I'm really bad at blogging

It's not because I have nothing to say; I did mean to write a couple of weeks ago about the mole and potential met I had removed from my right thigh (I'm still waiting for the results). I've not been writing for two reasons:
1) I am still absolutely drained from the sepsis in June. A charity called Sepsis Alliance says it can take up to a year to recover your energy but the problem is that you look fine and are behaving fine so the after-effects become like an invisible illness. It certainly doesn't help that I have been working 50-60 hours a week for three months straight but the thing is, I work in an industry where people would trample their dead mother to get an opportunity. While my colleagues and boss are lovely, I dare not show weakness because TV is an industry without pity. It is so difficult to find work and I cannot give anybody any excuse to let me go. So yeah, I am exhausted all the time. Things are improving slowly - 8 weeks ago I was sleeping through the entire weekend. At least I can stay awake for it now and I don't feel so much like I have ran a marathon when I wake up, more that I have just got back from the gym.
2) I am really forgetful these days, and I think that's also related to the sepsis. Case in point is this paragraph: forgetfulness wasn't going to be my second reason but in the 5 minutes since I started typing this post, I've forgotten what I was going to write. So let's just go with forgetfulness.
3) I have remembered now. It is that when I was diagnosed, everything in the melanoma world was so new and newsworthy. I was someone who never even went to the GP so hospitals were utterly alien environments. But that was almost 3 years ago, and at some unidentifiable point in time, all of this ceased being actively terrifying and just became distant background noise, like when you're in a dull meeting and your mind wanders. You're still vaguely aware that someone's talking but you've mostly tuned them out. Now and then I tune in again, like when I have an appointment or a scan or a biopsy, but day to day I tend to not think about it. Weird how the mind works, isn't it? This thing will mostly end my life but I have adapted to live with it and ignore it. I am getting on with life. And later this month I am going here and will be able to snorkel, scuba, drink cocktails in a hammock and generally fulfil 3 or 4 things off my bucket list. I am too excited. For now, life is good!

Hold your breath.

NB - I wrote this in the hospital waiting room last month, but the internet signal was non-existant. The scan results were good and showed a reduction in lymph node size.
Hold your breath. That's my tip if you have to drink a litre of contrast juice before you have a CT scan. It tastes pretty horrible. I have to drink it over an hour and a half so I can't even just neck it. Apparently it will give me diarrhoea too, although I've not been allowed to eat today anyway.
Everyone in the waiting room has brought someone with them except for me. I've never understood this. I undertsand moral support but I am more a fan of standing on my own two feet and not imposing on anyone. I want to be independant, and I don't want to inconvenience Alex by making him stay for two hours in a boring, depressing waiting room.
Plus the woman who just left brought her (presumably) husband with her, and when she came out after her scan, he was positively quizzing her in a really weird intense manner: did you have to hold your breath? Did they inject you? Were they competent? Did you fall out the scanner? He wouldn't let her leave til she'd answered everything. Jesus, you control freak of a man, give it a rest and let her go home!
Also in the waiting room is a blind lady and her guide dog, plus her sighted friend who is training a guide dog puppy. They are cheering everyone up as the golden retriever keeps chewing up whatever he can find - tissue, leaflets, his lead.
Another half an hour of drinking this muck til I can be scanned. I'm bored and hungry.