UPDATE: Sadly it seems it’s not as clear cut as we thought. In the last blog post I bemoaned the feelings of scanxiety around my first check up PET-CT scan since my chemotherapy began. Well, I'm not worried anymore. We have the results.
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.
Instead I have been wading my way wide-eyed and babbling incoherently through myriad conversations about my fertility. Basically, am I ever going to want to grow some sproglets inside of me one day? Because [spoiler alert], cancer and its subsequent treatment might make my chances of natural conception as likely as Trump winning an honorary ACLU award.
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