Dildoes on the NHS

Today's title is currently top of my list of phrases I never thought I'd type, but it's true. The National Health Service has provided me with a set of multi-sized sex toys.

They slot into one another like pornographic matryoshka dolls. And look! They even gave me a bottle of lube! Better still, they come in a discreet white case for convenient portability. Simply pop them in your handbag and head on out to the opera. Or a fetish club. ANYWHERE!

OK, OK, so officially they're "dilators" rather than dildoes, and they do serve a legitimate clinical purpose. Pelvic radiotherapy can leave you with scar tissue in the lady parts, making you less...what's the word? Stretchy? Accommodating? Anyway, the point is, if left unattended your front bottom may end up being unable to withstand anything wider than a small pipette. (No, I don't know why you'd insert a small pipette in there either. It was the first image that came to mind. Leave me alone.)

So, you start with the smallest of your State-provided plastic friends and send it into your pleasure garden for a bit of hokey cokey. Repeat until you're ready to move up to the next size. And so forth. In time, you should be able to resume a normal sex life, as well as (hopefully, if treatment worked) a normal toilet-going existence.

Luckily for me, my radiotherapy plan didn't involve zapping me from the front, so I shouldn't be too badly affected in the love tunnel department. I still reckon I should give my new toys a go. Even if (warning: over-sharing ahead) I couldn't cope with much more than a small pipette in the first place.

Sunburn where the sun don't shine

First things first: I'm now on morphine, so please lower any expectations you may have. The sole reason I still know my arse from my elbow is that only one of those things hurts. I'm currently spending my days getting zapped at the hospital, asleep, off my knockers on painkillers, or smearing various ointments on my undercarriage. So it's an exciting life.

The blister finally burst, but it's still giving me grief. Anyone who's ever had a popped blister (which, let's face it, is everyone) knows how raw those little sods can be. And mine was a size that - as an old buddy of mine said when she saw a picture of it - made it not so much a blister as a flotation device. 

The morphine is helping. I was alarmed, however, to see this warning on the packaging:

I'm hoping this message means "It doesn't, but our lawyers told us we had to say this", as opposed to "Take too much, and this will happen to you":

Wicked Witch GIF from Melting GIFs

Anyway, I'm very glad to have the pain relief, because the effects of radiotherapy are akin to having a nasty case of sunburn and I'm certainly feeling those effects now. I even looked in the mirror today to see how my poor little rear was faring. I shan't traumatise you by telling you how it looked. Also, for no particular reason, here is a picture of a baboon.

I have eight more sessions to go.

My response to this: Yay! Only eight more sessions!

My arse's response: Oh God. Eight more sessions *whimper*

The other day, The Independent ran a story about a jellyfish that has a transient anus. I wish, my friends. I wish.

About those non-existent blisters...

Last week began splendidly, with a gift from one of my cousins.

Yes, I know it needs a wipe

I enjoy drinking from this. It makes me feel like I'm some sort of hero simply for attending hospital and lying on a gurney with my junk on display.

By 3am on Saturday morning, however, I was acting like a proper ninja, crawling round my house on my forearms and knees, in the dark. Walking from the bedroom to the bathroom was too painful. Which brings me to the title of this blog post. Those blisters for which I searched fruitlessly the other week were, it would seem, not non-existent at all, just undergoing a slow teleportation from The Dimension of  Blisters. In the middle of last week, they arrived en masse. My favourite was this one:

It's actually grown since I took this photo. It's started to move up my ankle. My oncologist thinks this is because the pressure I put on it while walking is forcing the lymph upwards. I have a different theory: the blister has learned that, impressive as it is, there is a structure capable of holding legendary amounts of liquid just above the top of my leg, and it has decided to make a pilgrimage.

It was the combination of blisters and general foot pain that led to me slithering across the landing in the middle of the night.

I called the Cancer Centre's 24-hour hotline. They told me to stop taking the chemo tablets and invest in yet another cream.

I'm now able to hobble around with a single crutch. When I saw my oncologist today, she was pleased about this, but still classified me as having Grade 3 hand-foot syndrome. Apparently, Grade 3 is as high as it goes. I thought the oncologist said it went up to Grade 4, which made me gape.  GRADE 4? I pictured someone with water balloons for feet, bouncing down the road, praying for them not to pop.

I put my mistaken belief / mishearing down to fatigue. Not that I'm getting muddled or anything, but when the receptionist asked for my surname today, it took me a good five seconds to remember.

No, don't tell me - I know this one

For now, they're keeping me off the chemo, which is just as well, because the radiotherapy is producing unpleasant effects of its own in the underwear department. I'll save that for next time.