Blondish and curly was the new growth, but its passage was
slow. Like all others I suppose, I would inspect my scalp at least twice daily, and was disappointed for what seemed to be an eternity. The colour was an unexpected
bonus. I hoped that it would persist, but of course it didn't.
My treatment had not been completed, so I arranged an
interview with the Head of the Department to inform him of
my commitments. We both recognised the importance of keeping
up with lecture notes, so I knew that I must make new friends
relatively quickly. I was going to miss a fair amount of time.
Still the trauma of CROPs persisted into the second and third
years. The nervous waits for the colourful drugs, always with
assurances that all was progressing well, were followed by the
days of sickness swallowing Stemetil or Maxalon in the hope that
they would stem the tides of nausea. Through it all my mother
was by my side.
One Friday morning, I awoke to the news that Dr Wrennall
had been delayed. I was in the middle of a CROP, and his daily
visits to our home meant more sickness. A medical bag containing
my file had been stolen from his car the previous evening.
Disappointed with their drugless haul, the thieves had cast the
bag into Port Phillip Bay.
A watery end for my medical records.
