Woke up this morning––Ha! In your face again, mortality!––only to realise I didn’t feel well at all. Took my temperature: 38.4ºC. Not good. When you see that as a chemo patient, you get dressed and go to A&E, stat. So Chris and I took a cab to UCLH, where they hooked me up to some intravenous antibiotics. Fever came right down but they’re keeping me overnight anyway, even though the fever is most definitely gone. I think maybe I caught a cold or something.
Nonetheless, I’m going to be all right. I’ll be taking it easy for the next week, and I’m not sure I’m on schedule for chemo this week––they’ll tell me tomorrow, I guess.
But it’s okay because I hit a milestone anyway: I finished a piece of short fiction last week in about five days. I had to beg off from a few anthologies simply because I didn’t have enough energy to do the research those stories demanded. This one required no research. It’s called “Cancer Dancer” and I’ve cut pretty close to the bone by making use of my own situation. It was also a bit cathartic; I got to use bad language. Today, I got word that the editor in question likes it and he’ll be taking it.
It’s reassuring to know that yes, I can still do what I want to do. Maybe everybody else knew that but sometimes you need empirical proof.
Also, if I can’t profit from my own damned cancer, the terrorists win.