Yes, it’s me. Back. From the dead. Again.
This time, though, I’ve slightly more of a reason for actually attempting to make contact with the outside world. It was 5 years
yesterday two days ago (I write late at night) that I had the surgery at Stanmore Royal Orthopoedic Hospital to fix my leg, and “5 years” is an important milestone for any recovering cancer patient.
After my echocardiogram turned out normal,
(Ultrasound scan on the heart. Radiologist whips out ultrasound probe and gel.
Me: I’m not pregnant.
I was basically told by my oncologist to piss off, as he wasn’t particularly interested in seeing me after five years post-chemo without incident.
But five, being one of those arbitrarily round numbers, seems like a good number of years to reflect. So I present to you, in this auspicious year, a collection of pictures that was inconspicuously and candidly taken by my mum with her old phone, and through the wonders of technology and careful archiving I can present now. One day at a time, of course.
So, without further ado, my previously unpublished pictorial neoplastic proliferation. (Hey, I have an alliteration reputation to keep up.)