Thursday. I wake tired, my partner and eldest daughter already out of the house. I go through my morning rituals and take my vitals. I try to take stock of how I am, my conclusion is that I am not in the best condition. I scribble a poem that reflects this assessment.

536
There is nothing to say
beyond the desert
of defeat.
Crushed by chemo,
ground by toxicity
I lay alone, desperate,
for in this instant
I can see no glimmer
of me in the future
with energy.
Quality of life 
is not in my grasp
but an idea waved
at me by caring medics.
I am suspended,
a strange fruit
neither fallen
nor ripened,
waiting to be
harvested. 

					536 04-06-2026

I check my vitals, they are okay but my heart rate persists a little high. I take a shower while I feel I have the energy to do so and then make a late breakfast. With food inside me I settle down on the sofa and start to draft an email in response to a poetry stanza discussion. I eventually get a draft done and sent. My partner returns home and is happy that some of the issues related to her mother have been sorted as a preferred care home is going to take her early next week.

The afternoon is full of women’s semi final tennis as I rest and see if the paracetamol helps. The paracetamol sees me through the Paris semi finals and into the evening. The family eat tea together and I then order a Tesco delivery for tomorrow. With that done I spend time down loading a new channel onto the TV so that I can watch the new Brokenwood Mystery series. I check the poetry stanza discussion that is going on and note that it seems a poetry celebration at Christmas looks like a popular option. At the end of the evening I take my meds and head for bed.