Many years ago I worked with a psychologist and group therapist called Bernie Marcus. He was one of the original group therapists at HMP Grendon, the first Therapeutic Community (TC) prison in England. Bernie thought outside the box and had a way of being thought provoking. He also had a stock of appalling jokes, one of which came to mind as I woke up pain free this morning.
I first heard this joke whilst in a training group of psychologists. We were all laid on the floor with our heads on someone’s stomach and of course we had someone’s head on ours. We did that kind of thing in the early seventies, not far from the hippy sixties, when exploration and having fun was still considered okay things to do in a professional training. So there we all are laying on the floor head to stomach and Bernie told this joke.
Why are there no pain killers in the Jungle?
Because the parrots eat ’em all!
The ripple of laughter and trembling stomachs was our experience of the day.
But paracetamol (get the joke yet?) saved me last night. Two pre-emptive paracetamol an hour before bed removed the pain from my spasming back and I slept. This was the first decent nights sleep I had had since starting chemo, in fact before that. The 70p it cost me for a box of white tablets was my best investment. All I need to do now is not use them unless I am actually in pain. So tonight I will risk it and see what happens. If I dream of parrots I will blame Bernie.
Para 
cet 
a 
mol
A really good day
Today has been excellent, no pain, a useful and enjoyable meeting with colleagues in Stoke, a relaxed lunch and to round the day off a CT scan.
I drove to Stoke. I like to drive, my car has air conditioning, which means if I hot flush I can fight back with super fast fan cold air. It works and is a great comfort. The meeting went well, I think, and I was happy to see the work I was discussing going so well. The feedback was gratifying in that people where expressing positive things about the processes that they had engaged in to demonstrate the improvements they were making in their services.
Back down the M1 to a restaurant and a relaxed meal, still feeling remarkably well. My partner drove me to the hospital in time for my CT scan appointment at 19:00. I know, I was surprised that it was that late in the evening and had the odd thought about how I felt possibly being the last cannula and scan of the day. I need not have worried the cannula went in beautifully, no wobbly veins to be seen anywhere, and I was able to get the required two glasses of water into me without any problem. I was expecting to get to wear one of those flappy white gowns that always gap at the back and show your arse of to all and sundry, but no. Modern CT scans can apparently manage with trousers lowered and spectacles off. All I had to do was keep my arm above my head, breathe when told to and endure 50 seconds of thinking I was going to wet myself in response to the tracker dye the deft and quietly proficient radiographer pumped into me in mid session. Then it was quickly over. I was sent to drink more water and wait for ten minutes till they decided my scan was good, and I had not collapsed with a rare reaction. Everything was tickety boo and my cannula was whipped out of my arm and I was adorned with my little patch of gauze and tape fixings. We got away much quicker than expected and celebrated with a meal in town.
So now its off to bed, fingers crossed. To sleep perchance to dream.
