Just when you think it's safe to go back into the water...

Murphy's Law reached up and bit me hard on the backside-and I didn't really expect it, either. Frankly, a shark would have been more interesting-and probably more entertaining. It has been a stressful two weeks since I last posted. Ugh.

I had a really bad time with balance and vision-really bad-I seem to have regressed a lot. I did expect it-in a way-because surgery was less than five weeks ago, so I don't know what I was thinking when I decided to do everything I had done before the surgery. What an oops that was. I'm cut from armpit to armpit, so I couldn't raise my arms, or lift anything of any consequence. And there was a lot of pain. So I spent a lot of time resting-which, of course, made the balance worse. Another oops moment.

Last Wednesday-exactly four weeks post-op- I had to go to Queen Square to see the physiotherapist. She was great-but couldn't believe I was actually there, since I was staggering all over the place. She also was amazed that I wasn't really depressed about the setback. So we talked about that, and she had me do a whole series of exercises. It turns out that, although I wasn't able to do any of the exercises with my eyes shut, I was better at the other ones than I was when I was tested in March. I can tell you how pleased I was to know that; it means that I am still improving, even though I think, on many occasions, that I am moving backwards rather than forwards. Time to be cheerful (ish).

But-Thursday was about as welcome as a shark attack. I went along for my fortnightly immunoglobulin infusions, and that was okay, except that my usual nurse was on holiday, so someone else handled it-and started an hour late. Bummer. And then I went to see Steve over at the surgery clinic. And was I swearing at Murphy and his bloody law by this time, or wasn't I? The reason for this is: the whole side of the expander on the right side has collapsed. There is a crater where, as far as I can determine, there should not be a crater. So I waited over an hour-again-this being the NHS, I was glad it was only one hour, not three or four-and Steve looked and didn't seem very happy.

That was on Thursday, and Steve took a syringe and inflated the expander (well, yes, he did ask me first, and I said, hell, yes, I'm so freaked out about all this, did I do something wrong?). He stuck a needle into the port and I said I wish he had been the one to shove the needle into the port on my chest that morning, because he didn't hurt me at all. Everything inflated-and I actually had cleavage (or, something resembling cleavage). I also talked all the way through the consultation-it was either talk or burst into tears, so I chose to talk instead.

I go on Thursday to have him examine me again-and the expander is already beginning to sag in the middle. We will need to decide whether to remove it and insert another expander or just insert a permanent implant. My view: a permanent implant. Less trouble. Save my voice, too.

Today I will see Dr. Dimples for the last time. It's sad, I guess, because I have been his patient since just after the gentamicin debacle. But there is nothing more he or his colleagues can do for me. It is up to me, now-up to me with the able assistance of the experienced people at Queen Square.

Remember when I first said (somewhere around a hundred posts ago) that you should always talk to the organ grinder and not the monkey? Not that Dimples is a monkey-but he is the one who sent me to the experts, and Dr. Davies and my two vestibular physiotherapists said that I have more improvements to come, but I must continue to work hard, and work hard daily, no goofing off. Even when I get as far as I can go, I need to work every day, because if I don't, the brain just stops working for me.

I've come a long way-sure, I've got a long way ahead of me, but now I'm looking at it as a major challenge, and I've been able to detach from the anger I felt against the injustice and the four cripplers. It must really suck to be them.

I can report that I am at an internet cafe, waiting for my final appointment with Dimples before he discharges me from his clinic (one more down, I'm halfway out the door of the crappy old Royal London). I walked furtively up the road, just in case I smelled sewage and ran straight into the wife beating, child abusing, dog kicking pile of faecal matter called Bucky Buckland. One never knows what abuse I would get if I ran into him-preferably when I'm in a fast moving vehicle, of course.

I'm really, really lucky that the pile of shite discharged me before the surgery-my ego aside, I was able to quickly move over to the Royal Free, and all treatment (except gastro, which I elected to keep at the London) is now under one roof. It's so much better-and I am so much happier.

Being treated like a human being by people who have so much more experience, expertise, capability, and kindness-it makes an incredible difference. I'm not worried about someone killing me off now. Although, there is always Murphy's Law....