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.

Final move

That last Monday began with the usual doctor and team visit but this time he asked if I had my "Creon" to which I replied that I hadn't. He would arrange for it and I could take solids because my numbers were looking good, almost normal, he said and then added that we could think of going home soon. The shock of his last statement took a while to sink in but even then I was thinking days, not hours.

The delightful doctor returned and she explained that I'd be on Creon for life and that a pharmacist would be along shortly. She explained that all my numbers were good but I asked about Billy anyway.

Billy Rubin is a marker of liver function / jaundice and it should be less than 1. I had been over 600 for a time. Such values are not good, indeed fatal if maintained for too long. I'd treated it all with a flippancy unworthy of the people earnestly engaged in its reduction. She explained that since my infection had been beaten by serious doses of IV antibiotic my numbers had seen a speedy return to a normality that hadn't been evident for months. The rate at which they had eventually reverted was a good sign so such was their confidence that she was about to write my discharge sheets.

A while later a nurse came along and told us that I was likely to go home tomorrow which she thought a bit soon, as did I if I'm being honest.

The pharmacist brought the Creon and explained it's use and how to calculate the dose which you don't want to know about. Then I had a small portion of beef and mushroom pie, followed by ice cream but then the cook lady who'd always promised to feed me up arrived with steam pudd'n and custard as I'd told her it was high amongst my favourites. Unfortunately, I ate it. It was lovely but being so full on so little was a new experience and I spent an afternoon suffering. I was more cautious in the evening.

More blood tests ensued with a comment that these should be he last. Seems that my leaving was well known but we had no details.

About 1030 that evening Don, the nurse and Janice came to tell me that I was being moved from E Bay to another ward but they didn't know where. There was a bed shortage of epidemic proportions and Tuesday was the big surgery day of the week.

Thus just after 1100 at night porters arrived, put all my stuff in bags and wheeled me away. A brief sojourn in a corridor hemmed in by a load of operating trolleys saw me eventually settled in a basement ward with no windows, recycled cool air, sealed doors and no radio signal whatsoever. I had to revert to the iPod.

I later found out that this 40 bed ward had been used to store trolleys until mid afternoon when the decision to reinstate it had been taken. There was a great deal of technology around and sensors all over the place, this was the ward for use in the event of radiation accidents, or not accidents!

It was certainly full of fresh air and doors in abundance just to get to the toilet or shower. Tuesday morning the doctor and team arrived nodded, smiled and shook hands and told me that I'd be discharged early in the afternoon once the picc(?) line had been removed. That was a bit of an undertaking, too.  As he went he said to a nurse that if I kept my lunch down for an hour or so I could go.

Lunch was fish pie but I had declined the extra potato. I should have declined the peas as well. Of course I kept it down although it was a struggle and the trip home was accompanied by a bucket on my lap. I kept it down for 12 hours but once I gave up the fight I felt so much better.

So, home, sore, tired, thrilled and ever so thankful. It wouldn't be all plain sailing but it felt good.

It was a little over a week later that we had to return. Drove an hour there, waited two more, saw the doctor for two minutes during which time he told me I'd have to keep the drain in for another three weeks and off he went. Fortunately, the nurse realised that we needed a few more minutes of his time and got him to return, eventually. My wife asked about the operation, specifically the tumour.

He seemed taken aback that no one had told us but he confirmed that it had been malignant and that once discharged from his care we'd revert to the care of our local hospital who would arrange chemotherapy treatment.

It was at this meeting that it was confirmed that after a thorough search I definitely did not have a spleen.

Then we drove back home but went back in less than 3 weeks to have the drain removed. That made a terrific difference.

So, now we wait for whatever comes next .

Unmerited patience

If you've endured thus far you will know that I could not hold the BBC in any more than the lowest of contemptible corporations. It simply should not be allowed to exist in its current form. At every opportunity it seeks to denigrate, humiliate, and cynically undermine every aspect of what it was established to uphold.

For a few days we had a BMW salesman occupying a bed in E bay. How do I know? Because he spent nearly all day loudly talking to his colleagues on his phone. He also paid for TV access. Thus I awoke to breakfast time TV and proceeded to endure daytime tv as he refused headphones. By mid afternoon, and being unable to hear my brother speak I asked him to turn it down, which he did. A little. The main item running on local news was our health correspondent telling us that 3 out of 5 full time health professionals wanted out and that the NHS was choked with old people bed blocking.

