Bibbington

Bib arrived in the post today for the Nike Half Marathon in Chester on 12 May, which is Dads birthday and which I'm running as a pre-edinburgh warm up to help shed some pre-race nerves and just get a 13.1 mile distance under my feet. I'm nowhere near ready (running 19k max but finding it utterly exhausting for the last three) but looking forward to it.

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The hospital have stopped the last round of Dads chemo because it's battering him about a bit too much, but they're happy with how well it appears to have worked on his bladder which was great to hear. His new chemo specialist (his original one retired mid-treatment) mentioned Radiotherapy as a possible next-line-of-attack instead of going straight for the mega-op surgery, with a view to having the op afterwards if he still needed it. Dad still has to talk to his consultant and the Macmillan team about the implications of doing that, but on reflection this could be good news if it means he doesn't have to go under the knife.

BUT - and this is the thing see - the talk of radiotherapy totally rocked Dad. The look on his face was as if he'd been told he had cancer for the first time all over again, that the one thing he was certain of (the surgery) was now possibly not happening and he was being forced to think about everything anew. It's weird but it was almost as if the very op he has been dreading was some sort of subconscious security blanket, that the train he's been told to get on had stopped and he was now being asked to choose which one to get on next.