Bloody update - otherwise known as Fuck IT.
I think I rather like surprises, or at least I used to.
You know those little surprises like sliding your hands into the pockets of your winter coat to discover a forgotten twenty, shoveled in there to cover a cab fare home after a boozey night at the pub, but then the weather changed and you were pretty pissed so decided to walk home instead. Ah those wonderful little surprises.
My darling Nanna awakening me with a cup of tea and a couple of buttered wheatmeal biscuits every morning was always a surprise, not cos it was unusual cos she did it every day, but it was a surprise to me that she did it every day. It was generous and sweet and we'd chat about the banal and the unusual. And I guess what surprises me today is that I liked it so very much, cos NOW I actually HATE eating in bed, quite possibly have done since I became responsible for washing my own sheets.
And then there are those less than fabulous surprises like when my ex presented me one chrissie with a bottle of truly 'Old Lady' perfume which he hadn't even sniffed and some shitty old T shirt. It wasn't the lack of parcels which was the problem, what surprised me was the appalling lack of effort and thought on his part, and I guess the absolutely staggering thing was that it took me still near enough to another whole year to pack up my T shirt and head off.
Yep some surprises are shitful.
Like getting a poor blood report from Dr Hemo.
The scores are only significant if you have CML, but in a nutshell, after a year I should be in remission and that means my score should be 0.00something. Some lucky ducks get there much faster than a year, and some folk never get there. I am at 0.14. Doesn't sound like much huh? But it's enough for Dr Hemo to suggest a change in the meds. Well fuck it, just when I was getting used to this lot of poison he's thinking we will change things up if there is no improvement in 3 months.
And here's the thing, I might have been the only one in the room who was NOT surprised with the poor bloody show. Poor old Stevie was shocked I think, and then when I had a little sob, he was surprised again. I am not a in-public blubberer and yep even in front of Stevie is in-public, so when my eyes leak, I am surprised, surprised cos I just can't hold 'em back, Bugger!
I expect that in remission I will feel better and as I haven't been feeling better I was pretty sure that the mutants had not behaved. Bugger, but no surprises.
So fuck it! No good blood news for chrissie.
I am now hoping that the surprises I have organised for my little family go down a treat on the Big Day.
And then I can put my best foot forward and do all I can - which is precisely fuck all, to see if I can get a surprise result next time. Fingers crossed that my little mutant fuckers finally decide to fuck off sometime soon, cos the idea of the adjusted treatments is not a surprise I want to spend a great deal of time considering.
In this case, I would swap a surprise with a good dollop of certainty in a heart beat.