The End with a whimper and a bang

A distinct moment of deja vu last Thursday 31st August at about 1730 as I sat in the same chair, in the same place in the same Emergency Triage Unit having the same procedure as I'd had at about 1730 on Tuesday 21st February. The only real difference being that this time the cannula went in properly at the first attempt. Bloods were taken. Copiously.

Questions, questions, questions answered by my ever present keeper of records. Moved into the very next ward in the bed nearest the chair in which I was sat. I was once again in the Acute Medical Unit. It all felt too familiar, or it would have done if I was conscious of acknowledging familiarity.

The established pattern had not disappointed. Chemo #7 followed by a good weekend. Last Tuesday chemo #8 preceded a Wednesday that slept by and eventually gave way to a Thursday morning during which I felt well. Well enough to make coffee. Well enough to print a trio of photos to send to Dad. Well enough to reduce a trio of the freshest tomatoes it is possible to reduce to a thick sauce, into which a few slices of diced chorizo were stirred before being wrapped with cheese and a trace of mustard in eggs. It was a lovely omelette.

No sooner had it been eaten than the usual tiredness reared its unwelcome head. An hour or two in bed and I felt pretty poorly. Back downstairs on the settee my constant carer recognised the signs, poked a thermometer under my tongue, noted the results and waited till 37.9°C before making the inevitable phone call. Installation in the ETU was expedited with military precision and the swiftness brought about  by preparedness born from experience.

A grab bag has been beside the door constantly. As soon as the order was given it was executed the only additions to the grab bag being iPod, Android tablet, phone, DAB radio, earphones, charging leads, external battery pack and 13A USB charging plug. None of it needing any input from me.

Thus it was that I was now in AMU. Again.

From the far end of the ward a familiar doctors voice was calmly and patiently dealing with a man convinced that he'd had a heart attack. This was not substantiated by any of the test results but the patient wanted this clearly set forth so that when the doctor was found to be wrong the compensation claim would ensure his family was secure. It was utterly awful to hear this patient's whingeing and whining. The doctor exhorted him to exercise and eat more healthily. One felt that this patient's idea of exercise was opening the card box that the burger came in.

Whilst this was going on I had yet another ECG. The pads were not easily attached as the areas of attachment were somewhat bristley from the previous ECGs. Eventually it was done and again it showed no cause for concern.

The recently undeservedly assailed doctor appeared alongside. Mutual recognition meant a head start to the proceedings which wasn't difficult as it was a rerun of the previous rerun. IV antibiotic and saline. Chest x-ray and maybe a scan but I'd need to be seen by an Oncology specialist first.

His departure was followed by a need for another blanket, then that blanket needed reinforcing by a dressing gown and even my raincoat. My right hand was squeezed reassuringly but it was all I could do to look at the ceiling. It was now that the shakes began to take over.

Initially you can semi control the shaking but in no time at all they take on a malicious identity of their own and respond only to antibiotic which I was already on although not yet effective. During this period I felt rotten. It was different to previous manifestations. So hard to describe. Struggling and failing to stay afloat usually but this time I went through the feeling delicate stage almost as fast as through the fragile stage to find myself in another arena hitherto not experienced.

I knew it wasn't a good place. I just felt broken up inside. It's so hard to describe, you feel that your skin is holding lumps of broken you and stopping them from escaping but all the lumps want to do is to agitate and find a place where they'd be comfortably fitted to their adjacent bit. It's like your innards are in pieces and each piece at war with each other.

It was getting out of control, as were my words. When words get out of control they're best not spoken. The hand in mine trembled and shook but at a different frequency. All I could do was look at the ceiling, burble on inflicting unintentional anguish on the one most precious to me and wait for the antibiotic to have it's way.

I was going to be in for a while and as darkness came my comforter was exhorted to go home with my clothes, shoes and anything else not essential. This she did.

Shortly after her departure the IV drips were removed and I was moved to the Oncology ward next door. The Oncology ward uses different IV drivers to any other wards. I'm far too familiar with these drivers but I wasn't immediately hooked up again.

I was immediately seen by a cancer specialist. We'd met previously. The infection was pretty severe and would need some different antibiotic which he was in the process of arranging.

More ceiling observation ensued but my contemplation of irrelevance was broken by a vaguely familiar voice from distant days. A young lady in blue stood before me smiling and then laughing and reminding me of good days. I first saw her when she was starting out as a teenager, I last saw her near the end of her teenage years. Always a smile, a cheerful rougish smile which hadn't changed. Now she was a wife to Tom, a mother of two, a 3yr old and a 9month old and now she was my nurse for the night. The ceiling contemplation was supplanted by trawling through long forgotten memories and the struggle to fit few remembered faces to even fewer remembered names. It was a blessing to be thus occupied as the little hand went through its 30° increments.

My reverie was disturbed every hour or so by the taking of obs and replacement of bags. The obs showed low BP, good pulse and oxygen saturation but my temperature was having a fit of pique. 38.9°C from 2200 till sometime just as the sky was lightening. I asked why they couldn't just put up a big bag of antibiotic and not these postcard sized ones that only lasted 20 - 30 minutes. The answer lay in their potency. Each bag had to be prescribed. Prescription was based on need and need was determined by obs.

It wasn't daylight when I slept but it was close to it and I'd managed to put names to faces long since thought forgotten. A pleasant distraction from a wholly unpleasant experience. Sleep meant calm, and calm meant that the broken bits had found their place and were once again content to rest in it.

Not long after dawn the doctor was back. Hmm, aaaaah, I think this, that and need to speak to the consultant who'll be along shortly. Shortly there came a trio of serious medics, your infection this, that, maybe, perhaps we need to seek advice.

That advice came in the tall, lean, elegant, decisive form of my familiar Oncology consultant at about 1100.

Leadership is a rare attribute found in few, good leadership rarer still but true leadership is to be found in far, far fewer. This lady exudes it. So like the surgeon 50 miles away. Leadership needs, intellect, so often ridiculed, it needs knowledge, so undervalued, it needs experience, so denigrated because if properly understood and fairly gained it precludes youth who so seem to hate the experience of others mistakenly believing that experience can be found from a screen.

But leadership involves far more. It needs the modesty of willingness to observe, to listen to colleagues and the intelligence, understanding and experience to discount the erroneous and the confidence to ignore the uninformed. This process of sifting the dross and weighing the residue against your informed position is the essence of wisdom. Even all this does not guaranteed great leadership. For that you must have the discretion and certainty of mind to sit alone, make a decision and then to take the responsibility of conveying that decision to the needy.

So often leadership is lacking most of those characteristics. Sometimes it lacks one or two but if recognisable decisiveness is not there it is not leadership. I have seen those in leadership founder and have no, zero, zilch sympathy for them as it seems to me that when they crack up it is invariably because their ego is unable to float in the shallowness of their ability.

This lady has all that is needed for exemplary great leadership. No this, that, others, no if, buts or maybes, no referrals to higher authorities. Just decisions made and conveyed. That she executes this leadership all day everyday in matters of life and death is testimony to her ability and the absence of ego and high regard held by all who hear her name is testimony to her genuiness.

Her self effacing manner is the manifestation of truly being able to cope with her job better than any others in her area of expertise. Her confidence is my confidence, her calmness mine, her certainty of the rightness of her decision making is my certainty.

This, when you're not good is what you need so the matter of fact bedside manner, the minimal of formalities and the swiftness of the consultation is just exactly what the doctor ordered.

Striding in alone, standing erect and clearly conveying her decision was an example of professionalism of the very highest quality. We have choices to make, she announced. Your risk of mortality is greater from the colingitis(sp) than the cancer. Your body controls the infection until the chemotherapy reduces your bloods' immune systems ability to maintain that control.

The choice is to carry on with the chemotherapy and treat the infection each time knowing that a time will come when we will have no effective antibiotic left, we can stop chemotherapy and let your immune system do it's job or we can look into the infection itself. That is not really an option as it would be exceedingly difficult to establish it's source although we believe it to be in or around a liver duct, even if found there would be no straightforward way of doing anything about it.

I have cancelled all further chemotherapy, prescribed a course of oral antibiotics which will be delivered this afternoon, you will then be free to go home and I will make an appointment to see you in three months. Goodbye.

With that she gracefully turned and went. I felt that I could hear a lingering whistle and then a bombshell went off in my head.

It was over. On this Friday 1st September it finished. Done. Over. No bloods on Monday, no chemo on Tuesday, no scheduled hospital trips till November.

Susan, the cancer nurse came and explained things a little more fully, flying South, travelling far, manual labour, physical exercise, all had caveats and proscriptions. My expectations were not to be set too high. It's all about the long bones. The chemo stays deeply embedded in the bone marrow where it will carry on doing it's thing for months to come but do what you can, listen to your body, don't expect too much too soon and don't underestimate just how long it will take for your stamina to recover to a useful level.

The consultant made the appointment. The drugs arrived. We went home.

To have had the quality and depth and quantity of medical professionals working for my unmerited and wholly unworthy wellbeing is unforgettable, our gratitude to them is unquantifiable, indescribable and, at this moment the relief overwhelming.

Life. It's a gift. It's a joy. It is precious but most precious are those you share it with and those Providentially placed to do what needs to be done when it needs doing.

Over but not yet out!

Peace, Joy, Love.

Salad Days

This week has flown by in a flurry of goodness and joy the like of which has probably been unmatched this year. There have been downsides as we must expect, the worst arriving on Wednesday lunchtime.

