It's November.
Or, for moustache lovers everywhere (and let's face it, who doesn't love a good 'tache?), it's also been dubbed Movember. Lots of men growing lots of face fuzz to raise lots of lovely cash for the Prostate Cancer Charity (which is obviously a cause that's hugely close to my full-sized aortic pump) (name that quote for extra points). I can't grow a moustache (much to my chagrin, damn you hair follicles! I've always fancied a handlebar) (I love parenthesis today! LOVE!) so, at the weekend, I drew a cheeky moustachio on with a bit of eyeliner and a wobbly hand in honour of Movember.
If anyone has got a spare fiver or so then you can donate to Movember by clicking on the little button at the bottom of the page.
My Dad had his fifth chemotherapy session on Friday. Five down, one to go. He's finding it tough. Really tough. It hasn't been helped by him chipping one of the discs in his back by COUGHING. Yes, my Dad has such a supersonic cough that he actually injured himself. One MRI scan and one cortisone injection later and he's almost back to normal. Well, as normal as it gets at the moment. I asked him if he was looking forward to his course of chemotherapy treatment finishing. His reply? "I'm scared". Scared of what happens next. Scared of what the test results will show. Scared that it won't have worked. I've never seen my Dad scared before.
I'm scared that my Dad won't be the person that he was before the illness ever again.
