The generosity of French doctors

My last NHS scan showed a shadow on a rib. The scan report couldn’t decide between a new cancer metastasis or scarring from an old injury. The first would mean the cancer had moved into my skeleton and was on a winning streak. I have fractured ribs in sharp collisions with steering wheels more than once and cling strenuously to the old-scar hypothesis.

The image showed a second suspicious blur. Something, possibly a tumour, was putting pressure on my left kidney. Since then I’ve been going around with a length of plastic tube inserted in my urethra to drain it. Until that point my cancer was just a word. Now an occasional throb or ache there reminds me forcibly of my destructibility. More recently, my prostate-specific antigen score, measured by a blood test, which had been beaten down into the normal range by a daily pill, has risen sharply, strongly indicating that the cancer has its boots on.