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Salut mes amies. It's your roving reporter here again speaking to you from my little prison cell at Cancerology Central.
Friday (yesterday) started well enough. A really good sleep of 6 hours courtesy of a Doc Martin sleeping pill. Thanks doc for remembering. No wind and no poop though. All quiet in that zone. I wasn't able to go for my normal long walk at 7.30am in case I shat in a corridor somewhere and no-one could come and inspect it. So, I walked many times around my little cell block until I was giddy. My cell is next door to the Family Lounge. A lovely room with big comfy sofa suite, large screen tv, toys, table and chairs for 4 to eat at, sink, kettle, fridge, microwave, coffee and stuff, shelves of books. You know the sort of thing. No-one is ever in there so yesterday I decided to have a proper snout inside. I sat on the sofa and thought, Ooooo, nice. Better than my hard bed. Turned on the t.v. and thought, Ooooooo, French, get off. Turned to the bookcase and of course nothing in English and my mush brain can't cope with too much French right now. Then went rifling through the magazines on the enormous white coffee table and guess what??? I came upon a copy of Good Housekeeping, July 2016, £4.20 with Joanna Lovely on the front cover mocking me because she's 70 and looks like that and I'm nearly 70 and look like shit. I had struck gold. I have to say that I stole it away and read it from cover to cover and I don't feel ashamed. The problem came as I reached the back section. It is all about food!! There were recipes and pictures - lots of pictures. Millionaire's shortbread parfait; Fish and chip fishcakes (what the?); Ginger beer chicken; Strawberry scone cake, to name but a few. It was torture. I confess that I didn't take the magazine back. I couldn't. I ate it.
Some time during the p.m. I went to X-ray. The radioactive man remembered me. Am I so unforgettable then? I was only there a couple of days ago, I know, but surely he sees dozens of people. Maybe he remembers me for being the one who vanished after my last X-ray and sent the porter into a frenzy. This time I walked with the porter and told him I would make my own way back. Nice Mr Radioactive let me look at my photo. He said, look at this big thing, but I told him to put it away as I wasn't in the mood. No, he said, here. There it was, top left of my colon, the offender. The one which started bottom right last week. It looked like a flipping giant rock stuck there. Yuk. It had travelled some distance, but was nowhere near the exit yet. Below were various little blobs. Poor Connard had disintegrated into many fragments, poor love. So, this new interloper is known as Rocky - of course. Did you think I would make up something crazy? Call it Dwayn or something?
The rest of the afternoon passed quietly enough until I tried to log into the hospital wifi. Time's up my dear, says the robot woman. EEEK!!! The now definite ex-husband had not renewed my wifi/telephone - again. He wasn't due a visit as I'd said he should go to art group and enjoy the day off. I check the time. 4 minutes until the café closes and doesn't open again until Monday - and that's where we buy the credit. It must have been the sheer desperation of being without communication for another weekend, but I literally ran all the way to the cafe two floors up (stopped running whilst I was in the lift as that would have been silly). My drippy friend tried to trip me up once or twice but I charged forth. Thank goodness for the Eporatio. Lance Armstrong was right to take it. Thank goodness too that the hospital closes at 5 so there were no patients around and only a few straggly members of staff clearing off for the weekend. I managed to get to the café as she was cashing up but she saw the anger in my eyes and feared for her hair follicles so I was able to buy some credit.
Then, once returned to the cell and recovering, in walks the man I used to be married to. Bold as you like. What? Turns out he was at art and decided to come to see me afterwards. Ah, bless. Once I explained what he'd done - again - he said he forgot and LAUGHED. He's in a nice ward now. They say he'll make a full recovery, once he can move something.
Saturday (today). 5 hours sleep. Not bad, but it could have been better. The Doc Martin pill got me off ok. It looked a miserable day. My window was pale and the sky was the same colour as the frosted glass. Showered and stood for ages letting the hot water soothe my swollen belly. Said a few choice words to Rocky and gave him a good massage. He rewarded me with a gurgle and pain. More jollop arrived with questions about my bowel during the night. Nothing to tell. Did I want morphine for the pain? No, I don't thanks. They must have over ordered. Went for my walk, out of the hospital, around the car park, up in the lift, down in the lift, up and down the empty corridors, up and down. Past all the empty clinics. Past all the empty waiting rooms. Past the numerous machines glowing with goodies and chocolate and coffee and mocking me with their wide mouths where they spill out the goods that I can't have. I felt in my dressing gown pocket and found 2 euros. It was the change from the wifi credit I had paid for yesterday. I had 2 euros! I had the means to buy something. No-one to see me, no-one to tell. I bought a bottle of flavoured water. Wow. So reckless. I even got some change. I hid it in my dressing gown and slinked back to my cell. No-one saw me go in. I read the ingredients. Oh dear. Of course water but other things like fruit concentrates, acids, acacia gum (as if I need gum), sugar (obligatory), colourings and paprika - yes paprika. It's a bloody tropical flavoured water for goodness sake. What's paprika doing in it? Ask nursey. She hummed and looked and thought and looked again and then said, OK. so I've adopted her.
Since then one's bowels have had 3 movements of the liquid kind. One passed inspection. The last of Connard, bless him, is on his way westward to the Atlantic, or wherever it is they go.
The sun came out and the sky turned blue. I watched a Sarah Millican show on the laptop and thought of Lily-Anne. Hubby had put lots of films and tv shows on a memory stick for me as I don't do French tv. (The Curse of the Turd was a bit grim and it kept me awake the other night - or was that just a morphine moment?). Lunch came - and went - right past my door. The smell, however, snuck under the door and almost drove me insane. I sucked on my dressing gown cord for comfort. Now we wait for Rocky. He is now mid way down the home straight and really making his presence known. He intends to come into this world with as much pain and anguish as he can muster. But I don't give a shit - nor a flying fart - because the minute he's out I'm stuffing myself stupid with hospital broth. So nerrrrr.
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