Over a week ago the antibiotics ran their course so I had almost a fortnight off chemo and a few days off them. The Saturday was great so I did too much and Sunday wasn't as good but Monday was wonderful. Making us and our visitors coffees on request and feeling good.

Tuesday the anticipation of being infused during the afternoon could easily have led to the onset of gloom, doom, woe and debilitation. That it wasn't is down to our visitors from London who we haven't seen in ages but should have been with in Keswick recently. Their presence made the morning pass through sunny glades of memories rekindled and news of events of personal import which always lend perspective and the act of listening because you're interested in them and their story overwhelms your own.

But the afternoon did come and the questions and the needle and chemo #7 and the sleep. Thus Tuesday ended with pink pills and Wednesday started with them. Waking up would not be an apt description of Wednesday lunchtime but I was able to recognise the time and act appropriately.

Sat at the table it all went so wrong and but for my ever attentive overseer I may have begun the descent of a slippery slope. I craved green stuff. All I wanted was salad. I had a plate upon which was a pile of green stuff, to which I added salt and brown liquid from a posh looking bottle, a designer bottle if you will.

How that happened when the salad cream was next to it I can only put down to the mist of chemistry. But I did drizzle dressing where salad cream should have gone. I did enjoy the green stuff to which halved and lightly salted tomatoes were added. Only moments before these tiny toms had been hanging from their plant in the greenhouse and delicious they were.

Then it hit me. I was turning veggie. The appalling vision of a veggie me could not be disguised by the chemically altered brain. I thought that I could end up subscribing to The Guardian when I visited their website, that I may look to the BBC for news again, indeed for a moment I did think that I may go all oooooh, aaaaaaah, and gooey at the sight of uncooked animals.

Fortunately my oversight was in the very best of hands and at that very moment just before awareness congealed into despair two rashers of back bacon were delicately placed on the side of my plate recently piled high with picturesque dressed leaves that would have been worthy of a photo on the website of many, if not most of the current crop of foodie sites.

Not, I hasten to add on Giorgio Locatelli's who had a design for stodged up tomato with garlic and onion, some red pepper and chorizo. It would have been totally lovely but for the fact that I added sliced cooked sausages. Actually, the real problem may have been that he said loads of tomatoes and a bit of onion. He also said that following recipes slavishly was not the way to do it. Taste was.

So, liking onion I put in far too much and nowhere near enough tomatoes. In fairness I should point out that I used all the large tomatoes that my gardener gave me so it could be argued that she should have picked more. She gave me the onions as well. Watching from a distance she was also ready to jump in with a pan of noodles when it became apparent that I'd forgotten about getting the spaghetti going whilst concentrating on watching the reduction in tomato juice taking place in pan one.

How can you watch what's happening in one pan when you're expected to be doing stuff with another one? This is a mystery to me but eventually noodles were having a lumpy reddish oniony garlicy slop deposited over them with as much delicacy as could be managed. It wasn't worthy of a photo but both plates were emptied.

As they were on Monday tea time when I did teriyaki chicken. I cooked twice in a week which tells you a) how good a week it's been and b) things are still not as they were. It is also not without significance that neither of us have ever had these concoctions before and therefore no standard by which to make a judgement as to their quality. That is smart cooking!

It would seem the cycle 1 was attacked by over eager steroids and cycle 2 undermined by out of control infection that may have been present for a very long time but had for reasons unknown chosen cycle 2 to come out of the closet of my liver ducts intent on making mischief, which it did for a time with great success. Thankfully it wasn't as smart as the doctors arraigned against it.

Cycle 3 has begun in a surprisingly benign manner. Slept pretty much from Tuesday afternoon till Thursday morning when I woke up awake. Perhaps this was the most significant event for quite some time.

I even began the process of perusing a hard drive specifically dedicated to .jpg .cr2 and .raf files from 2002 to last February. Although it didn't take long for memories to overwhelm the physical effort of constant clicking before thoughts turned to the garage where proper stuff needed doing.

The intent was there but it only took 10 minutes to remove half the number of coach bolts necessary to remove a vice from a worm riddled bench before the tiredness set in. I consider it a victory that I gave in to it, lay down for a while and waited for its dispersal. Then I tried again but gave up till the following day. I can announce that when the whole family visited at the weekend the boys now men lifted my ancient bench with youthful ease and deposited it outside ready to be dumped.

So, chemo cycle 3 a wonder to experience which is far more than can be said of my cooking.

It's been a very good week. Our London friends left me with a copy of Amateur Photographer which answered a colour management question that has eluded me for ages and rekindled my desire to sort photos for over a decade neglected. And just yesterday morning a friend dropped in and left a photographic book to inspire both in black and white and in colour.

Thus, this very morning I saw a photo that just sums up the joy of having a house full of lively offspring and partners so I took it whilst I could and processed it immediately as I ought.

Taken with a fully recharged X100T which is a truly great camera and very, very light. Which is just as well as our grandson's father needs to borrow the 5D3 just as I was getting to grips with it again. Trying to get to grips with it really, as my right thumb trembles a bit under weight and pressure. A Canon 5D3 is not light and the right thumb does need to apply pressure to use its functionality effectively.

A great week, but still a way to go. Mustn't get too optimistic although the prospect of a much better way than hitherto is a reason to rejoice.

As are visits from family and friends, only them far more so.

The essence of offspring. Pure joy, utter delight.

The Metronome of Life

The relentless click, clack of metronomic steadiness which stabilises the rhythm of life has taken a knock or two lately. Sometimes it's raced ahead and sometimes lagged behind, even on occasion pausing for just long enough to be noticed. It is an unsteadying experience.

It's hard enough exchanging the familiar faces at church on a Sunday for those in Cherryade on Tuesday, it's harder in some ways to forego trips North, East and West to visit family with infrequent but fairly regular forays South in pursuit of a million shades of blue instead of uniform greyness at this latitude. Things for so long taken for granted now unceremoniously washed from the security of the ground they seemed happily cemented to.

At least there was Test Match Special or TMS. I still utterly dislike the BBC and believe it should be made a subscription service in which case I'd pay for TMS. My carer would no doubt add Poldark to the list, quite why when she has her own proper Cornishman I don't know, she'd add Gardener's World and numerous cooking programmes to the list as well. I've not watched any of them, I did once watch Nigella make a Girdle Buster Pie but it was never made here so that was my interest squashed immediately.

But TMS has been the background beat throughout my life. My (deaf) Granda used to watch the cricket on BBC tv in black and white, of course. He'd shout, lean forward and argue with batsmen, bowlers and umpires but all you could hear was the grey concrete block sized Perdio radio sat on the mantlepiece as close to his right ear as it could be blaring out the LW, 198m commentary from the TMS team. The stentorious tones of John Arlot was summer.

I've gone to sleep listening to TMS in Australia or NZ, I used to do my decorating after work to TMS from the Caribbean, indeed the late Tony Cozier had a lilting voice that so emulated the transfer of emulsion from tin to wall. I'm not even sure I'm that interested in the cricket but I remember Tony Cozier once filling in a slow over rate with his observations on the taxi to the ground. Many years ago, he said, the roads were fine, the taxis rubbish, the drivers delightful, now the roads are rubbish, the drivers a bit awkward but the taxis are all new. That's the trouble in these islands, he said, the me has become more important that the us. I think that is profound and reflects the way our world has moved. Brilliant social observation.

I can even tell you that on the day my daughter was born Sri Lanka put over 600 runs on the board. It was a Saturday.

It's also a source of great comedy. During the recent third test against RSA Jonathan Agnew wound up Sir Geoffrey with a very clever reappraisal of his 100th 100. Google is your friend. Its up there with Cliff Mitchelmore's Spaghetti Trees.

Even though a bit ill TMS in the background is a source of great pleasure and escapism. Thus, when really not very good I looked forward to the fourth test. At 1045 on Friday morning a week or two ago Mr.Agnew was missing and in his place a commentator explained that he was with his wife, Emma, as she began chemo for breast cancer that very morning. It was a terrible start to the day.

Opposite is a photo of them taken (without permission, yet) from his website. It resonates far louder than any metronome. It's all in the eyes. Great portraits are about the eyes. Robert Capa's greatest photos tell stories in the eyes of his subjects. Mr.Agnew's eyes tell the story. I have looked at those eyes in my dearest treasure when I get plumbed in, the same as Mrs.Agnew, albeit my syringe is clear not pink. Obviously, it's better for me as I get to gaze at the pretty one, in their case Mrs.Agnew has Mr.Agnew to gaze at. Oh, well.

The eyes tell the story, the smiles, too. The patient, a smile of relief that treatment is under way, the other a somewhat forced smile of one who wants to encourage despite all the innermost thoughts associated with a trip into the unknown. That photo speaks volumes to me and on his website he notes that he prays for her recovery. Indeed, I pray for them both, too.

It was such a shame that TMS began thus as the last fortnight has not been a good one. My last two Thursdays have ended up back in Cherryade. The first blogged earlier and the last, a shorter stay just long enough to get the BP up, heart rate down and temperature a few degrees lower. All of which they did.

Describing the last two weeks as hard is pretty fair, very short periods of intense nauseaousness but thankfully, so far no vomiting. It doesn't last long enough to get an anti sickness pill usually but it really isn't nice and leaves you reeling a bit.

Far worse is the tiredness, you can't fight it you just have to give in to it. Thus, the pattern is being established. Tuesday infusion, sleep till Thursday, feel good for an hour on Thursday morning, crash back to bed before lunchtime and then have your temperature taken. Once it passes 38°C the telephone consultation begins and I end up laid out in Cherryade.

