The day began well, with the night's falling of snow continuing. The first snow of the season, and there was enough of it to settle where not driven on by cars. The city looked definitely better for it.
But I travelled through it to my oncology appointment where they confirmed I had cancer again - the same type as the last time round, only now it had attacked the oesophagus rather than the hypopharynx. And the tumour is already larger. So I'm in for chemotherapy, starting the next week.
The silver lining is that I don't have to go to work any longer, so at least I can eventually begin to fight my emaciation. (Not sure how the therapy'd affect that struggle though.)
Later in the day I found out that it was the anniversary of the death of Robert Louis Stevenson, who died eight years younger than I am now; that the Covid-related deaths in the UK had surpassed 60,000, and those in Sweden 7,000.
So the uplifting of mood that the snow brought didn't last long. But I still haven't succumbed to despair. While there's life there's hope.
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