Things have actually been getting better and better. I can now walk for about 45 minutes without fainting, collapsing, or needing revived with a biscuit. The New Family Doctor has declared that I can return to work on a phased return, and Occupational Health have signed me off too provided I do less work and slowly build back up over 8 weeks to the full-time thrill of writing papers and making PowerPoints. Living the dream.

We’ve even managed a trip to The Boys in Devon and a long walk along the coast!

Then came the 4-month review scan. A PET scan, no less. I received a letter explaining that I would be injected with radioactive goo and should avoid pregnant women for the rest of the day. VERY specific. I’m not in the habit of hanging around pregnant strangers, but I appreciated the clarity.

The whole thing was hilariously uneventful. You check into what feels like a medical spa, they inject you, and then tell you to sit quietly for an hour to allow the goo to “percolate.” I assume this means steep like tea, but inside your organs.

The scan was ordered from my head to my thighs and was supposed to take 30–35 minutes. Another paper-covered bed but thankfully no mask this time. However, they still put your head in a vice and strap it down, just in case you were thinking of escaping. Then they take what feels like a giant plastic blanket attached to the bed and wrap you like a newborn burrito, arms pinned to your sides. They tell you not to move. As if movement is physically possible. I’m trussed up like a Christmas turkey, swaddled, clamped, and gift-wrapped, and they’re warning me not to wander off. Then, right on cue, the tannoy announces they’re starting and instantly my nose develops the most INTENSE itch known to mankind. Every. Single. Time.

LESSON 23: BE PREPARED FOR A LOT OF BEING TIED UP. AND NOT IN A FUN, ADVENTUROUS, CONSENTING WAY.