After the first time I was put on antibiotics, at the second I was taken off the chemo tablets and the antibiotics were doubled and the course extended. It was considered that my body couldn't cope with the chemo. Unfortunately the duty doctor assumed that I was nearing the end of the course not on the second of six months. This was a pity as my usual cancer nurse told me the previous Tuesday that the next cycles would really push your body. Seems it's been pushed a bit already so there's a review on Monday.

In the meantime the absence of chemo is being noted but the presence of antibiotics is blurring the lines and the brain but in different ways. Thus my week off chemo has become nearly a fortnight but the antibiotics don't stop till Friday so my week of pill freedom is reduced to but a few precious days.

However, feeling  good right now, sun shining and the breeze is gentle. Can't do much but doing anything at all is so sweet. It doesn't matter that its taken days to do what should take minutes, it's the doing that matters.

And TMS is back with the first West Indian test, a day night test with a pink ball. How appropriate when TMS now brings Mrs.Agnew into ones thoughts but she must be doing OK as Mr.Agnew is on TMS. But he left early.

TMS was listened to today, but the the cricket was secondary and the mind frequently wandered to contemplate the prospect of the days ahead. Particularly tomorrow when the antibiotics end and I need to get a haircut.  I guess it'll take a miracle to save WI from defeat at Edgbaston but miracles on the cricket pitch rarely happen.

Fortunately for us, in the cancer wards they happen every day. And I pray that good news is announced about the time of the first or second Ashes tests which will restore the metronomic rhythm of the commentary. I hope to be listening, at least to the first few overs each night. I'm looking forward to it as I trust are the Agnews.

Now, I'd better ask for permission to use their photo.

The Abolition of Normality

I have just rubbed udder cream into the soles of my feet, specifically the balls of my feet behind the toes and the heels, just in case anyone was even slightly interested.

This is not normal. I am not known for loitering in the vicinity of male grooming outlets. I have never understood why after shave is worthy of so much TV time, nor razors for that matter, I just don't get the spray it all over adverts since 'enry Cooper stopped spraying whatever it was he sprayed. Brut, I think.

However, udder cream seems to help with the sore feet. Sadly, I recognise the pattern too late. The same thing happened 24-36 hours after chemo #5 and now it's barely 40 hours since chemo#6, which went well.

The real bummer is that I mentioned it in hospital last week and this was taken as an excuse to order new slippers, not that I needed them. Thus, I now have new slippers, not just any slippers but M&S slippers and very nice they are, too. They just don't quite fit like the old ones.

My now old slippers lie in a wicker bin from which they need rescuing. They have hardly been used over the last 20 or 30 years, most used in the last 6 months. I recall using them abroad where civilization mocks our carpeted floors as they can revel in the cool joy of ceramic and stone tiled floors. But you get used to slippers.

I know that they're not in the best of health and haven't aged particularly well but I've kept them going. As each of the moccassin threads has unravelled I have managed to keep upper and sole together with appropriately sized and correctly trimmed cable ties. I could easily find something to stick inside them to cover the worn out areas, notably the soles and heels which initially, and incorrectly took the blame for my udder creamed feet. You just can't throw stuff away because it's old, can you?

The feet are the result of chemo. We were warned but it just sounded a bit far fetched all those weeks ago, which actually wasn't that long ago. Chemo screws with any notion of normality. I can see the start of patterns but what constitutes normal I have no idea.

At each chemo the cancer nurse asks a zillion questions, mostly about my wee, poo, feelings of nausea, vomit and tiredness.  When I say I've been in bed for umpteen hours I'm told it's normal. I don't need to discuss other aspects but these, too, are considered normal. I sit and struggle but mostly I want to scream out just to say it's not normal. It is not in any way normal.

Normal is getting up and doing stuff, normal is visiting family, normal is visiting friends, normal is going to church on Sunday, normal is flying to warm places, normal is catching a ferry and driving on deserted French roads stopping to sample le baguettier, le patissier, le boulangier et aussi le supermarchè, or le supermercado.

Normal is doing the loadsajobs I ought, indeed want to do. I want to touch up and repaint the areas affected by the replacement windows fitted before Christmas. I want to build a shed, I want to fit a mortice lock to the front door. It is normal for me to be able to do such things and normally I do.

Normal is enjoying an outdoors summer, normal is riding bikes along tow paths and stopping for a pint and cheesy chips in a not too busy pub. Normal is pointing my camera at whatever composition catches my eye. Normal is putting the world to rights over a pint or two with friends.

Normal is a wife who, very occasionally and never without justification, fusses, moans and complains at my uselessness and constant invocation of dreckly. Now that I am totally useless she offers nothing but support, help, calmness, control and decisiveness with frequent displays of ill disguised anxiety. It's called love, in sickness and in health.

It is not normal for her to rub udder cream into my feet because i just can't manage even that now.  It may be that she will react normally when she sees that I've rescued the old slippers from the bin into which she indelicately pressed them. I was instructed to wear socks but you can't do that in summer, it's not normal and I don't want to ruin my new M&S slippers when they're only a day or two old, do I?

Normality may never be what it once was but normal this is not.

On Holidays

The hours before Mondays blood tests are generally only subject to the lightest of chemical mist, once tablets are effective it rapidly thickens to chemical fog and once a week it darkens further. Monday and Tuesday mornings, early tend to be pleasantly misty. Last Monday it was sufficiently clear to feel quite sad.

Last week we should have been in Keswick with friends staying in a large house and doing what we do. Largely this entails enjoying whatever Keswick Ministries has to offer, although I confess that each year I attend fewer events and absorb significantly less than I once did. It also means trips to The Old Keswickian, fish and chips, Booths, ready meals, beer and wine, the market, cheese and lemon curd, Friars Crag, a walk of intense loveliness, Bassenthwaite and Derwent Water, cycle round them, sundry other lakes and hills, walks. Meeting people, not my forte but I'm good at dispensing liquid refreshment while the people people dispense bonhommie and pearls of wisdom.

This year we couldn't go but last week we should have gone. Texts, messages and a card were reminders of what was and a delight they were, too. Inevitably, as the major casualty in our holiday plans thus far, I fear to dwell on the prospect of a January - February totally spent in Britain, it did elicit a firm reminder of what could have been.

Monday morning was passed in the company of two ex colleagues, one seen more often than the other, who were in a mood to talk holidays in general and Southern Spain in particular, Seville to be specific. We'd never considered Seville but the past week has seen books, Google and atlases pored over. Seville meets most of the criteria needed and the ones it misses may not be significant.

Seville came up in conversation on Thursday prior to hospital embarkation and elicited a rather enthusiastic, well, if you do book it up book it for four. Automatically Seville ascended to the top rung of the aspirational ladder of places to go.

I have (thoroughly) planned a Grand Tour of France, including bits of Spain, Italy and Switzerland but that is more of a distant dream than anything approaching fulfilment. It would be nice but if it never happens it has filled endless hours of traipsing along the back roads of Google Earth as well as pages of PowerPoint. It has served it's purpose.

In hospital on Friday afternoon my faithful traveling companion and organiser arrived with an iPhone filled with news from the north. A place has been booked for all of us for our week in 2018.

We now have a holiday booked for next year.

Lake, hills, landing stage, distant rain.

I struggle to find words to express what a difference it makes just knowing that there are dates on the calendar of a holiday in 2018. Whilst I hope there will be others, Seville sounds a nice place, the emotionl significance of Keswick 2018 cannot be understated. It just lifts whatever it is that needs lifting.

And even if none of it ever becomes a reality, it doesn't matter as it has already made a joyful mark in the chemically murky mind and will inevitably lead to hours of Googlation and contemplation.

No doubt that as the fog rolls in and thickens to impenetrable gloom later, thoughts will dwell on the wonderful grey, damp, clagginess and overwhelming grandeur of The Lakes in summer as well as the warmth, sun and mystery presented by places in Southern Spain we've never been to.

It's not about the places, it's all about the people.
How fortunate we are.

An Englishman, an Irishman, a Welshman and a Cornishman.

I smiled, inwardly but not too obviously outwardly on Friday morning as the Welshman in the next bed ordered a fried breakfast, detailing how he'd like his bacon and each of the other components. In short, he detailed a full English but elected black pudding not Hogg's Pudd'n but what would you expect from Welshman? Finally he required two slices of dark white toast. The Welsh lilt has become rather familiar in recent years but the response to his request was that he could have toast and Rice Krispies, Corn Flakes or muesli. He wasn't a happy boyo, in fact he was just a tad aggrieved but the breakfast lady gently explained that this hospital didn't do fried breakfasts.

The fact that I found this so amusing was a source of great encouragement as it meant that I was once again in possession of a functioning brain cell that was able to find another functioning brain cell to engage with.

Friday had begun at dawn with a softly spoken nurse informing me that he had to do my obs. Automatically I presented my right arm and opened my mouth. I'd have offered the left arm as well but for the realisation that it was canulated and a conduit for a triplet of bags, saline, antibiotic and paracetamol. My BP was low, my pulse OK and my temperature was normal. Hooray!

Tuesday's Chemo #5 went well, I think. I met our next door neighbour on the way in which was a delight as he was engrossed in building a shed to disguise a container. He's a great shed builder and each morning I observe his Uber Shed and I melt with envy, the more so as my eyes lower to the tiny patch of concrete awaiting the results of my seriously behind schedule shed building project. At least it will never be as far behind as HS2 and I suspect it will be infinitely more useful.