Less than 2 minutes with Google elicited that her quoted survey had been a telephone poll of a few hundred people undertaken by a bunch of students from a university that hadn't existed a decade ago. I'm sure that you could substitute full time health professionals for tinkers, tailors, soldiers, spies or any profession you care to name and the results would be the same.

But old people bed blocking? Not that I've seen in my very small sample of wards over a very few weeks. One elderly gent was desperate to get home but social services were unable to source the personnel needed for him.

However, every ward of six  beds had at least one drug addict and usually two cluttering up the system. The first I met refused to go to the hostel offered as he'd been there and didn't like it. He had to have a temporary address to get a temporary doctor to write a prescription for his methadone. After nearly a week a large social worker arrived and told him that they were leaving the ward, he was going to the hostel to be registered there after which he could do whatever he liked. They left.

One Friday night a young (38) addict was wheeled into a bed opposite me by paramedics carrying the detritus of his life in carrier bags. He was canulated, drip fed and an orangey yellow drip was attached as well. He remained docile all day Saturday but at 0615 on Sunday i was awoken by a bright light shining at me and this fellow rabbiting away on his phone. He was talking postcodes, house numbers and figures which sounded like quantities of goods and cash. He then arranged for a friend to collect and deliver. A nurse closed the curtains but they may dull the glare but not the volume.

There was much rummaging around and then he went off to get a jug of fresh water. I believe he had arranged various drug deals and was taking his own drugs. Mid morning his mother came and demonstrated with him for self discharging himself from this hospital recently and one other. She left very upset and his sister arrived and comiserated with him but left no room for any doubt over what she thought.

By late morning the doctor arrived and explained that he ws so full of opiates that he ws unable to digest any food and that they had to clear out his intestines. He promptly asked for particular drugs to be given which the doctor refused. He got quite wound up and then declared that he'd discharge himself. This, he was assured he was free to do. So he did. As he collected his things you became aware of serious personal hygiene issues but eventually he was ready to go. At this point he began shouting for a nurse who promptly arrived only to be asked to send for some porters to carry his bags down to the bus stop. This too, was declined. He went anyway.

Then his area was deep cleaned and it was only once the curtains were removed that the filth and damage he had caused became apparent. It took teams of cleaners and handymen till 9 in the evening to make his bay useable.

The final example of an addict reminded me of Neil in the young ones. Always whining, whingeing and demanding attention. Every few minutes for days he demanded methadone, oromorph and various other pain killers. At this time I was a frequent morphia user myself but he kept saying his leg pain was 8/10. Yeah, right.

It amused all of us that as soon as every nurse had told him "no" he briskly swung his painful leg and his good one out of bed and marched off for a fag. Outside was a significant walk away. This went on and on for days. Finally a doctor and nurse told him he was being discharged to his hostel. Cue Oscar quality whining, whingeing, complaining, painful to listen to but finally he said he couldn't afford the taxi. Fags, newspapers in abundance but no money to get home. The nurse informed him that the taxi was paid for by the NHS, cue sharp intake of breath all round, but that at one o'clock the meter would start and if he wasn't there he'd be charged for keeping it waiting. Moaning and cussing he went. Cue deep cleaning but no damage although two phone chargers were left in the wall sockets.

Drug addicts are costing the NHS dear but do you ever hear that on the BBC?

I conclude this post with by far the very worst example of patient misbehaviour, any misbehaviour I've ever seen. Unfortunately this specimen occupied the bed opposite me. Foul in every aspect doesn't begin to do him, his mother or his cousin justice.

He arrived clad in two gowns laced at the sides carrying his catheter bag with his utterly obnoxious mum in tow. Their language was obscene. All the time. They treated the staff like dirt. In the mornings he'd be asked to get up to allow a bed change. He told them where to go. The cooks would ask for menu preferences and he'd swear at them, too. He'd stomp about the ward at 0200 shouting into his phone eating pasties, pastries and chocolate.

