It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that we will not get three chemo cycles in in a row. Ever. No-one had this much trouble with blood since Lady Macbeth had a regicide-related nocturnal hygiene issue.
Based on this rule, DH and I set off for the hospital this time armed with nothing to while away the long hours. Because we will be going home again. This isn't a completely cavalier attitude: it's my platelets that are going wonky and I'm covered in large, purple, unexplained bruises, particularly on my legs which is a pretty good sign that my platelets are low. I also found the last round of chemo quite tough and two weeks never seems to be enough recovery time.
In, bloods done, DH and I settle down to wait. The doctor appears but doesn't have the bloods (it's rather nice to know that she actually comes to check how I am anyway, and not just as part of the chemo process) so sends the Macmillan nurse off to get them. The printout is in colour and about half of the read outs are red - I am so going home. Except I'm not. The results show a body under the strain of chemo, with poor platelet, white blood cell and liver function levels, but just within tolerance. There's something illogical about being pleased that I can have something that is going to make me feel so rubbish, and I'm a bit scared that this cycle will be more than I can take, but we're still on track.
DH goes shopping with the list I'd prepared for the inevitable send home. I play on my phone and watch bad TV and snooze, but not before texting my Mum to let her know that her platelet soup has worked - she Googled, in contravention of all family guidelines, and decided I needed tomato soup to boost the blood. DH comes back to find me dribbling gently into my collar. Nice!