A brief chat and I was in and swiftly sat in a chair, canulated at the third attempt and infused. Once again the antihistamine replacement for the steroid had me asleep in no time. Next thing I knew it as time to go home. Felt a bit drowsy but otherwise all was OK.

Home, tea, bed, sleep. All night but almost all Wednesday was slept through as well.

Thursday seemed worse. Breakfast was an opportunity to exercise dodderiness that was definitely more developed than usual. Got up at lunchtime to do lunch with some visiting friends. I wasn't very hungry but I tried and then retired to bed before lunch was done with. That's how bad I felt. The more so since I'd been looking forward so much to doing lunch with a couple who have been terrific to us during this past lifetime and with whom we have done breakfast for ages and always in delightful places with breakfasts that would have broken a Welshmans heart. Some nearly broke my stomach but now that my stomach is broke it'll take a while before we do breakfast again. Sadly.

Sleep came swiftly but I was awoken by the carer, thermometer in hand, then in mouth. Not good. 38 point something from which at 20 minute intervals it continued to rise. A phone call, instructions and within an hour I was bedded in Cherryade, canulated and dripped. It's all a bit of a blur but as usual my chronicler was able to answer every question put.

Cherryade closes at 1800 at which point I was the only patient there. I was still the only patient when collected and taken to AMU and put in a bed by the window.

The evening changeover was just about to start so before very long I was attended by nurses and then doctors. One, of Chinese origin, was brilliant. By now my escort had returned to her home port and was, I hoped, tasting the red. It was a forlorn hope as her hope was a phone call to come and get me. That was a forlorn hope as well.

This doctor quietly asked a whole string of questions the answers to which were probably gibberish but next morning he came with a consultant and told him all he needed to know. One of his questions had been the name of the drugs I was on. I hadn't a clue but next morning I could tell him it was Gemcytobeam and Capcitobeam or at least that's what they sounded like. He smiled and showed me the previous nights form. He was a very clever man. I suspect the questioning was to establish more about my mental state than physical, after all they had lots of numbers to work from. Mostly good numbers apart from the ones confirming the fact but not source of the infection or the ones suggesting that the liver wasn't playing fairly.

The previous night he had ordered an ECG, duly carried out and a chest x-ray done very late at night but I was already in bed so it didn't matter how late it was. Now I was to have a ultrasound scan to examine the liver drainage system. Sounded a bit geographical to me but in due course I was once again parked amid pregnant ladies.

In the meantime an Englishman had been wheeled by paramedics into the bed opposite. It transpired that he'd had a new chair at home to enable him to get up from it. Mum had one, it was great fun and we probably shouldn't have got rid of it so soon. Anyway, the previous night he'd been in it and thought he'd dropped his hanky so he pushed his hand down by the seat squab but unable to locate it he elected to get up and look for it. Pressing the remote control before removing his other hand he turned the cantlivers into a guillotine.

He wrapped another hanky around it and went to bed. Early that morning, unable to stop the bleeding he rang 999. The paramedic got him to where he was now. Still bleeding profusely. First they put on a new dressing and elevated his hand but he had neither the strength to keep it elevated nor could he stay awake long enough.

A Scottish consultant arrived and declared that he shouldn't be in hospital, this is a job for his local A&E or even his GP she insisted. I suspect that she has been so incredibly busy in her life ascending the ladder of success that she is a bit out of touch with local A&E's as well as GP's surgeries. At no time did he complain about her comments or the pain of her examination, he was never anything but polite and grateful to every attentive nurse who dealt with him.

Did I mention that he gave up playing tennis when he was 81 and that he was a solicitor who loved living in a village known to many, that he loved amateur dramatics and the annual village play? No? He did all the time. He initially reminded me of Mrs.Marple, the Joan Hickson one, of course but after a while I realised that he'd got to that age when the past had become the present.

There he was, dapper, shirt and pullover tucked into his leather belted trousers that obviously once fitted him well. The staff realised, too. They got all manner of agencies involved in a short time and were wonderfully engaged with his wellbeing way beyond the mere mechanics of stopping a finger from bleeding, which took nearly all day itself.

His smile was pretty constant, too but it may be that his facial muscles had defaulted to that position.

I was visited by a cancer nurse who asked questions and offered explanations which boiled down to the fact I had an infection, my liver markers were of concern and a consultant would be along shortly.

Next to the Englishman was a very, very Irishman. It appeared that his presence was due to a sudden deterioration in his health at home where he was being nursed through his terminal cancer. He could only take full cream milk so nurses ensured that his mug was always half full. His visitors were cancer team players who explained that if he was happy they would ensure his removal back home where Hospice staff would meet him and take over his care henceforth. I think he knew as he was pretty sharp.

The rest of his morning was taken up with numerous medics and palliative care specialists who set up a more discreet driver. He was on his mobile phone for a whole series of calls in which he set up a meeting with solicitors to ensure that considerable, although probably not excessive, bonds were passed on to his soul mate. It seems that Irish law and English differ in some very important areas. Early afternoon a pair of black suited solicitors arrived and business undertaken in this ward. Quite remarkable, really.

When his soul mate arrived he was able to assure her of her future and the future of others. She went home to await his arrival which was sadly delayed, firstly by a wrong prescription being written and then by a mix up over hospital transport.

He was still there when I left which was late afternoon. The cancer nurse and consultant arrived informing me of the fact that the ultrasound scan had unearthed nothing that was unexpected (whatever that means) and concluded that I was sufficiently reduced in temperature and competent in bodily function to be allowed home with two boxes of three a day oral antibiotics. The liver markers would be monitored by the already scheduled blood tests. Wonderful but it took a few hours to get one of the antibiotics so we waited.

Tea time came and went as did the Welshman, about whom I had learned a lot having made a song and dance about using the ward telephone to phone his daughter in law. It was suggested that he used his mobile but he insisted that he used the ward phone. Graciously they allowed him to do so and placed a chair at the foot of my bed from which he conversed. Loudly.

After tea time a porter came to take him to another ward. First he wanted to wait till someone returned his cheese and biscuits which had been cleared away with the rest of the tea things. The porter promised him a sandwich but he wanted to finish his mug of tea, the porter offered a fresh one on his new ward. The fussing continued but the gallant porter got him packed, sat and wheeled away still complaining about the bag the porter had put something in.

We were home by 1800.

I hope that if/when my past becomes my present I am as polite as the Englishman, that I would be as thoughtful and considerate as the Irishman, even if I'd never have his degree of competence when time is running out and that like the Welshman, I never completely lose my accent.

Suddenly .......

...... Chemo #4, or to be pedantically correct, Chemo Cycle 2 day 1 has passed. I'm OK with that but where did the previous fortnight go?

If I had to sum up Chemo, the word "suddenly" comes to mind.

I know it's all about perception but the view from here is that the last time I had Chemo all was well, mostly because I had no recollection of the details of that Tuesday afternoon. However, in discussion with my cancer nurse on Monday my notes did not concur with the Business Secretary's spreadsheet. I was, in a word, gobsmacked. I keep a bit of a diary other than this blog which outlines drugs taken and effects. To see my life reduced to a solitary side of an A4 spreadsheet was a bit of a shock. Especially as my wordy six page diatribe was relegated to where it belongs. Seems that Tuesday afternoon wasn't good at all.

The following Saturday was awful but the spreadsheet didn't acknowledge the fact. Obviously the Saturday battle I fought to follow TMS, F1 and TdF and totally failed to win was insignificant. Wasn't to me. I couldn't hold the phone or string two words together when our son phoned. Worse, when a video call focused on our grandson spreading his lunch over every surface liberally and even managing to get some in to his mouth when he felt like it was beyond my comprehension. By then I was back in bed, knackered and couldn't engage with the video call in any way. That felt awful.

Fortunately I slept till late afternoon and then tried to watch TdF highlights which were beyond me. Even listening to tunes was an effort. Back to bed.

Sunday began with much more promise. Initially it offered great promise, even to the point of feeling that going to church for the first time in months was an option. That soon descended into aspiration. The tiredness was like it was solid.

Late Sunday afternoon and my westernmost advisor rang. Cue a telling off. You're totally knackered, he said. I agreed. You're behaving like a kid with a cold, he said. You can fight a cold and get through it. This is chemistry. You can't fight it. Give into it.

You've got your week off drugs? Yup, from tomorrow morning, I agreed. Don't do anything, he said, especially keep off the bikes. I almost managed the latter.

Sense, yet again, at the point of need, freely given. Chemistry, or what I remember of it, is suddenness. Get test tube, bung in something, pour in something else and stand back. Instant fizz, which once begun had to run its course. You can't easily stop it.

Chemo isn't like a cold, you can't fight it, you can't stop it, you can't change it, you can't explore it. It just is. Which is why, at 1416 after an hour of dopiness I'm slowly taping this virtual keyboard from the relative safety of an extremely bright duvet which ought to have come with Ray Bans if not Oakleys. I didn't choose it but I'm told it's very nice.

The end result of the spreadsheet vs. rambling diary was that the rambling diary lost. Tuesday's response was not good. I should not have left the ward. My fault as I knew something wasn't right but i just wanted to go home. We shouldn't have left, we should have gone back. Once home we should have phoned. It was not a good thing. It shouldn't have happened. I was told to consider myself officially told off. Accepted, not as graciously as she deserved but I'm beginning to understand what's going on.

