January 27: Tuna update

A different hospital this time - back to where I had my surgery – and a different consultant. Middle sister my crutch again. As we wait to go in, she says she’ll give me a quid if I get the word ‘tuna’ into the conversation.
It's perfectly clear, as we enter to be greeted by a serious, bespectacled middle-aged male, that this is no time for kidding around.
The plan of action, it seems, is to keep scanning me every six months me so they know whether ‘borderline tumour’ has come back or not. The chances of it returning are less than 10 per cent, so that’s good. If it does return, they cut me up again, whip it out and take the ovary with it. Maybe give me a dose of radiation to blitz it too, like a double tequila slammer to make sure you’re totally finished off at the end of a boozy night. The thought of them re-opening my war-wound makes me want to vomit on the doctor’s shoes. But even if this is the case, nothing will need to be done while I’m pregnant, he says. Hallelujah praise the Lord.
My first scan is booked for September, four months after Bump is due.
We leave, somewhat upbeat and very relieved. Perhaps I won’t die after all. Perhaps ‘borderline’ is not such a bad place to be.
‘Well, that’s much better news,’ I say, as we stomp out into the car park.
‘Yeh. You didn’t get tuna in the conversation though, did you?’