I'm rather fond of Mondays

I don't have any chemotherapy, the ward is livelier than it is at the weekend, and now it seems to be becoming a good day to go to my favourite Italian restaurant in Balham, Ferrari's. My big bother [sic, with apologies to Harriet Mary Norton Chatterbox] Tom came too, as well as my dashing father (he dashes a lot), and once again I ate handsomely. I'm not so sure I sat there as handsomely, due to my thinning on top (I do like that grammatical construction, which is often ignored in favour of 'me thinning') and my fat face, but that is of little import: certainly of less than my handsome eating. I've been loafing around in clothes all day, too, which makes a nice change, and I do like my shirt, which has lots of coloured stripes and requires cufflinks, which were unfortunately lacking today, but are in plentiful supply at home. Tom saved the day with his thinking outside the box by suggesting I roll the sleeves up a little. This could have been dangerous, as the beautiful tubes from my PICC (Peripherally Inserted Central Catheter... I think) line were consequently clearly visible and could have frightened waiters, small children, or even both, but this time my jumper stepped in and discreetly covered up the problem. Supper I ignored, as I didn't finish my lunch until about 3:30 (with a nice cappuccino - not as nice as the espresso I had last week) and the hospital sees fit to feed us at 5:30, but I've just had some toast (9:15), so all is well. The delightful Robyn visited too, and was delightful in spite of having to wait around in my room while we failed to hail a taxi back from Ferrari's.

Tomorrow (Tuesday) is Day 7, and thus I shall be getting the next dose of intrathecal chemotherapy. I'm wondering who will be doing it - my money's on Prishant, the spelling of whose name I am yet to discover. I'll also be getting a different antifungal drug dripped in, because one of the tests they do on my blood, showing how my liver is functioning, is a bit high, and has been rising. It's not yet worryingly high, but is probably a side effect of a certain antifungal drug I've been having, so they're changing that. Unfortunately the new one means I'll be plugged in to the drip machine for four hours (I think) every other day, though they thoughtfully decided to start tomorrow so I won't need it on Christmas Day. It might have some other side effects, too, such as making me shivery, but we'll see what effect tomorrow. It does mean that I'm not going to be nearly so mobile tomorrow, what with four hours on my back after the intrathecal, and four hours getting antifungal. Maybe they'll give me the antifungal straight after the lumbar puncture? That might be sensible. Then again, medically it might not be.

I should be seeing the transplant consultant soon to talk about the relative risks and relative chances of cure involved in having a bone marrow transplant as opposed to the other potential Phase 3 treatments. It's a bit scary, I suppose. But I'm eager to find out what will be happening after 11th January (Day 29 of Phase 2), though ignorance is often seen as bliss. Knowledge is power? It's not what you know, but who you know. Knowing me, knowing you. I think I'm losing the plot again... Can I blame the chemo?