We are half way through the PRRT treatment and waiting for the next lot which will take place in a week or two. It has an excellent track record and most people experience some shrinkage of tumour, or at least a (temporary) arrest in growth.
The cruel part for me is not the illness but the good health. P has been well for some weeks – better than before the treatment started, putting on weight, more energetic and a better colour. My daughter quietly pointed out how ambiguous this is. He has seriously invasive tumours, and the cancer in his stomach alone is enough to kill him, yet his appearance and demeanour are completely at odds with these facts. People often ask me about his prognosis and I don’t know what to tell them. Sometimes it’s almost as though they wouldn’t believe me anyway.
If they saw him today though, they would know. Every now and then he turns completely white, develops a terrible headache and vomiting, and looks every inch the stereotypical cancer sufferer. It makes me so sad to see him this way. I know he doesn’t sit dwelling on the future, and he never lets it interfere in his life any more than it needs to. The other night my dad rang me and said ‘I just wanted you to know that if I get any worse, I’m going to call an ambulance and I want you to look after the dogs’. He has COPD and mum was out. ‘Have you used your inhaler?’ I asked. No. He hadn’t. It was in a drawer in the bedroom. He was quite prepared to use the last resort before he had even considered the first. In the end he had a toot on his prescribed medication and he was fine. I wonder how he would behave if he had cancer and not mild emphysema. P has been selfless in his illness, and I don’t know many people like him. I hope he gets back to his new old self very soon.
