Monday 02 May 2005.
        Back once again to ward 62 in the hematology department at Auckland Hospital. Greeted with smiles in a place we could think of as the House of No Surprises: it's the start of my fifth chemotherapy cycle, and I can be confident that I'm not going to be ambushed by any surprises.
        Unless something has gone wrong with my blood. But, no, a blood test comes back saying everything's just fine: no problem with the white blood cells and no problem with the red cells either. This attempt (the third attempt) at completing the fifth cycle is going to succeed.
        I feel relaxed and at ease. When my blood pressure is checked shortly after admission, it's an immaculate 117 over 70. When I sit in the weighing chair (no standing on scales here) my weight (clothed) clocks in at a healthy 73.15 kilograms, way up from my crisis time 62 kilos.
        I feel that the initial chaos of my uncertainties has coalesced into a reasonably predictable future. I will survive. And, all going well, I will survive reasonably undamaged.
        Usually, the cannula used for my chemotherapy goes into one of the small veins on the back of a hand or an arm. This time, however, a nurse who does not usually work in the hematology department has chosen, when hooking up the drip, to put the piece of plastic into the big vein in the crook of my right arm.
        In the hematology department, apparently, it's standard practice not to use this vein. It's left alone against the day of need: it's big and easy to get into, so if somebody needs sudden access to a vein so they can save your life, then that's a good one to go to. And veins do tend to get damaged as they are used: I have some damaged veins now, with some people telling me they may recover in the long term and other people indicating that some of the damage may be permanent or semi-permanent.
        (Whether in hospital or out of it, if there's a topic that I'm really interested in then my habit is to ask the same question of different people. Sample the answers then average them. My take on the situation is that there is a reasonably good probability that most of my veins, if not all, will recover reasonably well once people stop playing pincushions with my living flesh.)
        Anyway, more about the cannula:-
        Up until today, I always thought that a steel needle was used, but that's not the case. What happens is that a steel needle sheathed with a plastic cannula is inserted into the vein, then the needle is withdrawn and only the piece of plastic is left.
        This is a reminder to myself that I'm not a totally reliable observer, and that I may, at times, misperceive and misreport my own situation.
        I guess what's happened is that I've always focused on the moment when the needle is inserted. This is something that I watch, so I always see the steel going in. After that, my interest diminishes, so I'm not paying attention as the needle is pulled out.
        Anyway, so far it's going well, and I am relaxed and confident about this, the fifth cycle. The thought that keeps going through my mind is "only one more time". Assuming I get through this cycle, there will be just one more cycle to do, and then my chemotherapy will be finished.