This is what I should do every day:
eat four different painkillers, in six different batches. And anti nausea, and anti constipation, and anti itching pills.
eat a handful of vitamins.
rince my nose twice.
rince my teeth three times, with the medicated stuff.
do my physio twice.
cycle, for at least half an hour.
Drink lung tea, three times a day.
Also bathe, clean teeth, eat, and sleep.
Sometimes I don’t do all that.
Oh, and the therapist was shit. I pointed out it was difficult to work towards a goal of accepting my illness and finding a way to get back into a job that doesn’t overtax me and that I’m happy with, whilst simulateously being expected to attend hospital for a day a week, more whenever they fancy it, on a course of treatment, date of completion unknown, date of completion of mind numbing meds unknown. And also whist carrying round a small, permanently attached chest drain. Albeit in an attractive rabbit print bag.
I didn’t even start on my slightly psychotic theories that God is laughing at me, and has set me up with several useful talents, and a complete inability to fulfill any of them, as a cosmic joke with other gods, so they can all put bets on whether I’ll achieve something, or not, and what I’ll try and where I’ll go next. You know what Thor and that lot are like. Anyway, I hadn’t even mentioned it when she sent me a short letter cancelling the meetings, saying it might be better to continue when all this is over.