Right. Where were we? A few weeks ago I had a scan that showed further tumour growth in my liver. Surprise?! Not really. A cough reminiscent of the one I had pre-diagnosis had hinted to me that all was not rosy in liver land. The cough was a sign my liver was enlarged and pushing into my diaphragm.

You know how much I hate chemo, right? Well, imagine the surprise on the nurses faces when I walked through their door, straight from the oncologist with the bad news, bawling my eyes out and scaring all the new customers with my wailing, “IT’S NOT WORKING!!!!” I was quickly gathered up and hustled into a private room so they could hug me and unhook my port.

To think that the treatment I loathed and dreaded on this fortnightly ferris wheel of torture and respite hadn’t even made an impact left me raging. Overwhelmed. Hopeless. Defeated. Sorry for my sad, cancery self.

So when the SIRT treatment was offered, Magro and I turned towards the ‘something’ that was a ‘something’ that might possibly, most horrifically, one day, be a nothing left to do.

Basically, as some of you now know, SIRT treatment involves the implanting of millions of little radioactive beads (tiny things) into the blood vessels of your liver. The aim being to kill off as much cancer and as little healthy tissue as possible. Obviously there will be some fall out.

So cue me, a week later, sedated but awake as my groin is punctured and a tube is threaded through my body up into my liver and a virtual army of radioactive hell beings find their way into my system.

A few hours later and my body is screaming, “GET THE FUCK OUT OF ME!!!!”

Oh the pain. Oh the nausea. Oh the sweating.

One precautionary night in hospital turns into almost a week of trying to manage the pain, control my spiking temperatures, attempting to convince my body to release the poops which had taken up long term parking options in my lower intestine as a protest against the Endone, and trying to convince the nursing staff that my insane blood pressures weren’t that abnormal for me.

While many of you were (rightly) cheering the minions on to victory, I was willing them to kill each other off.

But here we are another week on and I am a million times better. I look ok again. I can sleep without pain killers. In fact, I haven’t had any in days. The nausea has abated. I’m crying with reduced frequency. I am almost back to normal. I still can’t breathe super well on standing or walking but that should improve.

Which reminds me of the human body’s incredible ability to heal. Even under the most insane of pressures. I mean, I still have a lot of cancer in me. But I was so ill, I sort of started to believe I wouldn’t feel better again. And yet, here I am.

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