A rough few weeks, difficult at times and a week spent with IV antibiotic in hospital had passed with slight deterioration noted although thankfully little go preclude doing as much as one wished or could. Then .......
This Sunday morning dawns beautiful, warm calm, sunny and yet a fortnight ago about now, breakfast time, a doctor had been sat on my bedside anxiously calling for an ambulance. I had dumped blood. Rather a lot, a couple of significant internal bleeds, thus with practiced professional swiftness and ambulance parked on the drive right outside the door, paramedics did what they do, in no time I was in hospital, in less I was in the first A&E bay reserved for the most serious of imports. Immediately on O2, cannulated and swiftly wheeled to a ward everything was a blur of shapes, sounds and trust in those around you.
Vaguely aware of being placed in award bay and less vaguely award of being unable to answer the myriad of questions from th endless flow of blue, red and green medics I just felt tired to a degree not generally felt. My first feeling was that my arms were freezing and from that point on a wild ride which seemed somewhat detached from me took place. Scaffolding was erected about me, cannulas, bags, injections, seen not felt. Indistinct people popping up all about me, doctors injecting, nurses rehabbing bags and a voice. Stay with me she said. Hang on to me. Squeeze my hand, stay with me, stay with us, keep on trying. Very gently but very imploring the voice seemed to go on and on.
Much later, almost dusk found me in a side ward with my nearest art near as she could be. She was allowed to stay all night if she wished. Our daughter phoned to say she had arrived home but it was too late to come in so after much hesitancy my visitor left. Shortly after leaving a nurse called Lesley came in with nurse stood in the shadow. This was a paliative care nurse, I was told as, as indeed I was told lots of other things but sleep overtook before the implications became apparent.
The next day saw drips changed, bloods replenished and a daughter sat by the bed for an hour or so talking good times, cars, family, daily goings on. Joy, bliss and I hope I made sense. She left and in what seemed no time her place had been taken by her mum and although I was aware i may not havd been too eloquent.
Shortly after her arrival a nurse whose badge said Aylene leaned over the bed. It was the voice. Hang on, stay with me, that voice. It was now we realised that touch and go had been exceeded. I had been in crash for 20/30 seconds. It was just as well we were all wearing face masks the voice said otherwise you nay have seen the panic! It was all very serious but it was Monday afternoon and apart from 100%O2, blood, saline, at al driping in I was still very much this side of eternity. What a truly, truly lovely nurse, as they all are.
Late that night I was wheeled to another ward and parked amid 10 others thus ushering in a sense of the ordinary, for which I was thankful. On this ward all that went in and out was measured and it was encouraging to see the reduction in frequency of blood units, of which there were 8 or 10. Once the bloods had been stopped I was off to another ward where carefully controlled visitation was allowed. The care was fabulous but toward the end the Doctors had a long chat to the effect that if it happened again there would be no action that they could take that would be effective. My last trip to hospital had happened and I confess that news came as some relief. From now on the final chapter was being written.
Whilst in hospital the hospice care team had installed a high tech bed, O2 and various other devices at home including a care team visiting, thus on Friday afternoon when I was suddenly asked how soon I could be ready to go I was there! Couldn't stand unaided, couldn't walk without help but home was where I wanted to be. An ambulance equipped with O2 was summoned and I was taken home looked after better than royalty.
Sunday, July 12, 2020
Sunday, April 12, 2020
New Life
endless is the vict'ry thou o’er death hast won;
angels in bright raiment rolled the stone away,
kept the folded grave-clothes where thy body lay.
Thine be the glory, risen, conqu'ring Son;
endless is the vict'ry thou o’er death hast won.
Lo! Jesus meets us, risen from the tomb;
lovingly he greets us, scatters fear and gloom;
let the church with gladness, hymns of triumph sing,
for her Lord now liveth, death hath lost its sting.
Thine be the glory, risen, conqu'ring Son;
endless is the vict'ry thou o’er death hast won.
No more we doubt thee, glorious Prince of life;
life is naught without thee: aid us in our strife;
make us more than conqu'rors, thro' thy deathless love:
bring us safe thro' Jordan to thy home above.
