A wooden espresso machine and a plastic chainsaw.

The view from the front door, January-March 2018

Christmas Day 2017 began with coffee, ably assisted by a 1 3/4 year old apprentice.  His gran and I were sat with him in his kitchen anxiously awaiting news from just down the road. The building, large, white and centre is Singleton hospital. Top, right is ward 10. Oncology inpatients.

The hope was that post chemo blood infusions would allow my helpers Dad to come home for Christmas. 

He did. A selfie sent about 1000 showed a less pale Paul with a wistful smile.

Late morning till about tea time Paul sat uncomfortably in front of the fire, struggled to have Christmas dinner but managed as well as he could.

 It was, I think, quite a party in a subdued but far from Joyless way. A wonderful day in its way, even if I was required to don certain clothing of a seasonal nature and distribute the contents of a sack! At least it gave Paul a suitable subject to focus on so that maximum embarrassment could be extracted!

Presents were exchanged, opened and pressed into use rapidly as only a 1 3/4 year old could manage. 

Precious time.

The struggle had to be acknowledged and a return to ward 10 was delayed but not past (very) early evening.

Those practicing on ward 10 are amazing people. The sequence was repeated on Boxing Day and gradually time at home increased eventually allowing chemo and blood to be given as an outpatient.

Singleton hospital was very much the focus last Christmas. This year the focus was elsewhere. 

The view of the front door Christmas Day 2018

Christmas Day 2018 and the view from the front door couldn't be more different.

Some things were very similar. "Coffee, Granda" as my 2 3/4 year old able assistant offers his services in the caffeine cause. I say offers but in reality its more of a demand and we're  getting quite good at extracting espresso and steaming milk. He's pretty good at it although he'll improve when two strikes of the grinder dispenser stay at two rather than continuing to three and unless I'm quicker, four. He delights in pointing out the mess to his gran and explaining whose fault it is......... 

This Christmas one of his presents was a wonderful wooden espresso machine complete with coloured coffee pucks, properly fitting portafilter, cups and spoon.

Once he'd examined it closely and ascertained that batteries were not included or needed the noises of coffee extraction were mimicked to a tee.

He was right in there. No instructions needed. He had it down to a fine art, everything in the right order, almost. But not quite. "Frothy milk jug for the steam wand, Granda." Not a question, really, not a demand just a look of one with expertise wondering were such an important part of the process was. It was probably as fast as I've moved in recent days but a suitable plastic frothy milk jug was found and pressed into use.

Proud doesn't begin to describe it. His aunty and uncle were inspired in their gifts, as always.

Next to see the light of day was a Bosch Chain saw, complete with batteries this time so it made all the right noises. After some experimentation it was found able to make the unwrapping process even more fun. 

His dad would have been so chuffed and immensely proud. His dad's dad was doubly chuffed and proud enough for all of us. Now, if we could convince his wonderful mum of the delights of caffeine extraction!

The only view that really matters.

I'm so glad it was Christmas Day. I could have a shower, whether I needed it or not.

Led Zeppelin two, Linn and a life

Last night, Monday, I sat here and listened to Led Zeppelin 2 streamed at 24bit 192hz from a hard disk. It won't stream over the network as there's insufficient bandwidth. From a USB HDD it sounded glorious. I love that album, it is the best example of bass and drums in perfect harmony that I know of. John Henry Bonham and John Paul Jones in perfect sync. The control, the power emphasised and enhanced because of the control. The precision, the speed, the definition, the soundstage, the separation. I could go on but you get the idea. It was wonderful.  . . . and yet.

0s and 1s are amazing and the data being passed, processed and presented makes the mind boggle. I don't pretend to understand but I know what I'm hearing. And yet . . .

I have a copy of the original record, 50 years old next year, I think. I placed it on the platter of a nearly 30 year old Linn Sondek, lowered a Linn Ittok and its attached Linn Klyde into a record groove cut half a century ago. It's been played on a Phillipps record player bought in Aden in 1966, a Pioneer PL12D bought in Comet Gloucester in 1973, a Linn Axis bought in Radfords Exeter in 1984 and now a LP12 bought in Truro 26 years after my brother and I first heard a LP12 through a Naim six pack and Linn Isobarik speakers on a wet Saturday in ETS opposite the cathedral.

