I HAD the inkling of a chance of a cure – getting a new first stage trial drug.
The story so far: in the West Wing of the Churchill Hospital in July 2017 I was diagnosed with a terminal form of leukaemia and given 12 to 18 months to live. This week, trips to A&E, an accident with a kettle, and a glimmer of hope
THIS is a column I hoped I would never have to write. I have been on a new drug trial for 16 months to see if this can reduce the amount of leukaemia in my body and enable me to live a longer, more active life. This means I’ve had 16 months of double chemo with horrific side-effects.
IN THE run-up to Christmas the chemotherapy unit at the Churchill Hospital topped me up with one last cycle of treatment that included 14 injections in my stomach. This didn’t exactly tide me over the holiday season because the toxic material in the chemo ran me down to a severe degree.
THE fact that my funeral is supposed to be just around the corner conjures up memories of other celebrations of death, especially this week. Sixty-five years ago yesterday on 22nd November, John F. Kennedy was shot and killed. Millions of people watched the funeral on television. Not me. I was there…accidentally, of course.
MY PARTNER Jane announced this week: “When you die…I’m not going to cook anymore.”
IN THIS column on December 1 last year I asked if cannabis can help control cancer?
Last Friday I was discharged from hospital at 6pm. By 11pm I was in a state of meltdown and readmitted.
