14th May: 'Behold I am new creation the old has gone, the new is here'

For the first time in what felt like centuries, I had sleep. I woke at 1pm and went back to sleep. At 3pm I woke again, and thought, 'here we go again'. I reached for my telephone, put on my spectacles, and began to watch an episode of The Simpsons. 

However, instead of Homer et al, I heard "Good morning Robert, sorry to wake you". My specs were skewed, my phone asleep on my chest, and a puddle of dribble was on my beard. 

"Don't be sorry", I said, "it's lovely to be woken, rather than longing for someone to come after pacing around the room for hours". Praise the Lord for Morphine, and 'anti-bloating/gas tablets' that had alleviated the feeling of being Mr. Creosote.

The rest of the day was pain free, what joy! I also realised, after investigation, that what I took for lamenting souls in the nearby ward (who I’d imagined were crying in sympathy for me) was the paediatric ward the other side of my wall. I do miss the children.

The lovely chaplain visited me, and listened. What a gift that is. They promised to bring the sacrament on Sunday afternoon.

The doctor, who yesterday was mining in my pelvis, returned with papers to sign re: my chemotherapy treatment; note, she emphasised "treatment" not "cure". The doctor, having gently swerved any future lawsuits from Ben's barrister buddies, I duly signed the form granting permission to: have poison pumped in me, the destruction of my immune system, possible anaemia, sickness, constipation and diarrhoea (check out that oxymoron!), tingling hands, ad nauseam, for 14 pages... Oh, and baldness. Such are the joys of Lamb-chop, sorry 'R-Chop' chemotherapy.  

The rest of the day felt almost normal. I read Country Life (the only Magazine/Paper that seems to actually like and value the Church of England), watched Bargain Hunt and laughed and chatted with family. The steroids kept me 'buzzing' until 1am, when without warning or ceremony, ego vadam paradiso, I feel asleep, and was woken at 7am.