The river flows unceasingly. As do the little groupings of people along the Covid memorial wall, opposite of Westminster. Ribbons of buses crossing the bridge. I am leaning on a balustrade outside of St Thomas hospital and typing on my phone. Our lives seem to fluctuate with the calcium at the moment.
I am weary. I don’t like feeling weary. I feel I am falling short. Not enough energy to engage, pursue. I am trying to find the right course. A right course needs to be found in it all. KS has been back in hospital since Monday. I don’t know what the plan is. KS doesn’t know either. A plan may be forming among the team of specialists. We hope to find out more today. The calcium is still the culprit, but underlying that is the cancer tricking the body into releasing calcium into the blood. This cancer is a trickster. The oncologist called it ‘naughty’. It just doesn’t tolerate treatment. It is stubborn. It is persistent. Not unlike its owner. Which is perhaps where the comparison stops. It is veering towards the unsayable, the unacceptable and the unbearable. ‘I don’t recommend it’, I said to the downstairs neighbour. Humour with the tumour. Naughty. Juicy. Rich with fluids. Poor with taste.