Thus, Chemo #4 was administered in a ward with beds adjacent the chairs. This was just as well because Cannula attempts one and two were abject failures, my veins were not playing. It was very hot, I hadn't been drinking enough, cue another telling off as it was explained to me that coffee doesn't count. Whaaaaaat? I was so shaken at that news that peripheral shut down ensued. I fainted.

Recovery was about the only slow thing that's happened recently. BP 104/72. Its always low 120s/mid to low 80s. 105, came, 107 and then the wonderful nurse identified a vein boldly standing proud for just long enough to get the cannula inserted.

It was about now that our cancer nurse came to tell us that my Tuesday was likely a result of the steroids. So they've taken me off the steroids. My creativity, denied. My long nights considering all manner of things, planning Grand European Tours curtailed. Nope, no more brain highs, no more feeling high as a kite just Chemo.

This will slow you down I was told. It has. Suddenly suddenly has become far more protracted. You feel ready to get up but it takes a while. You make irrelevant coffee, you feel a bit tired. You start to feel leaden. You become aware of wobbliness, the world doesn't spin but you feel the unconsciously irresistible need to steady yourself on door frames, tables, chairs, whatever is handy. I remember watching mum do the same in her kitchen.

You have to give in to it. Sit. Lie down. Get up the stairs if it feels you should but don't ask me what it feels like to be able to differentiate between degrees of wobbliness although I think it has a lot to do with the voice never far away dispensing advice. Not only am I listening I'm doing, mostly.

Well, I'm off the steroids and suddenly it's no fun at all. However, I'm not nauseous, either, my hair still needs the attention of a barber and when the brain is working hard enough I can consider all manner of things.

Mostly dull boring things but I guess that's a mark of normality for which my gratitude is overwhelming.

2 x 8 = one day

I don't know what's saddest in a whole plethora of saddishness.

First, I expended a degree of anxiety out of proportion after snapping, crackling and popping because I was unable to find the next sheet of tablets. Normally with 12 the final portion has only 6 and was lying flat in the box, not initially obvious.

Is it sadder that I then spent an inordinate number of minutes arranging said tablets on the table before me?

Nope, it must be the saddest thing to have taken the camera, left on the table all week, I think, and taken a photo of pink pills.

Maybe the saddest reflection on my life currently is the fact that I feel the need to post this.

However, those pink pills represent the next two eight o'clocks in my life. Once the second of those becomes after eight I will have completed my first cycle of Chemotherapy and have a week free of fresh Chemo.

To me this feels quite important.

Ticking away

"Plans that either come to nought or half a page of scribbled lines" Time, Dark Side of The Moon, Pink Floyd.

It comes as no surprise that here, now on a beautiful Sunday morning the lyrics of Time fill my head.

The result, I think, of a mental wrestling match being fought in those periods when my brain collapses in a heap and thoughts line up and wait their turn rather than race about, when they tire of shouting at me to let me know how important they are, when they take a moment to breathe before the next bout of pushing and shoving each other out of the way.

It seems my cognitive processes have become so post-modern, every though considers itself more important than the other, all feel the need to be heard, all demand to be listened to and each is convinced of his, her, its, own overriding superiority. Unfortunately it leaves me drained, exhausted, confused and, at this moment, annoyed. I need to make sense of those parts of last week that I remember. I need to write this now.

I've not felt that before. The blog has been a means of condemning events to history. I haven't read this blog. I write it. I move on. Today it feels different. Yesterday, at this time plans were being made. Plans to visit family, friends. Plans to go out for a meal. All sorts of plans. Then Saturday happened. I can't get my head around that, yet.

I've already mentioned Tuesday but after that came Wednesday, Thursday and Friday and although I can recall the days and events I cannot accurately tie them chronologically without help.

I know that on Tuesday one of our friends, our long suffering and always on call

nurse visited my shield and protector. I didn't know she'd visited, mainly because I was out of my head at the time but she spends time with my carer anyway. Indeed, another friend came from round the corner to spend time with her, too. I'm so grateful for this, as is she. I couldn't tell you when she came but I'm so glad she did.

Our nurse definitely came on Tuesday afternoon as I have totally no memory of her visit at all. I do, however, have a cuddly pasty. Wednesday began with the delight of seeing this pasty on my listening seat, it's just where I sit when alone with nothing more than vibrating diaphragms for company.

How good a friend do you have to be to think that the most appropriate gift imaginable at his time, in these circumstances is a cuddly pasty? A very good one is the answer. How can you even look at it without it bringing a smile and an inrun of pleasant thoughts? It is noticeable that pleasant thoughts, whilst still by far a huge majority, are no longer the only ones.

On Wednesday my brother turned up. He'd been shopping, too. A bag full of edible goodness. Most importantly for me, a roll of Hogg's Pudd'n. It was, and remains my second favourite delicacy after a pasty but I probably couldn't manage a pasty yet. The Hogg's Pudd'n was finished last night. So great was the burden of the bag he brought that cooking duties were unnecessary for a couple of meals which I may not have realised was such a big deal as it was.

The doctor came. Wednesday. Largely after advice from our cuddly pasty bearing nurse my protector arranged a house call. The belly, which I felt was trying to leave me was, in fact, trying to do just that. I don't know his name but he was a lovely chap, he understood my flakiness and I was generously assured that he didn't mind coming to see me but I have an incisional hernia. Not really a big deal except that in this case the incision is rather long. Gently the explanations filtered through with the result that I live with it, best option, have surgery but after Chemo or if it gets hard, painful, pops out to say hello or deteriorates otherwise then we'll deal with it at that point. All quite dispassionate, logical and he wouldn't stay for coffee.

The rest of the week appears in my mind under the heading "frenzied."

There are photos cascading from ceiling to floor in two places. I know I put them there, with help, but I don't remember when. All I remember is that I absolutely had to do it then. Whenever then was. I recall a friend helping to order them when he and his wife visited. He stayed to ensure that my carer was at ease when she and his wife went shopping.

Like everything in my carers daily toil, the shopping was for me. A mile or so of crepe bandage to add support to the errant belly and knife blades for the craft knife with which I'd cut yards and yards of mountboard in the preceding hours.

The ideas come. They don't develop, although I'm sure I've had embryos of them they arrive complete. In detail, in dimension, in Amazon boxes awaiting installation.

Once present they have to be fulfilled. They demand completion. Nothing else matters. I get going for minutes. Fall in a heap. Repeat. Repeat. Till complete. This is odd. I am not known for my desire to get things done and the concept of doing it now is a new one. But it had to be done now. This is not the best modus operandi, especially when you can't do it on your own and people are on telly playing bat and ball with nets.

The intensity of these driven moments results in a degree of tiredness that soon becomes exhaustion but I'm powerless to ignore the need to do it. Fortunately for our walls and the aesthetics of our home I have currently run ashore on the mundane coast where the only vestige of creativity has long since rotted away.

It cannot be good that the absence of a creative dribble gives way to a more practical deluge. I speak of mortice locks. I need to fit one to the front door in place of the deadlock. I know how to do it. I have the tools. I have done it loads of times. I have spent hours looking at the dimensions of mortice locks online wondering how many mm in 2 1/2". I know the answer. But it doesn't come when thinking of mortice locks. I have had to resort to android calculator. I know 2 1/2" is 70mm, near enough but when I need it it's not there. I even had to consciously think through the process. I've undertaken the process umpteen times, with Jennings bits and flat bits, not to mention my trusty 1/2" firmer chisel. But I've spent ages turning this over I my head and it just won't go until when it has gone and it's all clear as a bell anyway. It takes till those times, too to remember that the act of winding a brace or driving a flat bit into an old wooden door frame is not going to happen. Not today.

The irrationality of my thoughts is, thankfully, seen as such in the calmer, exhausted, glazed over moments. The problem comes when it isn't but I'm glad to say I neither know how to order from Amazon nor do I have a clue where the credit card is.

Above all reflections of the week glistens those who give most. Those who cement this time in reality and leave you wondering why people think to even bother to go out of their way, sometimes a very long way out of their way, those who graciously visit. They provide the mountain top from which vantage point a perspective can be trusted.

Looking back over the last week, I'm confused, tired, useless but so chuffed at having spent time with friends from round the corner who we see frequently, those who have to go out of their way and whom you see rarely. Those you've known all your life, those from school, college and all places since.

I'm not known for ever having been a people person but I'm so grateful that our friends invariably are.

Obviously, it's not me, it's my carer they come to see, I just happen to be here, churning over the minutiae of mortice locks until the next steroid lets loose the chemical leash currently holding the dogs of imagination in check.

The Real Costa Coffee

It was raining first thing Tuesday morning but we had friends staying so breakfast was an event to enjoy far removed from the normal grab, glug, get on. Thus it was that I was at my best in the hours before Chemo#3 scheduled for 1130.

Arriving in Cherryade in good time the formalities felt normal as did the canulation and dispensation of the chemicals various. Normality extended right up to he point when the tablet I'm typing on now seemed to need more security than I could offer. Hastily it was passed to the keeper of all good things sat almost next to me.

Somewhere a switch moved imperceptibly and with no discernable click but the effect was profound. Cannula removed and a wet walk to the car is barely remembered.

It was raining getting in the car and getting out of it.

Home and the front room sofa was as far as I could manage. Lying down was OK but once I got up even that became impossible. For the first time I was noticeably nauseous, not sick but, oh dear, not nice. Sitting was the only option.

I'm vaguely aware that our friends were there to see the effect of Chemo#3, so totally different and unexpected. They saw me at my worst for which I'm sorry and hope I didn't say anything that shouldn't have been said.

My recollection of the afternoon is effectively non-existent.

