Tomorrow himself has his next cancer checkup, an event usually awaited with a certain amount of trepidation, for the results. This time, however, his condition has been stable for months so unless something has changed drastically, he should be all right. Still, there is always that margin of error ready to trip us up..... The consultant is short and very portly, like a balloon - so much so that I'm tempted to shove a needle in him to see if he'd deflate. He squints from behind very thick glasses that make you wonder how he can see at all without them (he probably can't). He obviously hates women, or considers them too lowly to be bothered with, as in the two years we've been seeing him, he has never once looked at me, let alone address a comment to me.
Mind you, come to think of it, he doesn't look at himself either - not sure what that says about either of them.
Following on from that appointment, we head back here and I have the first of two sessions (each an hour and a half long) to clean the roots of my teeth. For those of you that haven't followed this saga, I have had months of excruciating toothache leading to my paying a private periodontist (someone who specialises in gum disease) extortionate amounts of money in order to try and save my teeth. I'm trying hard not to think about this root cleaning business and have so far pushed it to the side of my brain where it lingers dangerously, like a hangover ready to pounce. I comfort myself with the fact that it is done under local anaesthetic (thank God), but even so, it's not something that I look forward to, and I rather suspect that once the numbness wears off, it will hurt like hell. Wimp, moi?
The only comfort I get from the prospect of all this is that it only has to be done once - well, with two appointments to do one side of the mouth each time. Then, Never Again.
In the meantime, outside the sky is a gentle blue, a sparrow is doing a jitterbug on the overhanging fuchsia tree, and I have a vase of sweet peas on my desk that smell like a promise.
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