The lumps of diamond, real and fake, that have been dragged through those grooves over the years don't bear thinking about. The record does show signs of wear. And yet . . . .

It sounded different, no it sounded better. 

I know modern readership will wonder what I'm writing about. Many will yawn and ignore, some will deprecate, deny and even despise. But I know what I'm listening to.

Trying to explain what it sounds like is pointless. It has to be experienced. Even then a closed mind will remain so but I challenge anyone used to decent sound reproduction to listen to a well set up record player playing a well recorded and well pressed plate of vinyl and not note a difference. Indeed, I'd be surprised if it wasn't acknowledged as better. Not more convenient, but better. There may be a few snap, crackles and pops but I bet you wouldn't notice them as the music overrides everything else.

It is a wonderful thing, music. It deserves the best it can be given to do its thing.

Last night I was lost in tunes, but not entirely.

It's been a hard week. Scans, codeine, tramadol, blood tests in our surgery and in bed, doctor visits to the bedside, sudden debilitating pain for the first time post surgery and then an appointment with our cancer nurse and consultant.

The recent weeks events seem not cancer related, indeed the scans show a reduction in the rate of growth. The view of the horizon is not of medical professionals bringing PICC lines, bags of chemo or boxes of pills. The horizon is clear for three months. No blood tests. No appointments. No contact unless I sense a deterioration or feel it necessary.

Surprised? Initially. But then not really. Apart from whatever happened last week, the doctor thinks gastritis, I feel too well. I get tired. I lose energy quickly but I can still change brake discs and pads! I could probably do some decoration but it's the wrong time of year, isn't it?

It's the power of prayer you know. 

I know it. 

I've had so many assurances of prayer and so many have been praying for me for so long I know that prayer has had its effect. I know it to be so.

But it's not the prayer, it's the person prayed to. 

I know God didn't spare Paul despite prayer intense, abundant, faithful, but He did give him what he needed to die well. And he did die well.

I'm not there yet because of The One to whom so much prayer has been undertaken on my behalf doesn't want me yet, as I was reminded today by a good friend as she left from a visit.

I know many will wonder what I'm writing about. Many will yawn and ignore, some will deprecate, deny and even despise. But I know what I'm experiencing and who is responsible for that experience.

Thanks to all who are praying for me.

Thanks, too, to all who prayed for Paul. Your prayers were answered, too, He was glorified in Paul's life and in his death.

I can't explain it, but I know it.

Some things have to be experienced.

Some things are better than music.

In fact I felt so good that I gave up my ambitions to build a shed and ordered one .......

Selfish sadness

Sat here listening to R.E.M. opposite a photo of a smug looking Paul I am reminded that he it was who came home with Murmur and that was my first taste of R.E.M. We had tickets to see them in Hyde Park on the Saturday after the Thursday when a group of evil Islamics blew up trains and a bus in London. Never did get to see them.

To even consider that not seeing R.E.M. was sad compared to real sadness is a travesty but its roots lie in selfishness. I'd have loved to see R.E.M. in Hyde Park but in the scheme of things it's insignificant.

With Paul's diagnosis the sadness was overwhelming and unrelenting. It still is.
Emotionally thoughts run about out of control but eventually there comes a point when you find yourself focused on me. How am I going to cope without him?

Cue a mass of guilt and a spell of more disordered thought. You consider what you can do for his wife and son, his sister, his mum and then you're  back at me. Who will I ask about, who will help me do, who will sort the computer,  the stereo and so it goes on. And the guilt becomes unbearable.

Then you get to the point when you realise that the depth to which his suffering affects you is a mark of how deeply you loved him. The fear, apprehension, reality of his loss is a mark of how closely your lives were entwined, how you depended on him for so much. Advice. Knowledge. Alternatives. Options.

This summer I redecorated this room and that meant disassembling the stereo. The main components are over twenty years old. The only component I've set up is the record deck. Everything else was put together by Paul. I knew what I wanted, he'd advise about cabling especially. He had a thing about cabling things up. Just as well for a network designer, implementer, administrator.

