Last Thursday wasn't good, rotteness and lethargy were in the ascendent but life goes on, at least in NZ. Whilst explaining to she who wishes to provide all I need constantly in an torrential stream of questions that all I really wanted was some good news. Within an hour it came. An email from Terry, he of NZ residence who had just had his post chemo CT scan which showed him to be all clear. Joy of joys. It was overwhelming really. I couldn't have felt more chuffed, alas my emailing skill set had become slightly beyond reach so all he got was the shortest of notes but the best message I could manage.
In the early hours I was awakened by the shake, rattle and slurp of a very much below par me. I had no idea what was going on but I was uncontrolably and violently shaking from head to toe, rattling teeth, also uncontrollable and evident slurping, it could have been rolling but was a result of so much sweat that slurping is a more apt description. I'm not sure whether she should have moored me up or put a lifejacket on but it wasn't nice.
My holder of the hand became the holder of the phone. Such is her experience that she knew exactly what was going on. Phone calls made starting at 0330, returned, temperature taken and recorded, paracetamol administered even though not due, windows opened, or closed, advice taken and acted upon. Doctors phoned, calls returned, by 1300 a van load of drugs delivered to the door, left, watched and signed for by the driver once carried in by my local drug administrator.
All of this was related to me after two or three days, not too sure but I am sure that it was about the third day when I came to and asked what the horrible stink was. It wasn't her and there's only us. It was awful. Not just bad but terrible, unbearable, unbelievable but unendurable, too. After much heaving, sighing, stretching and drug taking I eventually got into a prone position from which I expected to make the shower. It was not easy but she had elicited the offer of help from her friend, still a community nurse who may have seen me at my worst but she'd never smelt me like I was. The threat made the shower urgently indispensible.
For those who know fishing, proper fishing that is, you will know about ray slime and deckwash hoses. It was that sort of shower. It was wonderful. Being clean and totally exhausted but so worth it. Whilst abluting the being, clothing, anything within two metres of where I'd lain was removed, washed, purified, cleansed and aired. I even went downstairs for a short sojourn before returning from whence I came.
It seems I have "a" lurg, not "the" lurg. Antibiotics are now added to the rather larger egg cup of convenience, they would not have fitted in the smaller one. The pills are huge. Like the biggest I have, breaa geet monsters they are. They may not do the lurg much good, and I'm glad of that but they don't do me much good either.
They invoke a disconnect on a pretty totalitarian scale. I can see bits of me moving but the idea of my being in control of the movement is somewhat fanciful. Constantly being asked what I want .... squash ....? Yes, please. Eat? No thanks. Even when the smell of what's being cooked invades the malodourous air of this bedroom one is roused to believe that venturing down would be advantageous. The act maybe, the event somewhat less so.
Eating has become an effort too far. One morning I was woken to scrambled egg and fried bacon. Fried bacon! Fried bacon, is there anything as good? Grilled may be less messy, bunged in the oven may be easier but only fried tasted like bacon should. Only fried makes the mess that bacon can. It was lovely. I couldn't say when it was but I did realise that she must have been desperate for me to eat something. I wonder if the request for fried bacon will be met next time . . .
One upside is that intrusive pain has been somewhat muted although the whole drugs regime has been rescheduled, night time Oramorph reinforcements have been noticeably absent and paracetamol every six hours to the minute regardless of state of consciousness is a tribute to that most remarkable drug and the most remarkable administrator. All of which makes the last week a bit of a blur, disconcerting and trying to unravel the events is impossible but for the accurate record keeping of one to whom such things come naturally.
It is quite amazing how much effort is required lying down interrogating your memory, trying to affix days to events, or vice versa, albeit not exactly exciting events, details of which would make most uninteresting reading but markers nonetheless. Mostly extremely unpleasant reading, details of which would repulse anyone not a medical professional with some responsibility to this sad case.
Indeed, conversation is laboured either personal or telephonic. It's a twofold problem, the first being one of wind. I have lots, unfortunately, mostly it comes from the wrong place, is uncontrolled, unpredicatble and resembles random morse. Even though I become somewhat impervious to it all the supplier of all good things is ready with a syringe of peppermint water when it's getting out of hand. From the other end it is laboured, prone to failing, fading to barely a whisper and being very inconsistent as well as hard work. It's just not worth the bother but I try until I give up.
The other aspect of this problem is not unknown nor unprecedented but it has yet to become normal. It is that peculiar sensation of beginning a conversation and being unable to continue at anything like normal speed. I can see the words clearly in my head, actually really see them like the old Windows time screensaver bouncing around but I can't order them or summon them up at will. It's like fishing, again. I can see the quarry but I can't catch the prey. Writing is so much easier even though just typing this out is taking so long but most of the time is spent herding words. Eventually enough are coralled to get them out in order and the next lot bounce around waiting their turn but they are not patient waiters.
Then, as at this moment, the words lose their bounce, slowly fade, the mind goes blank, stopping gives pause for spelling, punctuation and grammar checks but even that gets harder and sometimes, as you must notice I just give that up, too.
Life does go on. A phone call from a mate in some distress just after being told his sister was critical in ICU up north, mid 60s. The next day a phone call from one whose father died last month to tell us his wife's dad died earlier that morning 90ish, ill for quite a while and the day after the ailing sister was no longer critical. It's what happens, we all die only the timing and causes vary.
Every day there are still cancers to be dealt with, heart attacks, strokes, traumatic events and so on. The miracle is that the NHS copes at all let alone as magnificently as it does, it still treats all it can even the Muppets who don't do as they're told, the ones who fight over toilet paper, the ones who fill trolleys with so much that they can't get it all in their cars and have to wait in their parking bay for a return trip.
But today, Thursday, the sun is shining, the clarity out of the window has invaded the mind. It feels like a degree of life has returned. I just had a read, Philip Yancey amazing blog, but he's a proper writer who just communicates the most profound ideas so simply that when I struggle to read anything a time with him always rewards. I'm told that there are a load of cards and letters awaiting my consideration, equally I've been told that they are worth reading as are the emails in my inbox.
Where would one be without the other? My other has once again endured a far worse week than I. I pray that as we pass through this last full day of antibiotics she may be every bit and maybe more relieved than I. Anything else worth knowing happened this week? Probably not!
Grace remains sufficient for the day whether we are aware of it or comatose. Grace and peace, invaluable and priceless.
Addendum. 1230. The doctor phoned as he said he would. I am one of the NHS's worst nightmares, so much so that I am not to engage in face to face meetings with anyone for 12 weeks. I'm to stay indoors. My wife is also thus constrained. The implications are only just being thought through. I have learned to be content with whatever I have was said by St.Paul. I'd say I believe it, now would seem to be the time to practice what I would not hesitate to preach. Paul could only manage with the grace of God extended to him daily. We are no different, and he was in a Roman prison not a nice house with garden, a shed, toys and for me the best company one could have.
Faith untested would be pretty worthless, would it not? Fortunately, previous testing has been hard, almost unbearable but He who took us through them will take us through the tests that lie ahead. So, life carries on but it doesn't get any easier it seems.
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