Thine be the glory, risen, conqu'ring Son;
endless is the vict'ry thou o’er death hast won
Edmond Louis Budry 1854-1932
Trans. Richard Birch Hoyle 1875-1939
Saturday, April 11, 2020
Missed
"...... there'll never be a day when he's not the first one you think of when you wake up or the last one you think about at night ......"
Mrs.Margaret Trevorrow, St.Ives, June 2018.
Margaret lost one of her sons, David some years earlier when he was about 40(?)
Thanks to all involved in the Hospice Movement wherever they are and especially at this time I pray for their protection. I thank them for the comfort they provide, the pain they alleviate and the dignity with which they surround you.
But tonight, I pray especially and give thanks for all at Ty Olwen Palliative Care Centre, Morriston, Swansea who made so much difference and for whom no amount of thanks will ever be sufficient.
Our faithful, unchangeable friend:
his love is as great as his pow'r
and knows neither measure nor end.
For Christ is the first and the last;
his Spirit will guide us safe home;
we'll praise him for all that is past
and trust him for all that's to come.
Joseph Hart 1712-1768
Monday, April 06, 2020
MasterChef
Only once have I watched a cooking programme in the company of my wife. It was Nigella making, building, constructing a Girdle Buster Pie. I was left in awe, everything I liked in one bowl stirred up and ready to devour. She knew my thoughts and the flat refusal to even consider making such a thing was tantamount to a unliateral declaration of intent. For then and forever. I may mention it now and again but all I get is the glare. How on earth does she know it would be too rich for me, after all she has no idea how rich I can cope with? She remains totally Girdle Buster Pie averse.
That remains the only TV cooking programme we have watched yet it seems that mid evening daily a pair of old blokes bawl and wear cheesy grins as poor unfortunates are harangued into drizzling this, reducing that and dirtying a plate with enough food to partially fill one a quarter of the size or less. Pointless, eh? Or is that something else she watches?
However, it matters not and although I'd still like a Girdle Buster Pie or part thereof, I forgive her anything.
This morning the aroma filled the house. The aroma that could only be one thing, one very specific thing. So specific that there's absolutely nothing else like it. The smell draws you like the sound of twin 40's and a large exhaust on a BDA Escort pulls you through a forest. Utterly irresistible.
How long?
Look.
That long?
If that's what it says.
But I'm starving.
No, you're not you're hungry.
I know what I am and I'm starving.
That's a minute less.
A glass of red is suggested sat in the sunshine outside the kitchen window where the all prevasive aroma makes the minutes seem like hours, waiting for the ping which takes forever.
Eventually it is heard, salivation starts and one begins to move the bulk toward the kitchen. They'll need another 10 minutes.
That sees the end of the red.
The next ping and my masterchef opens the oven to reveal the greatest of all culinary delights.
You can do what you like in a kitchen, you can dress the finest ingredients in whatever you choose, you can drizzle, reduce, thicken, stir, beat, shred, or whatver else you like but there is nothing, absolutely nothing at all as good as smelling these cook, lingering in anticipation as they are allowed to cool slightly before your plate presses slighly further into the table mat than it did as it receives a fitty pasty.
You can buy them in shops but they aren't fitty ones and never will be, even Annies down The Lizard as good as you can buy they may well be, Hamsons in Hayle aren't bad, Philps's will do at a push but fitty ones only come out of the oven in your kitchen when the whole house is filled with the odour of pure culinary delight.
These are perfect, this is a fitty pasty. It's just like my mum made them which is hardly surprising as my mum taught my wife how to make fitty pasties. She has carried on the tradition as only an expert MasterChef can.
It's a shame that such glorious sculpture only lasts mere seconds but without a fitty pasty to look forward to what has a kitchen to offer?
Indeed it is only the passage of time, the expanse of girth and probably global warming that has stopped fitty pasties being taken for granted every Saturday lunchtime and Wednesday evenings in the winter.
The current crop may not quite overlap the plate by 2" at each end but they're not far off and I'd never complain, nor has anyone else who's had one, at least, not to my knowlege.