Under the pre amp there was a diagram of connections and a note to leave it alone. I couldn't, didn't and after a few false starts the noise from the right bit comes from the right place.

The computer, too I had to format c as he used to say and do a clean install. I did that last summer. Last time I did it was Windows 95 and Lotus Smartsuite. But it works. Sort of.

Getting by while his smug grin looks at me from a wooden frame in the hearth. He'd appreciate the music.

Now I'm getting bouts of guilt again. A continuation with a twist. For years every time I bought anything I'd run it past him to make sure that he was happy about it reasoning that eventually half would be his. That's why I had two record decks.

I liked the idea that when I bought some all singing all dancing Bosch professional goodness, or a bike, or whatever eventually it would end up being at his disposal. Maybe his sister wants a Bosch 550W oscillating saw. Maybe not. Probably doesn't want a large Specialized Crosstrail push bike either. He wouldn't have wanted a Brompton so there's a degree of redress and balance.

It hurts to have to think about who will put the tools to best use. I hope Paul's sisters partner is handy. Our grandson is a bit young to use such tools and by the time he can he'll probably do it with an app.

Selfish thoughts, again. Overwhelming and unrelenting sadness. But not despair. Peace abounds and occasionally there are wisps of joy like listening to R.E.M. streamed from the server upstairs and sounding utterly fabulous. That's part of his legacy to me.

Wish I could have left him mine.
Back to thinking about me again.

Time to change

Tonight the clocks go back an hour, today the shorts have given way to jeans one day early. It is cold, a north westerly breeze gently shakes the Union Flag over the D-Day museum, the Normandie has just serenely steamed outbound past the window, the sun making her white superstructure all the more emphatic. How I'd love to be aboard her, again.

Beyond her Jaynee W alters course by about 120 degrees as having been lightened by transferring fuel to the ferries she makes her way to Fawley for replenishment. There is nothing very pretty about her ungainly mass of pipework and derricks above deck, nor anything attractive about her rust streaked black sides rising above her grubby faded red antifouled hull.

Without one the other would struggle but Brittany Ferries would no doubt find a way to navigate around the absence of the Jaynee W. It may not be as easy or convenient but it would be done. Life's like that.

Sat here on this beautiful Saturday watching ships pass in the serene way that ships do from the comfort of our daughter and her partners flat it occurs to me that I have a nothing day. A day when I don't have to do anything. A day when I'd be happy to do even less.

A day when you feel it safe to allow your mind to reflect and bask in calm contemplation. There haven't been many of these recently. And hitherto the fear of allowing ones mind to revisit recent memories has inevitably led to an aversion to permitting it free rein.

Today feels a fresh day. A refreshing day. A day when you're prepared to allow the mind to revisit places you wish you'd never been. A day so bright and lovely that looking out of the window details of the far shore are revealed in stark clarity. Not that the Isle of Wight has a particularly attractive shore line but it is interesting if only because it is there.

On Thursday 12th October 2017 at about third coffee of the day whilst sat in the garden enjoying the sun on a hot day the phone rang. The screen lit up "Paul MOB" and the heart lit up too. We're coming down a day early, OK? Of course, silly question but before I could say much a note of caution shimmied across the ether. They were cutting their holiday short.

I need to speak to mum.
I passed her the phone.
I watched through the kitchen window as she sat, listened with increasing attentiveness and then slowly drawing paper and pen towards her addressed the paper with absolute concentration.
Countenance giving cause for concern. I went indoors but kept my distance desperate to know but anxious lest I disturb.
Conversation businesslike, notes taken swiftly, look of sadness growing ever deeper, short instructions.
End of conversation, more concentrated looking at notes, minor corrections, clarifications.
Without looking up another phone call. Very businesslike, short, clipped, determined, desperate. Borne of recent experience she knew exactly the person to speak to, the form of words to employ and the tone of voice used no doubt said more than the words.

Finally, looking up I was told that "it's you all over again"
Within a couple of hours Paul came through the front door. That very instant I knew. Only a few weeks ago, August Bank Holiday he'd been so well, or so it seemed but looking back, closely examining the photos there were signs.

