In the following, the names have been changed to protect the identities of some of the main players.

Three weeks ago "Dr. 1" told me that the poison of choice for my third cycle of chemo would be Cytarabine. Two days on, one day off, then two more days on. A total of five days. I would be given that as an in-patient due to the risks associated with the high doses/concentrations involved. We could start as soon as my blood-counts were sufficiently good and stable. I like "Dr. 1" because he explains and justifies what he is doing.

A week later and "Dr. 2" was telling me a different story. My third cycle of chemo would be self-administered at home. No idea which chemo drug(s) or how long they would be given for. We would start as soon as my blood-counts were sufficiently good and stable.

Last week "Dr. 1" was sticking to his previous script - Cytarabine over 5 days as an in-patient. My blood-counts were good and stable but the start of Cycle 3 would have to be delayed until some other issues (flu on the ward, bleeding arse, bleeding gums) had been brought under control. I told "Dr. 1" that "Dr. 2" had told me a different story, he said that his plan was the one that would be best.

On Thursday this week "Dr. 2" was sticking to her previous script. My third cycle of chemo would be self-administered at home. No idea which chemo drugs but they would be given by portable pump over 6 days. We would start on Monday regardless of the other issues. She trashed the plan set out by "Dr. 1". She didn't discuss the results of the testing of the bone-marrow sample that they took from me on Tuesday. Basically, I was lectured and then dismissed, the next patient was waiting and the docs were running late.

Me and Chris went home with very little information but with plenty to discuss. WTF, I'd just been steam-rollered! Why were the consultants not in agreement? Which plan was best? Just who was in charge?

On Friday I turned up unannounced and started to ruffle a few folks' feathers. I wanted answers, facts, explanations. It took a few hours and I had to threaten to kick up a bit of a stink, but eventually the third member of the triumvirate (we'll call her "Dr. 3"), supported by a concerned and considerate colleague, was delegated to placate me. "Dr. 2" was on the wards only a few yards away and was aware of the situation but seemingly wasn't "equal" to the challenge of dealing with it.

And it all got sorted out really quickly and easily... I told "Dr. 3" my concerns, she gave me the missing facts, we discussed the reasoning behind the different plans. All stuff that could have been sorted in five minutes during the out-patient consultation the day before, but it cost me a ruined Friday and it cost them precious NHS resources. Hopefully they will learn from this "opportunity".

The result is that we now all know what the plan is, and why.

And from now on they'll all remember that it's ME who is in charge.

We start Cycle 3 on Monday. It's not standard treatment so I bet it'll be a hoot!

Old Jack may well be pushing his limits (and his luck) by asking his missus to pass the TV remote control to him for the umpteenth time this afternoon, so for his own safety he should probably back off a bit and have a snooze. Or maybe he should simply use a laggy-band to fix the thing to his person so that he doesn't drop it every five minutes.

But we're not all as doddery as Old Jack. We don't all need Zimmer-frames to get to the shitter, we don't all need "Care in the Community" rob-dogs to dispense our pills while eyeing up the family silver on display in the corner-cabinet.

Today I've dug a fair wedge of garden, tidied up one of the sheds and moved eleven 3x2 slabs (yeah, the thick council ones). Not wanting to be caught standing around doing nothing, I then laid five of them, sorted out the mains electrics in the sheds and in the greenhouse, entertained three sets of neighbours, shot some wood-pigeons and then made plans to walk unaided to the shops, and hopefully back again, without having a bob-a-job boy-scout dangling from my arm to help me to cross the road, in order to purchase some milk (so that I can entertain more neighbours tomorrow). And I still found the time and the energy to castigate the postman for delivering yet another tranche of junk-mail.

And I've yet to find something to do this evening.

Tomorrow is already planned... try to finish building the frame & wire fruit-cage during the day, and, without a safety-net or a parachute, walk to and from the pub in the evening with the intention of imbibing more than a little liquid propellant.

That's not really overdoing it, is it?

Or should I look forward to another bollocking during this Thursday's out-patient appointment?