Even hunters cry…

My macho hunter’s crying could be heard all down the passage at six o’clock this morning. He couldn’t find me in my usual place and the distress in his voice got me on my feet and running to pick him up. I was rewarded with a deep purring session as he nestled in to my tummy.

Even wild hunters can be vulnerable at times. I related immediately. My own vulnerability was peeping a little this week. After my successful chemo number 14, where one of the amazing nurses managed to draw blood from my port as she joked around and diverted my attention, I had a disappointment awaiting me. The port part sounds simple enough. It isn’t and it is the first time ever that someone has managed to do it! My high praise brought a modest shrug and another hilarious joke, which had me shaking with laughter. My friend M O arrived with cold sparkling water and enough love to light up the whole room. Her magnetism draws people to her and soon we were chatting to everyone in range. In what felt like a flash, my session was over and there was enough time for a quick (naughty) snack before the scheduled scan.

This time, I didn’t have my dream duo seeing to me in the radiology section and as I walked down the passage afterwards, to meet with Dr Gudgeon, I realised once again how privileged I am to have her there. Striving for excellence is so important for all of us and it frightens me to see it slipping away in some places. Thank goodness for the stalwarts who still put their hearts and souls into their work and hold up the light for others to follow.

My previously impressive scans had spurred me on to complete this long journey. The end of the tunnel is in sight. That should make things easier right? Yes and No. I can see it but not quite reach it. Why would my patience desert me now? This scan was neither bad nor good. So neutral is the closest I can get. The tumour is still contained, which is great. But after the last impressive shrinking, this one showed a lull. My mind ticked over as the pragmatic doctor interpreted the data for me. Was it all the Christmas eating and no exercise? I had sneaked in a few glasses of bubbly too. I had slipped up on my clean body routine, forgotten to practise my hypnotherapy (sorry Dr Rink) and neglected my spiritual connection at times.

“Remember that we are looking at photographs. The scan can’t tell the difference between scar tissue and cancer cells.”

I sat up at that. The phenomenal woman in front of me was still absolutely on track. Her words were practical, no nonsense and full of reassurance. Possibly two more chemo sessions, surgery and then radiation. She was as steady as a rock as I absorbed her message. And I knew as I walked away, that I couldn’t be in better hands. My body would catch up again, in divine timing. It doesn’t let me down. I just need to get my own house back in order. The Penzance guard is getting mince pies, christmas cake and shortbread biscuits this evening. One man’s treat is another one’s poison.

Archie’s purring has turned to kneading and he’s slowly regaining his composure. Pride has brushed away the moment of vulnerability and I won’t tell him how touched I was to catch a glimpse of it…


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