On to the Marsden

Shortly after my transgression I’m transferred to The Royal Marsden Hospital’s rehabilitation ward for occupational therapy and physio. The staff are friendly, and the food is excellent. Its nice to have my own room, and I’m soon to form a lasting friendship with a chap called Colin, a patient in his twenties with a similar set of circumstances to my own, i.e. diagnosis of brain tumour, surgery, some initial mobility problems followed by radiotherapy and the onset of temozolomide oral chemotherapy, which I am still fighting for at the time. Initially, I am introduced to the delights of the wheelchair and commode, and after a number of weeks, I progress to crutches, and eventually a grandpa style walking stick. Physio sessions are laborious, and I push myself hard all the time with all manner of exercises, which eventually pay off dividends. Even Special Agent Jack Bauer helps me get feeling and movement in my left hand. Well not personally. More a case of I’m lying in bed watching episode after episode of 24 on my portable DVD player, manually exercising my fingers with my other hand, and monitoring and building upon minuscule levels of response in the tips of my fingers as I scrape the fresh cotton linen of the bed sheet under my arm for feedback. Support from my ‘big family’, read: THE MET. POLICE is strong. I have a constant stream of visitors with their own welcome brand of inimitable humour. They’re priceless, and more than a couple of nurses become besotted with my ‘rough diamond’ brothers.