Anyway, it didn't and it wasn't, my seventh encounter with monoclonal antibody therapy. A grand word for spending a day in a state of drowsy nausea while attempting to act unfazed and not at all scared. In the early hours, I even converse with other humans until the world fades into grey.
You'll be here again in six months, the nurse tells me. I am not sure whether this is meant as a comfort or a dare. Am I alive because of or despite this therapy? I have lost the plot a long time ago.
"When somebody does me a kindness, it enlarges me, adds to my life . . . And not only mine, it adds to all life."
Tim Winton (from: The Shepherd's Hut, best book I've read all year.)