It has been a very bad couple of weeks.
Weeks that involve hospitals are generally bad of course, though when they combine morphine with the hospital experience it gets marginally more bearable. Not much, but slightly.
As absolute low moments go the late evening when a surgeon stood at the end of my bed and suggested that there was a possibility that they had perforated my bowel and if so I would die in the very near future as he wasn't going to operate given I was terminal anyway was probably a once in a lifetime low. (But I guess if they had actually perforated my bowel it would have been worse - thankfully they hadn't) He then had the audacity to say he knew how I felt! I told him fairly sharply that he had no idea how I felt at all and couldn't possibly and he did have the grace to look slightly abashed.
Anyhow he wasn't the only person who used the terminal word. And they combined it into sentences that were instructions, like "You need to accept you are terminal".
Actually I don't have trouble accepting I am terminal when I stop to contemplate it. I have no problem understanding that this cancer will kill me. That has pretty much been a given for a long time since there has been a complete disinterest in actually doing anything to positively improve my chances of survival for the last five years. I have a great deal of difficulty getting my head round time frames (of which there are none but sooner seems to be used rather than later - though they've been wrong about that for about four years too) - and we are all dying after all.
So in the spirit of being a good patient I wrote down some funeral instructions and a quick list of items I want to go to certain people. I guess that is admiting that sooner rather than later might be a possibility.
Anyway I'm home now, should survive the weekend, no longer subjected to hospital jelly or carrot soup (who on earth invented clear carrot soup!) and life is on the improve.