It’s been a busy month, this little olde month of May. It started with my birthday, which was very nice. I didn’t do much, which is what I wanted. I did however eat and drink lots of the food and drinks that I shouldn’t. I was going to take this to the line. We gained a new King and bank holiday, I spoke to some peeps about prostate cancer, a group of professors have nothing better to do then come out with some nonsense reports, I got some new tattoos, finished a college course and the month will end with me being irradiated like a pack of dried fruit. Oh and a little announcement.
I had an appointment at Guys hospital to discuss my increasing PSA. The last count was 0.15 and at 0.20 I would need to start the dreaded radiotherapy and all the fun that entails. A few days before it was changed to a telephone appointment as those wonderful train drivers were going on strike again. This time around I got a surprise call from the elusive Mr Cathcart himself. It was short and sweet. My PSA was now 0.16 and unless I specifically wanted to pull the rip cord early, we would leave the radiotherapy until we reached that magical bonus number. I asked him what he thought, and he said it’s something we want to leave as long as possible. That was fine by me, nothing good ever came of pulling that ripcord early other that a swift gust of wind guiding you back up into the aeroplane’s propellers.
It’s been one of them months of ups and downs.
I Am The One In Three 