The Stamp

If you squint your eyes a little, this nice cannula bruise from Tuesday could pass as a dirty nightclub stamp, which I have failed to wash off properly in a desperate attempt to make it into work on time via the corner shop to pick up crisps and a Lucozade. Thus, I could actually pass in the street as a normal 28 year old, who has been out galavanting on a school night. That would be nice wouldn’t it? Perhaps I could colour it in to make it look more realistic. Maybe a skull would do it.

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Alas, nothing could be further from the truth. I have been in bed since Thursday.

This is one bruise of four from my week’s treatment, which joins the two from three weeks ago. Ah, cannulas.

Whilst I am on the subject of bruises, I was told off on Wednesday for speaking at my NORMAL SPEAKING VOLUME about cannula bruising by a nurse in the clinic. Apparently, it did not put the chemo novice at ease.

She’ll learn, was my response.

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