There is absolutely nothing like a fitty pasty. Nothing at all. A bit of mum's hevvacake? P'raps. It doesn't even matter that it's a Monday, not usually a pasty day but who cares?
Maybe a Girdle Buster Pie for afters would be nice but I'm too afraid to ask as it may disappoint!
MasterChef on telly have nothing on the real MasterChef who's currently tending cabbages .......
That remains the only TV cooking programme we have watched yet it seems that mid evening daily a pair of old blokes bawl and wear cheesy grins as poor unfortunates are harangued into drizzling this, reducing that and dirtying a plate with enough food to partially fill one a quarter of the size or less. Pointless, eh? Or is that something else she watches?
However, it matters not and although I'd still like a Girdle Buster Pie or part thereof, I forgive her anything.
This morning the aroma filled the house. The aroma that could only be one thing, one very specific thing. So specific that there's absolutely nothing else like it. The smell draws you like the sound of twin 40's and a large exhaust on a BDA Escort pulls you through a forest. Utterly irresistible.
How long?
Look.
That long?
If that's what it says.
But I'm starving.
No, you're not you're hungry.
I know what I am and I'm starving.
That's a minute less.
A glass of red is suggested sat in the sunshine outside the kitchen window where the all prevasive aroma makes the minutes seem like hours, waiting for the ping which takes forever.
Eventually it is heard, salivation starts and one begins to move the bulk toward the kitchen. They'll need another 10 minutes.
That sees the end of the red.
The next ping and my masterchef opens the oven to reveal the greatest of all culinary delights.
You can do what you like in a kitchen, you can dress the finest ingredients in whatever you choose, you can drizzle, reduce, thicken, stir, beat, shred, or whatver else you like but there is nothing, absolutely nothing at all as good as smelling these cook, lingering in anticipation as they are allowed to cool slightly before your plate presses slighly further into the table mat than it did as it receives a fitty pasty.
You can buy them in shops but they aren't fitty ones and never will be, even Annies down The Lizard as good as you can buy they may well be, Hamsons in Hayle aren't bad, Philps's will do at a push but fitty ones only come out of the oven in your kitchen when the whole house is filled with the odour of pure culinary delight.
These are perfect, this is a fitty pasty. It's just like my mum made them which is hardly surprising as my mum taught my wife how to make fitty pasties. She has carried on the tradition as only an expert MasterChef can.
It's a shame that such glorious sculpture only lasts mere seconds but without a fitty pasty to look forward to what has a kitchen to offer?
Indeed it is only the passage of time, the expanse of girth and probably global warming that has stopped fitty pasties being taken for granted every Saturday lunchtime and Wednesday evenings in the winter.
There is absolutely nothing like a fitty pasty. Nothing at all. A bit of mum's hevvacake? P'raps. It doesn't even matter that it's a Monday, not usually a pasty day but who cares?
Maybe a Girdle Buster Pie for afters would be nice but I'm too afraid to ask as it may disappoint!
MasterChef on telly have nothing on the real MasterChef who's currently tending cabbages .......
Tuesday, March 31, 2020
Sunday, March 29, 2020
Standards
I have some. Not many but a few. One of which is that shorts are de rigueur for the duration of BST or add an hour to the tide times time. Summer time has arrived even if the temperature leaves something to be desired.Today is another one, no different really from its predecessor, the sun is shining and we were able to attend virtual church this morning and very good it was, too.
Now, having ventured outside and hurried back the coffee is cooling at room temperature, the music is flowing at quite adequate bitrates, the lady of the house is in communicado with many both verbally and textually. No doubt extending the time after which her conscience will allow her to ignore the Wii Fit Plus no longer.
I now have zillions of albums hiding under my right index finger and in the last hour or three I've selected such new and upcoming artists as Led Zeppelin, In through the out door, the record is next door, Yes, Close to the edge, the album being an arms length away and In the court of the crimson king, the album being somewhere hereabouts. I think they're pretty good and I'd expect them to prosper. Who knows one day they may even become classics. Neil Young next, probably, he's not bad either or so I'm told. There's a stack of his albums next door, too. The cover of Harvest is pretty worn but the vinyl is perfect. I expect there will be a migration to explore some crowd called U2 and another bunch called Pink Floyd ........