He was, I was reliably informed, a frequent flyer. He had a wuss of a GP who stood for little. When he wanted his bedding changed he'd disconnect his catheter bag and drip some of it's contents between his legs and get a nurse to sort out his "leaking" catheter. I saw him do this more than once.

His mother would visit, sit in his chair, plug in her mobile and shout at her phone. All afternoon. She was foul, too.

On Friday afternoon his older cousin arrived. She had left a course because it was like school. I thought they cut your benefits if you walked, he said. They never do, she replied. She then explained that she'd been to the benefits office to claim for this that and the other as her telly was two years old and she wanted a bigger one. The benefits she'd just claimed were for specific use but no one checked so she could spend them on a new telly.

Earlier, Pat, visiting her husband next to this creature asked what he did. Nothing, he said. He was on benefits. He'd not only never worked a day in his life he, nor anyone else in his family ever intended to. She asked him where he thought the money came from, he replied, "the government, they got plenty" she was aghast, as were the rest of us.

On Saturday afternoon they all arrived to visit laden with bottles of coke, Pepsi, tango, dr.pepper and every other fizzy drink imaginable, bags of Haribo by the dozen and towers of chocolate bars. He began phoning his mates inviting them into hospital to watch some tv show that evening. We were in shock. Pat was noting everything said and went to see someone. She returned as they all trooped out for their fags.

Fortunately, around 5 to 5:30 they all started shouting and swearing at each other and by 5:35 He was left alone cursing and swearing loudly to any who cared to pay attention. No one did and eventually fags dragged him away and the evening passed quietly.

On Monday the eagerly and constantly demanded urologist arrived to see him. He was on an extended fag break but a nurse offered to find him. No need, I've seen him before. There's nothing wrong with him. Remove the catheter and send him home. When he returned he lay down and some hours later demanded that the urologist appear. When informed that he had done so this foul specimen threatened to sue, instigate proceedings and other dire consequences.

This carried on for ages but before the conclusion was reached I'd been removed.

If a person cannot work I'll gladly pay my taxes to support them. If a person will not work then let them starve. This family were utterly foul, rude, selfish and having never worked had no conception of what it means to get on with people. We have paid our taxes to permit this utterly intolerable state to not only continue but to flourish.

Shame on us but you will never find our BBC reporting this shameful state of affairs but no doubt some politico programme commissioner would make it into a sitcom or reality TV programme and think they were doing a good job.

Such is the depravity of our national broadcaster.

Unmerited kindness

It goes without saying that those caring for you as you lie pretty much helpless in a hospital bed do a good job. The cleaners are just so helpful, tidying up, rearranging the cards and not complaining when the presence of so many makes wiping a window sill more of a trial than it needs to be but they are glad when you take away all but a few.

The ladies who come around with their pads asking you for your menu choices who then see "Sips" beside your name and roll their eyes in sympathy and who, after a fortnight, offer whatever you want as soon as you're allowed something more and are true to their word. Alas, all I could manage was not much but endless ice cream could have been mine!

But the nurses, the nursing care was amazing. Thoughtful, understanding, everything you have no right to expect it to be it is all that and more.

It is the more that makes such a difference. Early in the morning of my first Sunday in E1 I woke and felt conscious. It was refreshing in its way, more clearly aware of your circumstances and environment than hitherto. It provided time for reflection because it was so quiet. By Saturday evening I was one of two on the ward, one had been allowed home to see if he could manage his condition but he was due back on Sunday, opposite me a gentleman was waiting to go home first thing on Sunday if his medication allowed for it. Late on Saturday an elderly gent was placed in E2 but I wasn't really with it. After a good night's sleep, a rare pleasure in hospital, I felt pretty good for an immobile inert lump.

The 0800 changeover came but was far more relaxed than the usual rush. The nurse for the day was Humphrey. A delightful man. My wife later endeared herself to him by finding out that he was once #7 in The World at Chess and that in Kenya he was a national legend and all because he explained how 'checkmate' was a very unpleasant word in his vocabulary. Our first conversation was brief but of huge significance.

He asked if there was anything he could do for me, this as he was emptying bags along my left hand side. I asked if he could pull the curtains back so I could see the window. You like to look out of the window, he asked? We'll go over there if you like, he said. I can't  walk, I said. No, I'll wheel your bed there he said.

