My mum is recovering well from her two operations: her scars are healing, the drain is long gone, and her bruising is going down. The specialist has confirmed she is cancer-free…
… But the procedures continue to rumble on, despite our combined hopes to the contrary. We now learn that every three weeks or so, for the next four months, she’ll have to have preventative chemotherapy. That will take her up to Christmas, where she’ll get the greatest gift of all: a few weeks of intensive radiotherapy. After that? Probably tamoxifen for a good long while.
This means she and my dad have finally had to bite the bullet and cancel the ferry trip they were going to make over to the UK in a week or so. Still, she seems fairly chipper, and she says she’s ready to take on a course of what’s essentially proactive treatment. And some of her friends have been in the same situation, so she’s no shortage of good advice support.
I’m glad she’s being looked after with such efficient and punctual treatment – even if the language barrier repeatedly turns each new phase of the treatment into a bit of a nasty surprise. But I miss them both all the more, now I know I won’t realistically see them for at least a few months: their ferry journey an unlikely luxury to be taking during the two weeks or so of nausea-free time between chemo’ bouts; and my presence when my mum might be too ill for visitors, while invariably loved and on one level appreciated, not I know entirely welcome. And so while they both remain in dry dock, I feel a little at sea.