All in all not bad when you are shielded for the next 11 weeks. I could explore a whole world of music of which I am totally unfamiliar or I could just play what I always play. 60 years ago my dad told me such as these would never last. I was allowed a Beatles mug and plate but never bought a record of theirs at the time. The Stones got in the way and then James Marshall Hendrix, Pink Floyd, Alice Cooper and Bob Dylan. The rest is history. Wonderful history.
Now I can listen to a world of music and I end up listening to the familiar. Love it!
New music, it's all new when your memory becomes as porous as mine has. More like meeting old friends, predictable, comforting, uplifting, satisfying. I guess that when I first heard these and their cohorts it was new music. Anyway, I've just unplugged the HDD for 120 days or whenever.
However, a slave to standards I am not. It's a lot colder than it ought to be but having put the shorts on its only right to take appropriate precautions against the chill.
It's just as well that I've got Tidal streaming in here as well, not the quality as the front room would provide but much cosier. It's only taken me an age no doubt a teenager would have done it in seconds.
Besides which we've just had another phone call from one offering to go shopping for us, our neighbours put a couple of bunches of flowers and box of chocolate on the wall and txtd the one for whom they are meant and an email has dropped in the inbox from a good friend.
Surrounded by goodness, none taken for granted, none deserved but we are thankful for all.
It's all good and we are conscious of being looked after as only an all powerful, all knowing God can look after you. Which reminds me of
Come, Thou fount of every blessing,
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
Call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet,
Sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount! I’m fixed upon it,
Mount of Thy redeeming love.
Sorrowing I shall be in spirit,
Till released from flesh and sin,
Yet from what I do inherit,
Here Thy praises I’ll begin;
Here I raise my Ebenezer;
Here by Thy great help I’ve come;
And I hope, by Thy good pleasure,
Safely to arrive at home.
Jesus sought me when a stranger,
Wandering from the fold of God;
He, to rescue me from danger,
Interposed His precious blood;
How His kindness yet pursues me
Mortal tongue can never tell,
Clothed in flesh, till death shall loose me
I cannot proclaim it well.
O to grace how great a debtor
Daily I’m constrained to be!
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter,
Bind my wandering heart to Thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
Prone to leave the God I love;
Here’s my heart, O take and seal it,
Seal it for Thy courts above.
O that day when freed from sinning,
I shall see Thy lovely face;
Clothed then in blood washed linen
How I’ll sing Thy sovereign grace;
Come, my Lord, no longer tarry,
Take my ransomed soul away;
Send Thine angels now to carry
Me to realms of endless day.
Robert Robinson 1735 -1790
Thursday, March 26, 2020
Coronavirus : other viruses are available.
Last Thursday wasn't good, rotteness and lethargy were in the ascendent but life goes on, at least in NZ. Whilst explaining to she who wishes to provide all I need constantly in an torrential stream of questions that all I really wanted was some good news. Within an hour it came. An email from Terry, he of NZ residence who had just had his post chemo CT scan which showed him to be all clear. Joy of joys. It was overwhelming really. I couldn't have felt more chuffed, alas my emailing skill set had become slightly beyond reach so all he got was the shortest of notes but the best message I could manage.
In the early hours I was awakened by the shake, rattle and slurp of a very much below par me. I had no idea what was going on but I was uncontrolably and violently shaking from head to toe, rattling teeth, also uncontrollable and evident slurping, it could have been rolling but was a result of so much sweat that slurping is a more apt description. I'm not sure whether she should have moored me up or put a lifejacket on but it wasn't nice.
My holder of the hand became the holder of the phone. Such is her experience that she knew exactly what was going on. Phone calls made starting at 0330, returned, temperature taken and recorded, paracetamol administered even though not due, windows opened, or closed, advice taken and acted upon. Doctors phoned, calls returned, by 1300 a van load of drugs delivered to the door, left, watched and signed for by the driver once carried in by my local drug administrator.
