Murder By Injection*

“How are you my love?”  Seb’s message comes through yesterday whilst we’re sitting on the plane, on the tarmac, with no prospect of taking off.  “You still on holiday?  Hope you’re enjoying yourself.”

Medal for correct spelling of ‘you’re’.  Good boy.

“Sorry I’ve not made much contact, been rather lost in work,” he continues.  “Still am really, but I can at least imagine the finish now.  Been missing you xxx”

Ah, my darling, I have been missing you so much, I think.  I’m smiling: I’m massively cheered to hear from him.  First message from him since Wednesday, that’s four days ago.  Haven’t wanted to disturb him.  

“We’ve been stuck on the plane in the airport for about three hours but finally taking off now,” I reply.  “Have been missing you too.  Glad you are making progress xxx. The cattery sent a photo of the fluffy monster enjoying his holiday…”  Attaching the photo, I press send.

So, today, I’m thrust from the beach back into my natural environment of the Doctor’s surgery, where I’m waiting for the horrible Zolodex injection.  Have applied the numbing lotion but had to stick a plaster over it which must have absorbed some of the cream.  Am not scared of injections but this one is done with a knitting needle-sized implement and is very painful.

“I’m not even scared of needles,” I say to the doctor as I pace around the room.  “It’s just that this one is really huge and…”

“Sit down and relax,” he says in a pleasing posh drawl.  Haven’t encountered this one before: he’s youngish for a doctor here, mid to late forties probably.  Good profile: aquiline nose and…just generally quite hot.

“OK,” I say, exposing my tummy, which really is better covered up.  “So I put the numbing stuff on an hour ago and had to cover it up with a plaster and…”

“I’ll inject it with the anaesthetic,” he says.  “This is better than that cream.  It’s better if you don’t look.”

But I like to look or how else will I describe it in this blog, I think as I turn my face to the wall.

“So how long have you had the breast cancer for?” He says.

“Two years,” I say, and launch into the story.

“All done,” he says.

“Wow,” I say.  “I didn’t feel anything.  Thank you.”

It’s much better with the anaesthetic injection.  And with an attractive doctor.

Mum set off at the crack of dawn to spring the fluffy monster from the cattery and so have just claimed my first orange cuddles from him.  He is purring.

And on my arrival home last night, this hedgehog person was waiting for me, sent by a dear friend.  Some things are nice.

Happy Monday everyone!

*1995.  By Eustace Mullins.  Non-fiction book about the medicinal market in the USA.

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