I have something to confess. I talk to myself at times. Well, that's not strictly true, a little voice in my head talks to me telling 'Charlie Boy' to do this ... and to do that ... most often it's saying 'come on, Charlie Boy, you can cope ... don't lose your grip ...'
The thing is no one really prepares you for slowly falling off the Edge of the World.
You can't jump off the x-ray couch and form a 'T' with both hands and ask for some 'time out'.
Today though the little voice inside my head [which, it has to be said, makes me smile quite a lot] said wouldn't it be funny when you start your radiotherapy if a Dalek-like voice calls out from behind the screen "Irradiate ! Irradiate ! Irradiate !"
In the event I didn't get the chance to see if this was actually going to happen because although I was x-rayed and marked up ready to be irradiated I was told half an hour later that, in fact, my actual treatment wouldn't be starting until Wednesday with further 'doses' on Thursday, Friday, Monday and Tuesday ... then that would be it.
The doctor this morning mentioned in passing that the radiotherapy wasn't a cure ... it was just to help ease the pain ... and it has to be said pain has surfaced and made itself known ... rather like an uninvited shark at a swimming gala.
At present I'm hobbling around a bit. I walk upstairs labouriously putting my right foot on a step and then bringing my uncomfortable [ok, painful] left leg up to the same step. [I now avoid walking up steps if there's a crowd behind me.]
"Come on Charlie Boy. Stop whinging ... go and make yourself a coffee ..."