All of this was related to me after two or three days, not too sure but I am sure that it was about the third day when I came to and asked what the horrible stink was. It wasn't her and there's only us. It was awful. Not just bad but terrible, unbearable, unbelievable but unendurable, too. After much heaving, sighing, stretching and drug taking I eventually got into a prone position from which I expected to make the shower. It was not easy but she had elicited the offer of help from her friend, still a community nurse who may have seen me at my worst but she'd never smelt me like I was. The threat made the shower urgently indispensible.
For those who know fishing, proper fishing that is, you will know about ray slime and deckwash hoses. It was that sort of shower. It was wonderful. Being clean and totally exhausted but so worth it. Whilst abluting the being, clothing, anything within two metres of where I'd lain was removed, washed, purified, cleansed and aired. I even went downstairs for a short sojourn before returning from whence I came.
It seems I have "a" lurg, not "the" lurg. Antibiotics are now added to the rather larger egg cup of convenience, they would not have fitted in the smaller one. The pills are huge. Like the biggest I have, breaa geet monsters they are. They may not do the lurg much good, and I'm glad of that but they don't do me much good either.
They invoke a disconnect on a pretty totalitarian scale. I can see bits of me moving but the idea of my being in control of the movement is somewhat fanciful. Constantly being asked what I want .... squash ....? Yes, please. Eat? No thanks. Even when the smell of what's being cooked invades the malodourous air of this bedroom one is roused to believe that venturing down would be advantageous. The act maybe, the event somewhat less so.
Eating has become an effort too far. One morning I was woken to scrambled egg and fried bacon. Fried bacon! Fried bacon, is there anything as good? Grilled may be less messy, bunged in the oven may be easier but only fried tasted like bacon should. Only fried makes the mess that bacon can. It was lovely. I couldn't say when it was but I did realise that she must have been desperate for me to eat something. I wonder if the request for fried bacon will be met next time . . .
One upside is that intrusive pain has been somewhat muted although the whole drugs regime has been rescheduled, night time Oramorph reinforcements have been noticeably absent and paracetamol every six hours to the minute regardless of state of consciousness is a tribute to that most remarkable drug and the most remarkable administrator. All of which makes the last week a bit of a blur, disconcerting and trying to unravel the events is impossible but for the accurate record keeping of one to whom such things come naturally.
It is quite amazing how much effort is required lying down interrogating your memory, trying to affix days to events, or vice versa, albeit not exactly exciting events, details of which would make most uninteresting reading but markers nonetheless. Mostly extremely unpleasant reading, details of which would repulse anyone not a medical professional with some responsibility to this sad case.
Indeed, conversation is laboured either personal or telephonic. It's a twofold problem, the first being one of wind. I have lots, unfortunately, mostly it comes from the wrong place, is uncontrolled, unpredicatble and resembles random morse. Even though I become somewhat impervious to it all the supplier of all good things is ready with a syringe of peppermint water when it's getting out of hand. From the other end it is laboured, prone to failing, fading to barely a whisper and being very inconsistent as well as hard work. It's just not worth the bother but I try until I give up.
The other aspect of this problem is not unknown nor unprecedented but it has yet to become normal. It is that peculiar sensation of beginning a conversation and being unable to continue at anything like normal speed. I can see the words clearly in my head, actually really see them like the old Windows time screensaver bouncing around but I can't order them or summon them up at will. It's like fishing, again. I can see the quarry but I can't catch the prey. Writing is so much easier even though just typing this out is taking so long but most of the time is spent herding words. Eventually enough are coralled to get them out in order and the next lot bounce around waiting their turn but they are not patient waiters.
Then, as at this moment, the words lose their bounce, slowly fade, the mind goes blank, stopping gives pause for spelling, punctuation and grammar checks but even that gets harder and sometimes, as you must notice I just give that up, too.
Life does go on. A phone call from a mate in some distress just after being told his sister was critical in ICU up north, mid 60s. The next day a phone call from one whose father died last month to tell us his wife's dad died earlier that morning 90ish, ill for quite a while and the day after the ailing sister was no longer critical. It's what happens, we all die only the timing and causes vary.
Every day there are still cancers to be dealt with, heart attacks, strokes, traumatic events and so on. The miracle is that the NHS copes at all let alone as magnificently as it does, it still treats all it can even the Muppets who don't do as they're told, the ones who fight over toilet paper, the ones who fill trolleys with so much that they can't get it all in their cars and have to wait in their parking bay for a return trip.