So I was moved to the vacant E3 berth. It was not until much later that another nurse explained that the process of moving 30 feet involved much paperwork, computer record amending and numerous other duties, which was why it wasn't done, she said.

All I can say is that the fact of lying next to a window made a huge difference to my reawakening consciousness as well as making it far more comfortable for visitors and quieter at night. It really made a tremendous difference. Gratitude was abundant, although I think it passed largely unnoticed so busy are all the staff all the time.

Humphrey did not have to move me. I had done nothing to deserve it, it was an act of unmerited kindness, the first of many.  On the Tuesday morning I was taken off antibiotics. About four I had an attack of the shakes the same as afflicted me immediately prior to the op. Andy, who was opposite me pressed the alarm and Humphrey arrived thinking l was fitting he called the duty doctor. I explained that it wasn't a fit but at home with a wooden bed it wasn't terribly dramatic here in a steel bed the racket was something else. The doctor sent to the path lab to find out the results from the stent now removed and put me on IV paracetamol.

Jen, the other nurse started piling on the blankets. Eventually, calm was restored and Jen stood by removing blankets as my temperature fell. By the time a semblance of normality was restored I noted the time and wondered why she was still here. It was after her shift change, not much but enough. I'd not even noticed the changeover. She shouldn't have been there but she was. I'm glad of that, too but almost an hour and a quarter after the shift change Humphrey returned.

He apologised for having neglected (his words, not mine) to show me how to use a medication for my severely unpleasant mouth and tongue which the doctor had decided showed signs of fungal infection. He'd put the bottle on my table earlier but I'd been in no state to know about it. He'd left and come back.

I thanked him profusely but all he said was that I'd be here tomorrow but he was off to play in a chess tournament some hundred miles away and he needed a clear head to win! Which he decisively did.

After a week or more I was put on the feed bags which were changed at 7:00pm. Toby, a nurse with a penchant for decent motorbikes, was charged with  changing the bag. Knowing that I was pretty desperate for a shower, which after a fortnight was long overdue, happened to disconnect my drip, then the feed bag and said, "ooops, I haven't taken the new one out of the fridge" and with a smile produced a fresh towel and told me that it would take him almost exactly the time it would take me to have a shower.

He even brought a bare trolley pole thing which normally holds drips and pumps for me to steady my feeble self. Once clean and spangly l was once again piped up but feeling oh, so much better especially as the bedding had been changed as well. He didn't have to, but he did.

The next day the dietician lady with the flag of St.Piran informed me that I was going onto 18hr bags so I could exercise a bit. Great. This meant that I would be free from 1300-1900 so my chaperone and I could wander a bit. Sadly, for various reasons that evening the bag didn't go on till after 10 which trolopsed our plans. Next day, Amanda, nurse of exceedingly great talent offered to speak to the nutrition people and get the bags back on track.

It actually took a couple of days to restore the afternoon wandering schedule but she did it. It's a shame I couldn't wander much but I tried.

Even on my last full day when we were a bit concerned how we'd get me to the entrance a very experienced, perceptive and wise nurse called Nikki took my wife, showed her a lift we didn't know about, a back entrance, a car park and a place to park for a short time that made our exit easy and allayed our fears with one thoughtful wander around a relatively unknown part of this massive place.

I could go on but I hope you get the gist. The effect of these unmerited kindnesses was very great but probably umeasurable empirically.

There were so many others, Andy, who called for aid when I couldn't acquired sachets of pineapple juice once he knew it was my favourite and placed them in plain sight ready for the day. I'm glad to say that his day came before mine. It was a privilege to be there when after nearly 130 days he went home, albeit due to return in June or July for a final op.

Perhaps my sister provided the most amusing scenario. On one of her earliest visits she brought this small jar. I could barely raise myself up above the regulation 30degrees but I opened it and had a sniff. Freshly ground coffee. A snort was a more accurate description but I could wake up and smell the coffee, she said. I have to say that I did henceforth as did numerous staff and fellow patients. It provided amusement for many.

However, nothing can match a visit from your grandson and nothing did. He'll never remember it but I'll never forget it.

So many did so much but none had to and I had in no way earned their kindness but I will always be grateful for having received such an over abundance of it.