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I am sort of glad that this week has turned into a rest week. Had I had the full course when I was meant to I think the heat of the last few days would have been hard to cope with, with full of exhaustion and nausea.
It's still not ideal and I am a sweaty mess, having to cope the unpleasant smell of antibiotics emanating from all my pores (probably still better than when I was getting them on a drip and could taste them in the back of my throat). I think they're nearly all out of me now.
I went for a walk this morning and felt OK in spite of the heat, but otherwise skulked inside, perspiring gently to moderately to occasionally Airplane-comedic-level.
Getting a bit more into joy and entertainment without ennui and nausea ruining it all. Today's entertainment contained no Mia Sara and I mainly watched Alan Partridge's Mid-Morning Matters, which might actually be my favourite incarnation of the character I created.
It feels like this has been my life for months now, but apparently it's only eleven days. I just had to check my calendar to confirm that that was true. The hospital stay felt like two weeks on its own. Please God, let me get through the next three injections without a spike in my temperature. Though to be fair, you're not helping with the weather. It's like you want me to be mildly inconvenienced.
I am not, it turns out, ready to retire just yet. Long days with nothing to do but watch TV and play games on my phone and not have to do anything to help with the kids felt like it would be a dream come true. But it isn't.
I don't know how any of you men who don't help out with housework and childcare manage to make your marriages last longer than a fortnight. It's ridiculous for one person to be expected to do everything. If I don't get better pretty sharpish then Catie will probably kill me and fair enough. As before, my cancers are much harder on her than they are on me.
If you have a partner who doesn't have incurable cancer, but doesn't pull their (let's face it, his) weight at home, then please do murder them (him). It's not right. If the police say they are going to arrest you, just show them this blog and say Richard Herring said it was OK and you'll get off scotch free.
We're both very grateful to Catie's mum and dad for helping out with looking after the dog and doing some of the school runs.
I was glad to be well enough to make the kids dinner and put them to bed tonight. Because it turns out that those things are what life is all about. And that being deprived of them is actually a nightmare. If only Rod Serling was alive to turn this into a Twilight Zone.
I attempted a Newsround in the afternoon heat, but the sun fried mine and Ally's brains so much that I totally forgot to ask him whether he thought global warming was real. Hopefully some fun stuff in there anyway. It was good to try and do something creative, even though, once again, Ally carried the show and I was a bumbling passenger who couldn't even enunciate.