But today, Thursday, the sun is shining, the clarity out of the window has invaded the mind. It feels like a degree of life has returned. I just had a read, Philip Yancey amazing blog, but he's a proper writer who just communicates the most profound ideas so simply that when I struggle to read anything a time with him always rewards. I'm told that there are a load of cards and letters awaiting my consideration, equally I've been told that they are worth reading as are the emails in my inbox.
Where would one be without the other? My other has once again endured a far worse week than I. I pray that as we pass through this last full day of antibiotics she may be every bit and maybe more relieved than I. Anything else worth knowing happened this week? Probably not!
Grace remains sufficient for the day whether we are aware of it or comatose. Grace and peace, invaluable and priceless.
Addendum. 1230. The doctor phoned as he said he would. I am one of the NHS's worst nightmares, so much so that I am not to engage in face to face meetings with anyone for 12 weeks. I'm to stay indoors. My wife is also thus constrained. The implications are only just being thought through. I have learned to be content with whatever I have was said by St.Paul. I'd say I believe it, now would seem to be the time to practice what I would not hesitate to preach. Paul could only manage with the grace of God extended to him daily. We are no different, and he was in a Roman prison not a nice house with garden, a shed, toys and for me the best company one could have.
Faith untested would be pretty worthless, would it not? Fortunately, previous testing has been hard, almost unbearable but He who took us through them will take us through the tests that lie ahead. So, life carries on but it doesn't get any easier it seems.
In the early hours I was awakened by the shake, rattle and slurp of a very much below par me. I had no idea what was going on but I was uncontrolably and violently shaking from head to toe, rattling teeth, also uncontrollable and evident slurping, it could have been rolling but was a result of so much sweat that slurping is a more apt description. I'm not sure whether she should have moored me up or put a lifejacket on but it wasn't nice.
My holder of the hand became the holder of the phone. Such is her experience that she knew exactly what was going on. Phone calls made starting at 0330, returned, temperature taken and recorded, paracetamol administered even though not due, windows opened, or closed, advice taken and acted upon. Doctors phoned, calls returned, by 1300 a van load of drugs delivered to the door, left, watched and signed for by the driver once carried in by my local drug administrator.
All of this was related to me after two or three days, not too sure but I am sure that it was about the third day when I came to and asked what the horrible stink was. It wasn't her and there's only us. It was awful. Not just bad but terrible, unbearable, unbelievable but unendurable, too. After much heaving, sighing, stretching and drug taking I eventually got into a prone position from which I expected to make the shower. It was not easy but she had elicited the offer of help from her friend, still a community nurse who may have seen me at my worst but she'd never smelt me like I was. The threat made the shower urgently indispensible.
For those who know fishing, proper fishing that is, you will know about ray slime and deckwash hoses. It was that sort of shower. It was wonderful. Being clean and totally exhausted but so worth it. Whilst abluting the being, clothing, anything within two metres of where I'd lain was removed, washed, purified, cleansed and aired. I even went downstairs for a short sojourn before returning from whence I came.
It seems I have "a" lurg, not "the" lurg. Antibiotics are now added to the rather larger egg cup of convenience, they would not have fitted in the smaller one. The pills are huge. Like the biggest I have, breaa geet monsters they are. They may not do the lurg much good, and I'm glad of that but they don't do me much good either.
They invoke a disconnect on a pretty totalitarian scale. I can see bits of me moving but the idea of my being in control of the movement is somewhat fanciful. Constantly being asked what I want .... squash ....? Yes, please. Eat? No thanks. Even when the smell of what's being cooked invades the malodourous air of this bedroom one is roused to believe that venturing down would be advantageous. The act maybe, the event somewhat less so.
Eating has become an effort too far. One morning I was woken to scrambled egg and fried bacon. Fried bacon! Fried bacon, is there anything as good? Grilled may be less messy, bunged in the oven may be easier but only fried tasted like bacon should. Only fried makes the mess that bacon can. It was lovely. I couldn't say when it was but I did realise that she must have been desperate for me to eat something. I wonder if the request for fried bacon will be met next time . . .
