Two very different appointments. In one day. They must like me. Or something…

Appointment #1 was with a dermatology specialist in Outpatients. I found the right reception on my third attempt.

(‘No, this is Reception A, you want Reception C, up the corridor…’ ‘No, sorry, you want Reception B, a bit further down, back where you’ve just come from…’)

Well, better late than never (and luckily I wasn’t actually late).

Close thing, though, because I got called in almost straight away. (And I’m not complaining. Obviously.)

My specialist turned out to be a charming eastern European lady who put me immediately at my ease. She did ask if I’d seen her before (apparently my face looked familiar) but we couldn’t work out where that would have been. Only later did I wonder if she’d seen me on TV, on the day I joined the nurses’ picket line. We had a quick discussion about my circumstances, complicated as they are, and the roster of appointments I’m building up in three different areas of the hospital. I also explained my plans for a holiday in Denmark.

Then she took a look at the scene of the crime.

Like my friend Colin, she was fascinated by my proliferation of keloid scarring. And like my friend Colin, she was able to reassure me that the keloid in my navel was responding normally to all the exciting things happening to the rest of my body.

My back was a different story.

Given everything else that’s going on – including a tumour that’s presumably not far away from it on the inside – she wisely advised that we should remove the newly-appeared growth completely. (Poor thing. It’s barely had a chance to have any fun with me.) That would require a short operation (30-60 minutes) under local anaesthetic, and would leave a scar. Which, we both agreed, was not worth worrying about. I left with the promise of an operation in the near future.

And that’s one little bastard I’ll be happy to say goodbye to.

Appointment #2 was in the Medical Treatment Unit next to St Nicholas Hospice. As I was still a little weak after my chemo the previous week, the long walk from outpatients took more out of me than I expected. And, once I’d arrived, finding my way into the unit was – well, interesting. Not to say confusing. But least I’ll know where to go next time…?

(Assuming I’m not brain-fogged. Or knackered. Or both. Which is more than likely these days…)

Just like every other team in the hospital, these guys were friendly, welcoming and helpful. I was quickly set up with my infusion, which was due to last 20 minutes. Observing the colour, I couldn’t help remarking that they seemed to be filling me up with rust. Which did at least raise a smile. So – as usual – did my Boris t-shirt. What I didn’t know – at least to start with – was that the saline flush that followed would take another half hour. Which mildly incommoded my better half, who was left kicking her heels in the car park outside…

No matter. Job done, with minimal side-effects, and another infusion booked for next week.

And let’s see if that puts some ‘wire in the blood’. To coin a phrase…