Very little happens for ages after treatment. The days all blur into the same crappy routine: sleep, take pills, walk a tiny bit further than yesterday (usually to the end of the street), watch Judge Judy, be sick, cough up things that look like they belong in a medical museum, spray fake saliva into your mouth like you’re marinating yourself, and then…do it all again. Day after day. For six to eight weeks. Time becomes meaningless. I could have been in there for three days or nine years.

The weight kept dropping off and suddenly I was four stone down. I didn’t tell anyone, but secretly I was THRILLED. I’ve done every diet known to mankind—keto, paleo, Atkins, high fat, low fat, points, sins, shakes, powders, farting cabbage soup, and that one where you convince yourself mashed cauliflower tastes like mashed potatoes. Now here I was, back to the weight I’d been during The Great Diet of 2016. I even had to buy new jeans and tees. Silver lining? More like a whole silver coat.

I was still on the tube, but they had reduced the amount and started me on bottles of flavoured chalk. Apparently this is food. I could swallow again and take tablets without crushing, but only one at a time. The mountain of medication had finally become a small scenic hill.

Then, yesterday, a GREAT DAY. After two months of a tube dangling from my nose like a sad party streamer, the phone rang. They said I could take it out. Either I could do it myself, or the community nurse could remove it the next day when she came for the weekly weigh-in. Well, obviously I decided to do it myself. The instructions said: Do it slowly, and once you start, don’t stop.

As I write this, I realise that is actually excellent advice for life. LESSON 21: Whatever you do in life, do it slowly and don’t stop. Unless it’s sex.

The Rock was in Edinburgh visiting Papa Pedro, who always gets him tipsy. I didn’t tell him about the tube coming out because I thought it would be an adorable surprise. He came home (pleasantly sozzled, as expected) and talked for an hour about his day. I waited for him to notice. “Night night,” he said and that was that.

The next morning, he got up, laid out the meds for the day, and set up the food machine. I silently put it all away again. All day was water in, chalk gunk in with no tube.  Nothing from him. All evening, NOTHING. Finally, at 10pm, I said:

“Do you honestly notice nothing different about me?” He squinted, studied me, and said: “Have you shaved?” I despair.

You get a scan four months after treatment ends to see if it worked. Before that, you get an interim check-up. I saw Dr Lump and The Oracle, who stuck a camera up my nose again. The Rock winced. “Why are YOU wincing?” I said. “I’m the one getting skewered!”

The tumour still feels like a beach ball strapped to my neck, but apparently that’s fine. The weight loss, however, is a concern. They want an interim-interim check-up in two weeks before the scan. They told me maintaining weight is the goal. I nodded obediently and absolutely did not mention that I wouldn’t mind shedding a few more pounds.

Are you still playing along with my Medical Bingo? Get your dabber ready, because we have TWO new squares to mark off.

First up: permanent lymphoedema which basically means my lymph nodes have gone on strike and refuse to drain properly. The advice? Sleep sitting up. This is now the second time I’ve been told to do this. Is sleeping upright something normal people are doing and nobody told me? Have I been horizontal like a fool my entire life? Am I supposed to hang upside-down like a bat? Someone clarify.

Thankfully it’s mild and I just need to go to the special clinic where, presumably, they teach you how to be a graceful, fluid-draining swan. I have to manually drain each morning by massaging my neck.

Next bingo tile: hearing loss and tinnitus. I had a hearing test last week because chemo and radiotherapy, especially to the neck,can mess with your ears. And surprise! I apparently now have some hearing loss AND tinnitus. Leveled up tinnitus at that. The have gone from one monotone high-pitched squeal to a melody of two or three tones. Harmonies. Layers. Texture. Who knew cancer was so musical? If it develops a bassline, I’m calling myself a synth pop duo.

LESSON 22: IF YOU WANT SOMEONE TO NOTICE SOMETHING ABOUT YOU, GET A GIANT NEON SIGN. PREFERABLY WITH FLASHING ARROWS.