally inserted central catheter) – a sort of tap arrangement attached to my upper arm – will be removed. Since installing this device requires demanding positional skills I had thought this would remain in situ until all was done and dusted. Not so, it seems.

Whoopee! The villa rented on the Med has a pool; I’ll be able to swim. The hols are on!