About 1830 I was aware of the rain on the bedroom window and the taker of notes attempting to give the impression that all was normal. There was, however, a definite aura of anxiety present. Tea? Yes, please. I'll bring it up. No, I'll come down. Which I did.

The rain was gently running off the veranda as tea was slowly taken. The world had not quite synchronised with me, nor I with it but I did eat. Then I was told that I'd spent the afternoon drinking. Really? I had no recollection of it bar a mug of black coffee but it would appear that I had at various times downed two pints of squash and two mugs of tea. But what about the coffee? You didn't have any she said referring to the ever present notebook. I distinctly remembered a mug of black coffee which I was convinced I'd had because it wasn't in a mug usually associated with coffee and it was black. My first coffee of the day is black to avoid having to start the day with Creon but thereafter a spot of milk is de rigueur.

I was assured that I'd had no coffee and subsequently filed coffee under hallucinatory experience as a result of chemical exposure.

The note book had words like disconnected  distant, incoherent, rambling, out of it, crawled up the stairs on hands and knees. And so on. I just don't remember but the notes seem exhaustive.

The bedroom window was steadily rained on when I turned in about 2000 after the pink pills. Unfortunately, now the steroids began their journey to my brain which was rapidly winding itself into overdrive.

Even Wimbledon was unable to stop frequent visits from an obviously anxious and increasingly tired looking minder. I had no needs to be met but that wasn't enough to stop the requests for being allowed to bring mugs of tea or whatever but each time I tried to kindly refuse the offers. Not only had I no needs, I had no wants, either.

By 2200 the rain was as hard as ever and I had a head full of ideas and a tablet with Amazon. The notepad made interesting reading. Details. I felt so alert, feeble, a bit leaden but the brain was on fire.

There was no let up in the rain when eventually I was joined by my puzzled and obviously no less anxious keeper of records. I mentioned the coffee again and was assured that it was just my imagination.

I was still wide awake listening to the rain when in the early hours a quiet voice said, you are right about the coffee, the first thing I did when we got in was to make a coffee for which you had become desperate. Sorry I forgot.

She doesn't forget, she was overwhelmed by circumstances. Swept up in the anxiety of experiencing the unknown for the umpteenth time in recent weeks let alone the months preceding all this.

It was still raining as I realised that the state of the nearest and dearest to me was as troubled at times as mine wasn't. I just do what I'm told, respond to what I'm asked and offer arms to needles. The results just happen and it is what it is.

I deal with it as best as I can but she has to experience it as well and all she wants to do is make things better for me, spends her time wondering what more she can do, frets in case there's anything else she could do that she hasn't done. Every day. All the time it's there. It's become her mindset.

And there's nothing I can do about it.
That's why she "forgot" about the coffee, she was totally overwhelmed by all these goings on.

It's so much easier for me than for her.
That's the real Costa Coffee.

On Wednesday it was still raining at 0300.

Morgies and Bounce

Earlier this week I was asked how I felt. Like a stewed morgie, I said. The surprised puzzlement induced by this reply was bordering on the incredulous.

This morning an uncle of mine phoned. Owarreeeenbuy?

Like a stewed morgie, I said and the conversation continued naturally on its way.

In a corner of this country there’s a place where a few will completely understand how I feel. There are those of the diaspora who will get it, too. Somehow it encompasses perfectly how my week has been and if you understand the term you’ll know how I’m feeling. If you don’t it’s to do with dogs.

Not the smelly things that stain our pavements and drag their selfish owners around cycle paths on the end of bits of string long enough to completely go across the entire path. Not like the yappy thing a few houses down from ours that gets let out every morning between 0630 and 0730 and yaps incessantly leaving me lying awake wondering what time high tide is and thinking of a sack, a brick and a cable tie.

Dogfish. There are two types, morgies and bounce. Bounce get quite excited when taken out of the net or off the hook, they twist, turn and generally show wriggly signs of agitation. Morgies, on the other hand are far more docile and lethargic. Thus to feel like a stewed morgie is to be decidedly sluggish, slow, reluctant to expend any effort or as my carer described me, sludgy and dopey.  That, however, doesn’t begin to do it justice. It doesn’t conjour up a picture which language should. It needs embellishment, which language shouldn’t, it just isn’t fitty.

It’s another example of the absence of shared experience impacting negatively on this wonderful English language of ours. When communities existed for generations in stable proximity local experience flavoured the language enriching its use by evolving such descriptors to say a vast amount with great economy of words. More importantly, it was universally, in a local context, understood accurately and required no elucidation or explanation. Nor did it elicit a deluge of questions as invariably is now the case.

 Furthermore it could be passed on to any other local enquirer and they, too, would have a full and precise understanding of the situation in the time it took to pass one another in the street.  No room for exaggeration in the exchange of information, no massaging or embellishment of the message, no minimising it’s import if any.

It seems that answering even the simplest of questions in the plainest of language is insufficient to satiate some questioners. Invariably it merely leads to the exasperation of being unable to explain yourself in a manner that is found acceptable. Every nuance has to be further explored, every inevitable implied uncertainty must be turned over and sifted until the meaning is understood to the satisfaction of the listener.

Unfortunately this leads to the desire for accuracy to be subsumed under the need for peace and quiet. Thus subsequent questions become increasingly valueless as the answers given are in response to the desire for an end to the process not a desire to be accurately understood.

Thus, today, I have realised why the sum total of the English language for purposes of question and answer sessions can effectively be rendered as good as it needs to be by the use of just three words. Yup, nope, alright.

In my view the dire state of the English language can be laid fairly at the door of Facebook and twittering. I don't do either but I notice with risible anger that much, if not most news on the web now comes from the authors of such facile outpourings, if a tweet can constitute an outpouring. I'm sure that a picture of a cake, meal, drink can certainly not offer anything of more than milliseconds of interest which no doubt explains it's popularity in the sorely tried mind of the Facebook users attention span. I just find it slightly concerning that it stays forever in the 0 and 1 vaults of the virtual garage never to be cleared out.

I don't engage with social media, apart from this blog and am increasingly disparaging of those whose lives are constrained by 144,000 characters or whatever Facebook allows. Despairing, too of those whose passage through life is head down permanently observing the screen below their nose oblivious to all about, even to the ones for whom they have responsibility. I'm not the best user of an iPhone, I haven't taken to contracts although I have embraced streaming tunes. Rather well, actually.

What I value most has been found in friends, not virtual ones but ones like my advisor who turned up this week with a bag of cherries. I'd forgotten how much I liked them so from the vantage point of a garden seat I now expect to see cherry trees rise up in random places before me. And those like an aunt of mine who took the time and effort to write a wonderfully expressive card this week. Sadly, but predictably, she is unworthy of her nephew who has yet to respond. Maybe tomorrow after the blood tests. Sooner than dreckly, though.

However, one feels that one's comfortable stance from outside the wall of virtualised reality is somewhat under attack. Not that I'm likely to add to a Facebook page or twitt any time soon but, but, but.

Late yesterday afternoon my carers iPhone6 Super Deluxe whistled as it suffered an attack of Facebook incoming. In this case it was incoming via video from the seafront, 10 minutes away. Sent by a friend who I think I'd last seen on August bank holiday 1984. We'd shared halls at college and he turned up here in a Daimler Double-Six Van den Plas. It was a memorable day, doubly so, in fact as it was also the day that our daughter came home from hospital and England lost to Ceylon, or was it Sri Lanka?

We hastily arranged collection but too hastily to convey his family in the time scale so we look forward to meeting them another time. Isn't it amazing, 32 years pass and its like you were yarning yesterday. Social Media engineered that. It also engineered a communication from afar expressing delight over our visit, very nice but only my carer was privy because I don't do Social Media.

Late this afternoon another incoming Facebook missive from a friend with whom we shared the same halls in the 70's. This one and his wife we have seen since, about twice in over three decades. They're passing by on Friday. Courtesy of Social Media a visit has been arranged and is being looked forward to.

Finally, thus far today, a phone call, a landline phone call. How wonderful is that? I answered and was met by the familiar voice of one with whom I was at school and at college. He and his wife will visit tomorrow. How great is that? No Social Media involvement in evidence. My comfort zone has been partially restored but seeing Social Media bridge the virtual and real has caused a degree of unease.

So, a week during which I have been like a stewed morgie has also been characterised by having had a bellyfull. In English that is not a full belly, but a bellyfull, a proper bellyfull. In this case I've had a bellyfull of my belly which has at no time been full but which at times has felt like it's having a life of its own and which seems intent on divorcing itself from me. It's not painful but it is uncomfortable. I can't explain it any better so do not even think of supplementary questions and consider it fortunate that I don't do Social Media otherwise I may have had photos of it in its wide angle scarred glory all over my Facebook page. It's far too big for a twit.

It may have made Instagram, but I don't do that, either.

Empathy for Keith (Richards)

Sat as I am in the presence of greatness one cannot but help appreciating Life, I haven't read it but I'm sure it's author will one day write volume two. Certainly, as he gives life to "You got the silver" I am so grateful to have had the opportunity to have seen him and his band on more than one occasion. Probably the greatest rock and roll band in the world. I've even had tea with the father of the lead singer in Chippenham. That was a while ago, though.

This week my appreciation of Keef has increased immeasurably. I've had a week on drugs, he's had almost a lifetime. It has been weird, extremely weird. No two days have been the same, I'd go as far as to say that no two hours have, either. One afternoon I think I watched a big hand race a little one for three full turns of the clock face. Can't remember much else but it wasn't any great effort  to do.

