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.
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