Yesterday my parents and I attended something referred to as a 'Confirmation of Consent' meeting with my absolute babe of a Nurse Specialist, Theresa. Sadly this wasn't some sort of disruptive feminist workshop, but a medical appointment about chemotherapy. The point of the session is to run through your cancer treatment plan, its side effects and risks, answer any questions you may have and then finally get your permission to start poisoning you for your own benefit.
Annoyingly, I now have to use a crutch because they're worried that the cancer has weakened my hip/pelvis/leg on the right side enough that I could quite easily fracture something like my femur. I really detest crutches - they are gangly, awkward and make my hands hurt. But use them I must I suppose - it's probably less cumbersome than having a fractures femur.