One morning I wandered downstairs into the kitchen, no big deal but this once I saw empty spaces on the walls as opportunies for photos I wanted to print, mount and hang. Clear as day.

Inspiration of a magnitude way beyond my normal functionality. I went up and printed one photo but my hanging skillset seems to have deserted me. That's not to say the photo isn't hung, it is but it has been poorly mounted and badly hung. The fact that it is emplaced is testimony to my acceptance that things are not as things were. I have printed another, I have cut a piece of mountboard and once I get some 3M Spraymount I will endeavour to hang it properly.

If such inspiration was the norm for Keef then I can only conclude that no matter how wonderful the out working of his chemically inspired inspiration was it should have been more.

Undoubtedly the most important events during this whole period have concerned the concern of friends. One phone call from 120 miles away has already been mentioned, another from nearer advised to look for patterns as they will appear and will likely have a degree of predictability which I suppose is what makes them a recognisable pattern in the first place. We'll see her for a cup of tea this week sometime I hope.

Visitors have made the week memorable for all the right reasons. A couple we've known for ever and who we last saw in Malta came for a few days. Their visit brought a tangible degree of normality to what is, no matter how we may like to describe it, a most abnormal situation. It was sheer joy to be left to my own devices, if only for a short while. Not that there were many devices I could turn my hand to, whilst my carer went shopping/walking/whatevering with her friend as she always has done. I'm seriously thankful that they came and stayed as they normally do.

Normality is a big deal.

The visit of grandson avec parents was also more than a bit special but it would have been so no matter what. Again, normality.

Last night a txt from afar offered the prospect of another visit from friends less frequently seen who may well come to stay a while. A fellow Cornishman who married an English wife, wise man, eh?

I / we have been blessed with visitors, sometimes for a few minutes and sometimes for hours. However short or long the visit it is always enough to take you somewhere.

This blog is so useful in this respect as those who want to know already do which means that the how are you question has already been answered so enabling conversation to start elsewhere. Another touch of normality.

Earlier we had friends from not too far away who visit most weeks but who have been on holiday recently. It was so good to see them again, then another friend popped in and later another dropped by for a cup of tea and a yarn with the PA. Delightful.

Today was an equally differently strange day. The pink pills and Rice Krispies at 0800 are normally followed by a lie down but were today immediately followed by a trip to our local surgery to have some blood taken. Alas, I was rubbish at that, too. The nurse tried valiantly and apologetically but despite attempting to pull a pint or two from both arms neither was interested. Eventually she managed to squeeze out a drip or two. If its not enough they'll have to try again in Cherryade tomorrow when Chemo#2 is due to be dripped in. Hey, ho, just as well it's all good!

Now, in an hour the next dose of pink pills will fall due but before then I have a delicious Guinness to imbibe, albeit slowly. This, and its colleagues, is part of a gift from friends I once worked with. If the truth be told, they worked, I attended. Another example of unmerited kindness from busy people who have better things to think about than me/us but who exercise their concern in a hugely supportive manner. Gratitude abounds toward them.

I may not have Keith's talent, skill, creativity, chemically enhanced or not but if he hasn't got friends like ours he is a poor man to be greatly pitied.

And if you're ever tempted to visit, give in to the temptation whoever it is and if staying over is what you do, do it. If you know where we are, drop in! On a good day the coffee has been known to be rather good. The tea isn't bad, either.

Normality is most precious and well worth encouraging, at which point I ought to mention that Keith is currently singing "Happy."

How appropriate is that?

A tale of two days

It was the best of days followed by the day that wasn't. Both began at the same time and with the same breakfast.

The capsules are the Creon, taken for life every time eating or drinking anything but watery stuff, the pink ones are the Chemos and the little white one?

Seems that's the interesting one but I only get to take them twice a day for the two  days after the chemo infusion.

Steroids, the said. My Google proficient wife said "like heroin".

Tuesday's  breakfast was downed efficiently and immediately an explosion of energy enthused it's way through my very being. I could not sit still and do nothing. So great was my exuberance that when I suggested a pedal to see some river water my minder declined to accompany me. Was I finally trusted to go it alone or did the squeezing of blackfly on the beans represent a more sensible future investment?

A mile or two away is this rather nice spot with cyclist friendly seats, in this case already occupied. I didn't want to hang about as I was free to carry on without consultation, requests that we rest a while, that we're not in a hurry, that taking our time is good were absent. My freedom was bought at the cost of the little blackflies lives.

I did nearly five miles in half an hour or so and got home without breaking sweat. I felt excellent. Last time I did this a week ago I was totally wrecked and sweating like a pig. More caffeine to celebrate.

A phone call from a friend, tea and more caffeine and then he took me to a boat house that once occupied a large part of my life but to which I've not been in some years. For a while the man who actually does the work there is a great friend so yet more caffeine and the whole world righted in no time.

Within an hour a wall of tiredness reared up before me suddenly insurmountable. Home in the comfort of 300hp of turboed 4x4 luxury. Not a Jazz, then!

Caffeine to take another white pill and hyper activity was soon restored. I accompanied the 25hp fwd Jazz to the industrial plot where four new tyres were fitted. Whilst in the vicinity a pair of multitools were purchased, one for each bike and across the road a tube of Polyfilla extra fine plaster filler was purchased.

Once home the multitools were immediately stowed in their appropriate stowages and a fingerfull of filler was delicately pressed into a gap in the bathroom tiles which had lifted slightly when the new windows were fitted before Christmas. It's only every other room in the house with windows or doors that needs painting now.

Thoughts turned to a visit to a decent tool supplier 25 miles away but we have been meaning to visit a grand old lady who used to live down the road but has moved 25 miles in the opposite direction to be near her daughter so we phoned and visited her. It was the loveliest thing to do, and she was a joy to visit as always.

The trip back found thoughts straying to visits further afield to family South West, east and North and then west. These felt eminently doable for the first time in many months.

Home and Carbonarra for tea and very excellent it was. Digestive biscuits and a spoonful of Angel Delight for milkiness at the appropriate time for pink chemo pills and the hyper brain was still not finished. An hour or two of serious reading and listening wasn't enough. In fact I was far too alert at 0200 but shortly after I was not.

This Wednesday morning the early coffee was provided as usual and the proscribed breakfast at the proscribed time was taken. I was looking forward to the hyper hit and planning the drizzly cycle ride as the Rice Krispies snapped, crackled and popped.

Unfortunately before the bowl was empty I was aware that today was different. Within 15 minutes I was struggling to get up the stairs. Once back in bed my Google proficient wife had laid bare the secrets of the little white pill. Like heroin, she offered. A serious steroid to stop you feeling nauseous, to put off the extent of the post chemo tiredness. It takes you up but everything that goes up comes down. They can make you irritable and cantankerous, too.

I was so glad to hear the latter as I thought that having so long to examine road junctions closely over an extended period of time whilst waiting and being able to read the names of the makers of brake callipers on the cars overtaking us was normal. I'm so relieved that my comments yesterday were drug induced otherwise I may have felt that an expression of sorrow was called for.

Today was the come down. It's like my brain was alternating between mush and fully alert but the rest of me seemed to be displaying not under command marks. An hour or two inert before eventually getting up again and I was conscious of a very much heightened sense of smell, even the normally unnoticed soap was pungent, the smells rising from the cooking taking place downstairs were clearly identifiable. It took half an hour to do what would normally occupy ten minutes of my time. Slow time was engaged although I felt it was as normal. I could do no more.

The whole situation in which I felt so unsure, so precarious and so unsettling came to a head when I found myself totally unable to operate the Gaggia. I had neither the strength nor the coordination to remove and fill the portafilter. Time to sit and let my carer make coffee her way.

Fortunately my friend, consultant philosopher adviser, the one and only Melvin who has been here far too many times phoned. His opening gambit was, you had a good day yesterday, then and now you feel like the proverbial. Yes. He's always spot on, not only with his advice wrought from 40 years experience of his own cancers but he has the gift of always phoning when you are most in need. I don't believe in coincidences, either.

The strangeness continued all day. Very wobbly at times, possibly hallucinating whilst lying down this morning. Crashed out this afternoon. Listening to familiar tunes rather listlessly tonight yet my brain is composing this stuff way faster than I can address the correct virtual key. Mostly I miss but Android self correct is working overtime tonight.

This has been a most strange day, totally unexpected and one wonders why in all the consultations over recent weeks no one mentioned this little white pill. On a positive note it must be said that if it was designed to stop me feeling nauseous it has been a complete success.

In fact I think that it may have been Tuesday that was strange and today was more normal than I realise. I guess we'll find out tomorrow as there's no more little white pills till after the next infusion on Tuesday.

Tomorrow may be here sooner than I think, it's 2215 and I feel wired from the neck up. The rest of me is content to sit here reclined comfotably in the company of The Waterboys.

Cyrus iR14 and Udder Cream

The last couple of weeks have seen us thrice in Cherryade for tests, measurements, blood letting and form filling. With added information. There was once a Welsh preacher, a great orator who is still held in far too high regard by many, however when preaching he told you what he was going to say, then he said it before finally telling you what he'd said. His writing followed the same philosophy in writing 50 pages when a more skilled author could have written 1 or 2. At least he sold many multi volume sets.

I have been reminded of him not in verbosity but in the fact that 3 wonderfully intent and knowlegable medical practitioners have told us a very similar story on 3 occasions and each time the purport of their message has sunk in a little further.

