Anticipation is half the pleasure

My beloved and I just saw Dr Parente for my regular 6 weekly check-in. Executive summary: the PSA is still undetectable.

Getting the news was almost comically protracted this morning. First there were no parking spots in the car parks at the practice.  So my beloved had to drop me off and go and hunt for a spot outside. She found one, but didn’t have many coins to put into the meter. (Some meters accept credit card, but not those in the City of Whitehorse.)  When I went in, the waiting room was almost empty.  This made the lack of parking somewhat peculiar. There are, admittedly, other doctors’ practices in the building; it is unusual, though, that none of the cars in the carparks should belong to Dr Parente’s patients.

Because of my beloved not having many coins, we didn’t have long to go on the meter. This wouldn’t have mattered had Dr P been on time, but — doubtless for excellent reasons — he was running late. We were chatting to the other patient in the waiting room when I arrived — his chauffeur had had to drop him off, too. And he had an appointment booked at the same time as me! Who would get to go in first? He did, of course. The time ticked away on the waiting room clock.

My turn came. Dr P had to connect his laptop to the practice’s wifi (or something). It was slow to load up with the results of the blood test I’d had on Monday. At least your name’s not in red, he said encouragingly, peering at his screen. Still, the news, when we finally got it, was good. McFate had obviously read the famous advice to writers: make ’em laugh — make ’em cry — make ’em wait.

(PS: I had always thought this advice to have been the work of Wilkie Collins. When checking this, I found that it is now attributed to Charles Reade. Warning — this link points to a Guardian article.)

Nothing to see here …

We saw Dr Parente yesterday morning. The PSA is still undetectable, and I remain in remission. After receiving this good news, we went to the oncology unit, where I had another Zolodex implanted. (You will remember that this is the hormone treatment — androgen deprivation — that is aiming to starve the cancers of what they feed on.) The implants are about the size of a grain of rice and last about 3 months. They just go in in the abdominal fat, of which there is still plenty, even after the gastro! There is very little discomfort. I booked in the next appointments with Dr P & the oncology unit, for the next implant.

My beloved is going to Paris in early April for a few days. She will be representing her work at an international transport meeting. We thought of me going as well, and tacking a cruise or other expedition onto the end of her work commitments. However, there is bugger-all happening in that line at that time of year (too cold, I suspect). So I am going to hold the fort. Of course this depends on nothing going awry in the meantime, but (touch wood) all seems to be quite stable. I have been going to an exercise class for oncology patients run by Lauren, the exercise physio, and this is pretty good! I will be going back to the gym soon as well (I stopped for a few weeks with the gastro).

My lovely old Luxman pre-amp has spat the dummy again and is only working on one channel. This is a real bore as I have to disconnect everything, pull it out, and run it over to the valve amp guru in Glen Waverley. He will have it for however long he needs to ponder its mysteries — could be weeks. (His workshop is like an Aladdin’s cave of amplifiers, many much more expensive than mine. So he knows whereof he speaks.) This is not my first pilgrimage there, however, and to be honest I am a bit over the vintage gear. Maybe I should sell it on Gumtree and get a nice, soulless, reliable, solid state integrated amp!