I’m in my last fortnight in Bristol before I move back to Scotland to spend a few months recuperating, as well as escaping from the worst of the rancid hell that is Brexit, so today was an early morning appointment at the doctor’s to get some drugs as well as my last set of tests down here. Next time I have tests it’ll be up in Glasgow.
First thing Monday morning does however seem to be methadone day at my local pharmacy so I ran the gauntlet of pallid, shaking, sweating people being whizzed into the private room of the pharmacy before leaving clutching their liquid gold. Having been on morphine I have to say I get how easy it is to get hooked, but seriously, fuck that. Having to turn up every week to get your fix is not for me and anyhow, I’m on enough drugs that make me feel weird.
Anyhow, today I thanked my GP, and the hot Polish pharmacist and her staff who’ve helped me over the last months, and got some drugs to keep me going til I see my new GP in Glasgow in a fortnight or so’s time. My flat’s being advertised to rent (landlord has also taken the opportunity to add another £150 a month to the rent for whomever replaces me), got eight more days at work and there’s an appointment with oncology being arranged in Glasgow for me thanks to my consultant at the Bristol Royal Infirmary and whoever his counterpart is up there. All I need to do is pack (with the aid of friends), and of course, get up there which is going to be a two-day job.
Nearly there and only nine months after I was going to move to help look after my dad, but as he passed away last week that is no longer the case, so now it’s to recuperate, regroup and decide what to do next.