Last week at our final consultation prior to the procedure taking place we were shown how it all works from the place to park, the door to come through, the lady to get a permit from, logging on to their Wi-Fi, tea and coffee facilities and facilities for their removal, where to sit and what would happen where on the day.

Today Chemo#1 arrived. Our NHS never ceases to elicit my utter admiration. The previous visits had removed all of the unknowns, thus our arrival and treatment had such a feeling of normality about it that only when the cannula went in did it occur to me that I'd had no anxiety that I was aware of. Sadly, I remarked to the nurse after she had made the insertion that it felt 'normal".

However, a large reason for that is down to my PA, or at least that is how the nurses addressed her, and rightly so. If I wasn't the patient I'd be surplus to requirements.

Every bit of paper required was in her bag, as were the booklets, particularly the one recording my blood test results. Once the flow of the elixir was well established her bag even produced this tablet and my glasses.

I noted that it had been rather quiet as the nurses recognised our various talents and abilities and so they addressed her directly. Her bag took on the weight of boxes of pills and she took on the responsibility of noting their times, doses and symptoms for the dispensing of the non obligatory ones.

It was almost a relief to be directly confronted by a nurse who told me that I was the only one to handle the pinky ones as they were beastly and exclusively for my use.

Two hours later we made our exit and within half a  hour were home. Side effects thus far, nil.

Tomorrow may compose a different tune but thus far I'm delighting in one of two surprise gifts from my Amazonian savvy PA. This morning a replacement remote for the stereo means that I can now operate the streamer and it's volume from the sofa. The previous remote was over 20 years old and dependent on much battery twisting for generating any IR codes at all and 20 years ago streamers were let off at parties. The new one is a delight.

Lest you think this makes me even more bone idle I have to inform you that to my knowledge no remote control requiring batteries is yet able to place 12" of vinyl on a platter, spin it up and gently lower a cartridge held at the end of a most delicate tone arm. So, when playing records I have to move evey 20 minutes or thereabouts which demonstrates yet another benefit of the analogue listening experience, exercise.

The other Amazonian gift, as recommended by our consultant, was a tub of Udder Cream.

3 phone calls, 2 letters, 1 consultation, nothing on Wednesday!

After three weeks of amiably drifting through the grey of May and the added moisture of June with time filled with the pleasantries of visitors and the discovery of lanes, alleyways, shortcuts and overly manicured gardens within a feeble stones throw of the front door the sun finally put in almost a full days appearance.

The phone rang, letters fell into the porch, the phone rang some more and the vacant lines on the calendar became despoiled with committments.

First up, a 50 mile trip west and 50 mile east return was requested for a post op looking at. The voice on the phone said, Tuesday. My manageress agreed. A very short gap and the phone voice asked that I be presented at our hospital 8 miles away on Monday, park in car park B and report to Oncology for 1:45. OK. No sooner had the phone cooled down and the post op organiser informed us that Tuesday would now happen on Thursday at 4:00.

Letters duly arrived confirming each appointment.

Thus was our Monday afternoon after a short drive, easy parking, early presentation at Oncology reception and all seemed most relaxed. My only complaint being the magazines on offer in the waiting room. Few are read and no one seemed to investigate what was on offer, alas  the two piles I perused would never be read by anyone using our NHS, indeed I suspect that the Nuffield over the road probably has a few car, bike, boat magazines whilst we have Polo weekly, Upper Crust Life, Guides to buying mansions with 7 figure price tags and articles on how to dine out for less than a grand a head, not including Champagne, brandy or single malts.

Fortunately, over half an hour before our appointed time we were called in. The consultant was utterly lovely, informing me that the operation had been a success and that if I had to have a cancer in my pancreas the one I have is definitely the best one to have. The sense of relief was missed initially but came back later. Lymph nodes had not fared so well, 12 out of 19 removed were very unhappy but the tumour itself had failed to ingratiate itself with a major blood vessel. Had it done so I would have been inoperable instead of "just on the limit of operabilty" and not tapping on this screen as Eric Clapton fills the gap between Le Mans free practice and qualifying.

Such statements stated with a clinical matter of factness have a habit of washing through the brain without effect. Only when our clinician paused for breath does it begin to register but there's no time to dwell on the import of the words or to give thanks for another Providential confirmation of plans beyond my comprehension.

The offender is an Ampullary cancer called T4N1. I would call it Jeremy but he may yet win so I lean towards Krankie, a loser but it doesn't sound right so I think I'll just cogitate and ruminate a little longer.

It may be the least worse cancer but T4N1 still needs to have it's future curtailed insofar as it can be. Thus, on Monday week I begin 6 months of chemotherapy, IV bags dripped into me every Monday for three weeks with (possibly) pills to take morning and evening at home. At least I get a week off every month.

A whole week off  traveling, visiting, out and about. Yup, but recovering is more likely to take that time and if a week isn't enough they can pause the treatment if it gets intolerable. Actually, the presence of blood platelets or their absence will determine events.

The description of side effects tumbled from our consultant like the soporific words of Stephen Fry reading Harry Potter. I did not fall asleep and I did try to keep up, mostly. Their randomness was difficult to grasp but once home with the streamer streaming I could visualise their place in my future. Fortunately my minder was taking copious notes.

To whit, as far as I can remember bearing in mind that we are all different and side effects are manifest by and in degrees as is our response to them and our ability to cope. So, from the top, my hair may or may not fall out but it will certainly thin out a bit, my eyes will water much more than usual, mouth ulcers are very likely as is a tongue full of Thrush, angina is very likely and a rash on the hands and feet is best treated with udder cream readily available from Mole Valley Farmers. Nausea would become an issue and I could expect to busy from the other end, too. My blood is likely to thin and blood marrow will be adversely affected so I will be very susceptible to infection, pneumonia got a mention as well somewhere. I could refer to the notes taken, I could even read the information sheets provided.

The outcome can't be guaranteed but statistically I'm good. I'm glad of that even though statistics are a foreign language. I may never have a recurrence, if it is really determined to come back it will most likely be back in two years. It could return at any time but tabs will be kept.

That pretty much covers it, I think. Fortunately, once repopulated the calendar was vacant for the next two Wednesdays. Today I had a hair cut and next Wednesday my dentist will check me out because you can't have dentists plying their trade when one is on chemo.

After all this it is little wonder that once the 6 months, or longer if postponments become necessary one will require a month or three to recuperate. She was careful to emphasise the fact that tiredness was the major side effect and that as time went on the cumulative effects of treatment was of considerable significance.

Until treatment starts I have been offered blood tests, scans, surveys, consults and all manner of things medical to fill the otherwise empty days. Fortunately we can have a parking permit for the treatment but for everything else we have to collect the pound coins again.

For the first time I feel like I'm at sea at night in a bit of a breeze. It's like I can see a light just occasionally over the horizon but getting there will be a bit rough and take a while but I've always been most comfortable when afloat.

Having tickets to see Suzanne Vega in September may be a tad optimistic although you never know. Seeing her in concert would be nice but it's not as if we would struggle to find a home for the tickets.

Looking at the chart my light looks very much like my neice Tallulah and Tom's wedding next Easter.

That does matter, but I'm not having a new suit, or wearing a tie!

Perspective

Throughout the journey undertaken to date I have been of all men most fortunate. There's never been a why me attitude, nor undue anxiety and whenever I've needed a different view it has been provided.

I shall mention two events that I hope will never leave me.

The first took place on the Sunday morning of my CT scan. I'd been collected early and wheeled to the place where the scanner was. I was parked in the deserted cool corridor and left for while. To my right a porter was pushing a lady in a sturdy wheelchair toward me. I couldn't avoid looking at her as she looked quite remarkable. Colourless very thin hair, high cheekbones and an aquiline nose, very elegant in her youth, I surmised. I put her at late 60's early 70's if I was being generous. She was placed very near me and I was reminded of Cream, Disraeli Gears, Mother's Lament, she was nought but a skeleton covered in skin. I felt such a wave of sympathy for her and wondered where her journey had taken her and where she was headed.

When you are collected your name is called but as there were only the two of us the nurse went to my near neighbour and asked her date of birth.

I don't recall the day or the month but when she got to the year she said 1986.

She was two years younger than my daughter.

The second occurred during my final stay (so far) and on my last Wednesday.

A man was wheeled into E1 during the afternoon and was very seriously jaundiced. Like you were my visitor remarked. Was I that colour? At least, she said. It didn't look nice. He lay quietly all afternoon his wife in close attendance.

Before I woke on Thursday he'd been taken away. Late afternoon his wife arrived and he came along shortly after. Very soon a familiar doctor and team were in attendance. It was very quiet and even though the curtains were drawn they are no barrier to words. He had all the tests that I'd had in a week on that one day. The doctor quietly but clearly said that all the test results had been examined and passed to a radiographer. Silence. Dispersal.

Just after the doctor saw me on Friday morning he reappeared at E1 sans team but with another man, the radiographer who pulled the curtains around and clearly said that there was nothing they could do and that a palliative care team would be along shortly. I guess his wife asked the question to which the answer was weeks rather than months.

They went and his wife, Margaret tried to phone her son but she was in pieces, as you would be but across the ward, Pat visiting her husband went over, put her arm around her, used her phone to contact her son and passed the phone back to her. It was a beautifully tender response to an awful situation.

The palliative care team did all that had to be done and that evening the family was beside the bedside.

They asked if there was a side room, there wasn't but by first thing Saturday he'd been moved to somewhere more appropriate and eventually to a hospice, I trust.

He was called Roger and he was one of the 4 in 5.