I’m feeling kind of fuzzy-headed, probably a combination of insomnia, the steroid come-down and having a good deal to think about at the moment. One of the things on my mind is this week’s visit to Dr C the oncologist. My mission to make him laugh continues and I have some ideas on how to achieve it but beyond that I’m wondering whether I should have a list of questions for him now that chemo is through.
The two most obvious questions are:
- How successful was the treatment?
- How do we know for sure it was that successful?
The challenge with these questions is that the answers are going to be kind of fuzzy. Something along the lines of ‘it was the best regime available, you completed it so we assume it was successful. We find out for sure by following you up over the next 5 years.’ I realise that for some people the lack of definitive answers would cause chaos and possibly leave them feeling quite depressed, but no-one can give me absolute answers so kind of fuzzy ones will have to do.
Being naturally unstructured (prone to spontaneity and bouts of randomness) I quite enjoy chaos so the challenge of an amorphous, kind of fuzzy future is exactly that – a challenge to be played flat-out. This feels like it could be an opportunity to act in my own psychological thriller, except the cliff-hanger scene goes on for years, not minutes. Hitchcock might be proud! Then again, some of the most wonderful things in life are kind of fuzzy – little chicks, kiwi fruit, dandelion clocks, woolly bear caterpillars and some of our most endearing experiences make us feel kind of fuzzy inside – love, friendship, fealty.
It may not be perfect, precise or predictable but the kind of fuzzy life I live includes more marvels than I ever imagined – a wonderful family, dear friends, my faithful cats… and it’s full of million reasons to be thankful every single day even if the suspense will never be entirely suspended.