One upside is that intrusive pain has been somewhat muted although the whole drugs regime has been rescheduled, night time Oramorph reinforcements have been noticeably absent and paracetamol every six hours to the minute regardless of state of consciousness is a tribute to that most remarkable drug and the most remarkable administrator. All of which makes the last week a bit of a blur, disconcerting and trying to unravel the events is impossible but for the accurate record keeping of one to whom such things come naturally.
It is quite amazing how much effort is required lying down interrogating your memory, trying to affix days to events, or vice versa, albeit not exactly exciting events, details of which would make most uninteresting reading but markers nonetheless. Mostly extremely unpleasant reading, details of which would repulse anyone not a medical professional with some responsibility to this sad case.
Indeed, conversation is laboured either personal or telephonic. It's a twofold problem, the first being one of wind. I have lots, unfortunately, mostly it comes from the wrong place, is uncontrolled, unpredicatble and resembles random morse. Even though I become somewhat impervious to it all the supplier of all good things is ready with a syringe of peppermint water when it's getting out of hand. From the other end it is laboured, prone to failing, fading to barely a whisper and being very inconsistent as well as hard work. It's just not worth the bother but I try until I give up.
The other aspect of this problem is not unknown nor unprecedented but it has yet to become normal. It is that peculiar sensation of beginning a conversation and being unable to continue at anything like normal speed. I can see the words clearly in my head, actually really see them like the old Windows time screensaver bouncing around but I can't order them or summon them up at will. It's like fishing, again. I can see the quarry but I can't catch the prey. Writing is so much easier even though just typing this out is taking so long but most of the time is spent herding words. Eventually enough are coralled to get them out in order and the next lot bounce around waiting their turn but they are not patient waiters.
Then, as at this moment, the words lose their bounce, slowly fade, the mind goes blank, stopping gives pause for spelling, punctuation and grammar checks but even that gets harder and sometimes, as you must notice I just give that up, too.
Life does go on. A phone call from a mate in some distress just after being told his sister was critical in ICU up north, mid 60s. The next day a phone call from one whose father died last month to tell us his wife's dad died earlier that morning 90ish, ill for quite a while and the day after the ailing sister was no longer critical. It's what happens, we all die only the timing and causes vary.
Every day there are still cancers to be dealt with, heart attacks, strokes, traumatic events and so on. The miracle is that the NHS copes at all let alone as magnificently as it does, it still treats all it can even the Muppets who don't do as they're told, the ones who fight over toilet paper, the ones who fill trolleys with so much that they can't get it all in their cars and have to wait in their parking bay for a return trip.
But today, Thursday, the sun is shining, the clarity out of the window has invaded the mind. It feels like a degree of life has returned. I just had a read, Philip Yancey amazing blog, but he's a proper writer who just communicates the most profound ideas so simply that when I struggle to read anything a time with him always rewards. I'm told that there are a load of cards and letters awaiting my consideration, equally I've been told that they are worth reading as are the emails in my inbox.
Where would one be without the other? My other has once again endured a far worse week than I. I pray that as we pass through this last full day of antibiotics she may be every bit and maybe more relieved than I. Anything else worth knowing happened this week? Probably not!
Grace remains sufficient for the day whether we are aware of it or comatose. Grace and peace, invaluable and priceless.
Addendum. 1230. The doctor phoned as he said he would. I am one of the NHS's worst nightmares, so much so that I am not to engage in face to face meetings with anyone for 12 weeks. I'm to stay indoors. My wife is also thus constrained. The implications are only just being thought through. I have learned to be content with whatever I have was said by St.Paul. I'd say I believe it, now would seem to be the time to practice what I would not hesitate to preach. Paul could only manage with the grace of God extended to him daily. We are no different, and he was in a Roman prison not a nice house with garden, a shed, toys and for me the best company one could have.
Faith untested would be pretty worthless, would it not? Fortunately, previous testing has been hard, almost unbearable but He who took us through them will take us through the tests that lie ahead. So, life carries on but it doesn't get any easier it seems.
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