Immediately after the reflexologist comes the consultation with the radiologist, so back to hospital it is.
There's some suggestion that Tuesday's theatre slot, around which we have rearranged everything including my next Zoladex injection (not an easy task, had to play the chemo patient card for that one which I don't like doing but thank goodness it works and thank goodness it exists), may not be available. This renders DH, already grumpy about something completely unrelated, absolutely furious and leaves him making all sorts of super assertive noises about not putting up with this. I tell him to hold on until we know there's a problem.
He then further blots his copybook by answering for me every question the consultant asks. I have cancer, I am neither mute nor stupid as a result (although the drugs are messing with my memory. Well, that's my story and I'm sticking to it) so when the consultant pops out for a second I tell him to calm down and keep quiet unless I do miss something out.
The procedure seems both routine and straightforward, and they do it under sedation. This will be rather heavier than that for the colonoscopy; frankly I'm not too bothered as long as there's no Picolax involved. The portacath itself is bigger than I expected, being about the size of a ten pence piece around and about a centimetre deep. It's titanium, so fine with imaging machinery and airport scanners. It's also pink. I'm tempted to ask what other colours they have.
My line on the surgery - we have rearranged everything around a Tuesday date so please can we go with that - works and the date is duly confirmed. So no more hand cannulas for the rest of my treatment. This also cheers me up; I hadn't realised how much the cannulas were bothering me and had been bothering me since the CT scan.