Within an hour he'd seen our doctor, within another two he was in the very ward I'd been in at the start only nine months ago.

Seventy two hours later the phone lit up with "Paul MOB" again.
Again I answered. No joy this time. Angiosarcoma. Terminal. A few months, maybe a year. Starting chemo here. Pretty much now.

Nothing can prepare you.
Nothing can affect you so dramatically or effect you so wholly.

Not even being told exactly fifty one weeks later on 5th October 2018 at shortly after nine that your numbers aren't good, the scan showed a lump where there shouldn't be a lump and we can start chemo on Monday.

Whoa! Hang on. Slow down. At times your brain fills with questions but it somehow triages them ruthlessly. How wonderful your brain is.
I feel so well. You look so well. We will stop all the blood tests, have a scan in two months and see you on 5th December. We will start chemo, aggressive chemo, then.
But I feel so well.
Depending on the scan we may delay till January.
Prognosis?
No cure but on average from the start of chemo life expectancy is 13 months.
If there is anything you want to do, do it in the next two months.

It was nowhere near as much of a blow as Paul had been, for me, at least.
It also assumes that I want chemo.

Looking up the Union Flag tells me the wind' s gone more northerly and stiffened, there's no one in shorts so the first day in jeans is the right choice and the ugliest class of vessel afloat, Autostar, Portuguese registered, 22,000 tons steams past at 16 knots delivering how many thousands of cars I can only guess at or Google if I could be bothered. But for all her ugliness she is a fine sight and doing the job for which she was designed with ruthless efficiency. To my left a voice describes her a a monstrous slug sliding along. A bit harsh, although apt, she is merely doing her job as best she can and at maximum benefit to her owners and vendors of her cargo.

According to AIS, Drive Green Highway,  red and white split by a black go fast stripe, Panamanian registered, 76,000 tons, doing 15kts will be passing shortly with another umpteen thousand cars aboard. A rough calculation tells me I can get up, make coffee, get back comfortably in time to watch her pass by. I can do this all day.

Mindoro, oil tanker, Maltese registration, 106,000 tons en route Fawley. Towing tug Phenix. Beyond are St.Clare going and St.Cecila coming both Ro-Ro IoW ferries. Yachts abound as does just about every type of vessel imaginable. Including the hovercraft.

Life goes on.
Wonderful, isn't it?

Many Happy Returns of The Day

That's what it often said on birthday cards.
Threescore years and ten used often to be mentioned.
Today Paul would have been 36.

No plans, no expectations.

But we had intended to go to see Mumbles lighthouse from here

Instead, our view was somewhat different. Somewhat familiar albeit in a place I hadn't been since I was 14.

The entrance to a PET scanner unit. The doors open to a set of rooms where cannulas are inserted, blood is taken, tested and a dose of radioactive sugar solution is administered. Once all is well the cannula is removed and you are required to lie still for an hour or so whilst the radioactivity is allowed to do its job.

Then 40 minutes or more are spent flat on your back with your hands above your head whilst motors whirr, switches click and clack as you are moved back and forth in a very expensive tube.

So much lying around on any other day would not have been so bad. But today.

Too much time to think. Too much to remember. Too much to relive. Too much to assimilate. Too much to even try to come to terms with. Just far too much.

Sadness so deeply felt, waves of it relentlessly rolling every thought in an ever tighter and darker spiral.  Probably as bad today as any in the last year. But no despair. No questions. Acceptance of what is and what will be. Faith forced to be real. 

Gratitude for every memory, even the recent ones in their terrible way. 

Thankfulness for the thirty five and a half years we had. 

Wonder as we were privileged to witness the way he dealt with his final months, days, hours and minutes.

Sadness that he's not here, sadness compounded by his absence from wife and son.

It is a magnificent gift when your son demonstrates to you how to die well. 

I hope I measure up to the standard he established.

Paul was a far better man than his dad ever was or will be.

Today was not a good day.

In the shower no one can see you crying

Paul

Friday 1st October 1982

Wednesday 11th April 2018