Scan and bloods all done without incident, if one ignores the slight panic caused by me forgetting to tell the radiographer about my portacath. Poor chap, he came pegging out of his room at high speed, "Have you got a necklace on?". No, don't panic, it's my portacath. Relief all round.
So, nothing to be done but wait. Actually I'm surprisingly sanguine about it all, but this is because I've completely reconciled myself to the news being bad. After all, we have yet to have an appointment with the consultant that is good news. Pessimistic though this approach is, if I don't think this way I'm not sure I can take the knock if it isn't.
We keep busy, me and DH, pottering around the house, doing paperwork and gardening and planning our party that we're having in July just because we fancy a party. I go out to see Counting Crows, who appear to be trying to set a record for the most number of instruments played in one gig - there isn't a single song that doesn't involve a change of guitars for all three guitarists, a procedure that sends the ZZ Top lookalike roadies scurrying about like mad. It's the first gig I've been to where I'm sitting down, so now I know I'm properly old! But it's the first gig I've been to in ages, having had to miss The Divine Comedy because I was so ill in November, and it is a band that reminds me of very happy times, so it was a great evening out.
A friend comes to tea. The sun shines. There are yoga classes and a session with a personal trainer who takes my request for core work very seriously, but I'm pleased to discover I'm not as unfit as I thought. And the clock counts down the seconds for me.