10, 9, 8…

Ten treatments to go. As I twiddle my toes to Youssou N’Dour and Nenah Cherry singing Seven Seconds away… so many numbers, digits, forms….
Life doesn’t get much more dramatic (I hope) than brain cancer. But there is a side to it which is really, really boring. Endless forms to fill out. Pills to take. Meetings to be had. All of which involve waiting. My whole day seems taken up with that bloody subway ride. The march from 34th and 6th down to 1st avenue. Turn left at reception. Follow the blue line. Be amazed by the harpist/violinist/guitarist playing in the waiting area of a Monday. Suppress memory of waiting 11 hours at the Whittington for Ed to be X-rayed when he’d been stabbed in 1987. Not a nurse in sight, let alone harpist. Catch elevator to second floor. Time my steps carefully so I don’t have to pause while my hand triggers the hand sanitizer to drop its load. Rub in while turning right for radiology, pressing the big button that opens the door for me (wait, am I now counter-acting the hand sanitizer by picking up germs?! methinks monotonously every time). Say hi to Natalie at reception; admire her yet-another-new hair style. Place hand on space-age palm reader. Suppress repetition of thought of counter-acting hand sanitizer on grounds of really too dull. Wait for my guys. Duh all the technicians are men and all the nurses are women.  Check which of Harry’s numbers on my bespoke apple shuffle I want to hear today. Jump on gurney, place head for helmut. Twiddle toes. Get outta there.
TG for my mates, accompanying me on this journey every day. And TG there are only ten left to go.
I’m a bit more tired, a bit more chesty. Or is that because I keep being told that’s what I’ll feel? I’m certainly more bald. Rather dramatically. From the front I have a fabulous fringe (much as I love this fine country, bangs for a fringe seems a poor swap), but from the back it’s like some UFO has landed and  burnt a huge crop circle. There’s a fringe left at the bottom. A sort of mullet.  Nice, eh?
I need to wrap this treatment, get back to work, and get what brain is left  back working on things more meaningful than how to describe my hair. And I need to see a therapist.
More soon x
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