The first treatment I had, oh, last May, I think. Nary a peep from the hospital since then (when I was in for something unrelated last summer, I asked where I was on the appointments list, and my specialist's PA looked awful sad and told me the lists weren't looking good - there's one surgeon in the area who can do this stuff, and he has milesofpatients, most of whom probably need this more than I do). Oh well. So I accept the little improvement it's given me so far, get on with my life, and just put the thought of the next treatment to the back of my mind.
I should point out that the treatment pushes me up the pain scale a couple of notches for a couple of months afterwards, and I've been warned it can be longer, depending, and I mayn't take any antiinflammatories during that period, since the treatment relies for its therapeutic effect on an induced inflammation. Joy. And since my opiates and travel just don't work together, I'm really not going to be traveling further than maybe an occasional car trip into town or to visit (very) local friends. This I can put up with, I suppose.
So, I make plans, including going to Whitby for the Gothic Weekend, which for one reason or another I haven't been able to get to in a while. I'm just about to do things like getting tix and accommodation, when...
You guessed it. I have a treatment appointment for next Thursday. Happy happy, joy... oh fuck. Scrub Whitby, because I just can't be sure I'll be fit to travel, let alone pogo to "Hey Mickey" :) Maybe November.
Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks. Still, maybe I'll be in pretty good shape for November.