My reliable (mostly) water pump of 16 years seems to be knackered, and, having timed the knackering to the end of one of our driest ever Octobers, and the start of (probably) a very dry November, I need to go wrestle with it in a little while. Nothing dramatic, the knackering, I don’t think, no Honda equivalent of, say, a fall from a cliff, more like the gradual blocking of a cardiac artery with fatty deposits, or the gradual enlargement of lymph nodes. I’m sure it can be fixed by cleaning out carbon deposits, or unblocking a fuel line, but it will never run as well, or as reliably as it once did, I will never again be able to rely on it starting first time, every time, like clockwork. Mr Pump and I have, it seems, grown older together without noticing, and suddenly woke up one day to discover we are, astonishingly, old.
Which is a long-winded way of introducing my six month Oncology review that took place this morning. [Beware, spoiler follows] I’m ok – blood counts and chemistry as near as damnit returned to normal, no re-enlargement of glands, no nasty testing needed, next review not for another four months. Odd that I had so little reaction to that undeniably good news though, I thought, and considered the matter while driving home.
I guess the nub of my reaction is this. Good news (for me) might be “Hey you’ve won the billion dollar lottery” or “Hey you’ve been selected in the Australian cricket team” or “Hey you’ve won the Nobel Prize for Literature”, that sort of thing. While “Hey your cancer hasn’t returned as quickly as it did last time, yet” is certainly not bad news, it is not good news in that sense. Really all it is saying is that you are still perched on the little plateau of neutrality, not too hot, not too cold, just room temperature. So, no champagne toasts, I think, for still being sort of average, but certainly relief.
Anyway, better go work on the pump. See if I can get it functioning in an average sort of way again.