Little problems

The boys' new house

The boys have been in their new home for one week, and are already facing the problems of new homeowners. We were sat in their front living room when Annie noticed a leak from the ceiling; a slow drip of water onto their newly cleaned carpet. No longer can they simply call the landlord to report a leak and let him sort it out; now it is their responsibility. By chance, we had a plumber booked for the morning to fix our own leaking shower and noisy shower pump, so the boys asked him to look in on them after he left us.

We are trying to keep on top of the many jobs needed to keep a house in good shape. We want to redecorate our little snug, the room we set aside to keep warm in winter when the rest of the house is cold. It is furnished with two comfortable chairs with cushions and footstools, a couple of well-filled bookcases, a small table on which we can place our cups of tea or laptops while we curse the Guardian crossword, and a small second television before which we while away the evenings, usually with a detective series (currently Annika), or a light comedy such as Parahandy or an archive programme from the BBC's days of serious programme making. Annie wants to decorate one wall in delicate pink, which will certainly lift the room with a little colour. 

 For some time, I have had a cough, but nothing more than that expected with the melanoma spreading through my lung. It is hoped the radiotherapy may have reduced and slowed its progress, but of course it still sits there, irritating the delicate pleural lining of the lung to cause some pain, and sitting on the diaphragm to trigger the cough reflex. The cough has been a little more active of late, confirming its presence with a little phlegm, not yet tinged with blood; but last night I did imagine I'd seen a pale tinge of pink to its colour. It reminded my of the colour our snug will become; this morning, though, in bright daylight, all was clear. 

Cancer is not an easy word to manage, as host or partner. It does not frighten me: I have seen too many deaths to be worried by my own. The weakness in my legs and arms, or the breathlessness on walking up a slight slope, remind me the body is failing even if my mind dwells not on the fact. The tiredness can be overwhelming and makes any thoughts of death more welcome as a long and peaceful sleep, like sliding into a welcome doze in a scented garden with the sun upon my face. Red has always been my favourite colour, the bright poppies to welcome spring, and our bright red roses to delight with their so delicate scent, and gorgeous depth of colour. But the poppy is the flower of remembrance, and red the colour of a violent death. 

I am getting more forgetful by the week. I do not think it is pure dementia or an onset of Alzheimer's; nor was there any reported sign of brain secondaries. But the scan did reveal quite advanced cerebral atrophy; my brain is literally shrinking, and I am losing many of those delecate connections that hold memories and make our personalities. Annie has been getting bad nausea this week, probably consequential to her advanced liver failure. Our granddaughter Grace, who works in a pharmacy, has been kindly suggesting a number of things to help, but Annie asked my to get the ginger sweets my niece Sue bought when I once had nausea following chemotherapy. I went upstairs, but with a minor distraction I came down without them; I had completely forgotten her mission for me. 

The other day, I had bought a pack of custard doughnuts. I opened the packet, and said to Annie, "there are ony two doughnuts! Someone's opened the pack in the shop, taken two then put the pack back!" Ann replied calmly, "no, I've just taken two out and put them on the plates. Yours in in front of you." I hadn't even noticed what she was doing. This morning, I did another careless thing; I threw the dog's toy hard for him to fetch, but missed seeing the door frame I was standing in. I caught the side of my hand, pulling a slice of skin off. I certainly saw plenty of red then, before I could hold it beneath the tap and put a plaster on. I just hope my mind holds out as long as my body, or I will become a true imbecile, fit only for the knacker's yard.

Annie

 

Annie has been feeling unwell since Sunday. On Tuesday, she had a fibre-sound scan of the liver, booked since she was admitted to hospital and diagnosed with liver capsulitis. The results were posted online soon after and were disturbing: it is now reported to be Stage 4 liver failure. The hepatologist had asked many questions about possible causes for this, but none have come to light. Annie has not been a drug user or knowingly had hepatitis, and even for an obvious cause like alcohol, she was never a heavy drinker, enjoying an occasional glass of wine with a meal but not draining the bottle and keeping off spirits; indeed, Annie has not drunk anything at all for many months now. A forest of follow-up blood tests has been booked for Friday, to determine the severity and a possible cause. 

This news of severe liver failure has thrown our lives together into focus. Hitherto, being ten years older with advanced cancer, it was assumed I would die first, and Annie would be there to bear it with me. Suddenly, we face the possibility that it maybe I who does the nursing and am left. There is an episode the Scottish comedy, Still Game, where the oldies gather in the pub to lay bets on which of them will go next. It is a morbid game that Annie and I used to play when she had only her heart problems to shorten the odds. We would go through all the friends, neighbours and relatives within our generation and consider who might be first, or who might outlast us all. My dear brother Richard was always very long odds; he was so fit, lively and active we barely considered him a contender. Now the odds have shorted against my darling Annie, forcing me to consider more seriously a possible life without her. But I cannot; she fills every moment of my life, and when she is away from the house, or even just sleeping upstairs, life seems empty and frightening. We do not now have much in the way of adventures, but we do little things together; we are at the comfortable stage in a marriage where we know what each other is thinking, and what they are about to say often before the words come out. We think so alike on most things, we are as one. To lose Annie would not be to lose a good companion; it would be to lose myself and, like considering death, I cannot contemplate or imagine it.

Dare to be different

 Laetiporus sulphureus?

 Walking Byron through the park this morning, we spotted a bright yellow, orange fungus growing on the trunk of a felled oak. Naturally, curiosity compelled me to look it up; it appears to be Chicken-of-the Wood mushroom, completely edible and with the taste and texture of chicken when cooked, hence its name. As I said to a fellow dog walker who was also admiring it, I wouldn't like to eat it. By which, I meant I don't have sufficient faith in my identifying or cooking abilities to convincingly serve it on a plate to anyone. I would be more likely to end up like Erin Trudi Patterson, behind bars for taking out half my family! Surprisingly, my father used to take us mushrooming as children. We would leave early with dew on the ground and stop by some random field where he seemed to know they would be. We would pick a good number of huge things, get them home to wash and peel off the top skin, then he would cook them as part of a full English breakfast. He also foraged for other rural gifts: crab apples, cranberries, elderberries, and rose hips. He was brought up in an orphanage in London, miles from any countryside, so I have no idea where he learnt his foraging skills; but we all survived without mishaps. He was a good cook, doing unusual dishes such as roe on toast and French toast; his Bubble and Squeak has never been surpassed.

Clare was once a pleasant, quiet, quintessentially English village (or small town as they consider themselves), but has recently gone the way of so much of old England. The residents particularly attack anyone who infringes what the righteous see as their moral or aesthetic values and residents regularly post complaints of their neighbours, or pictures of cars to show minor misdemeanours. Clare residents particularly hate newcomers or people with different values to their own. The large Bell Hotel in Clare has been under financial difficulties for some while since it was sold off by Green King as unprofitable, leading to a succession of owners trying, but failing, to make a go of it. The last group were a wild but lively group who came with new ideas and promotional attempts, but the residents took against them, boycotting the pub, putting out adverse publicity, and generally making life unpleasant, until the new people were driven out (though they may not have helped their own cause by not paying the staff!) Now the 16th Century hotel sits empty again, slowly decaying with its corner chipped by passing lorries negotiating the tight bend round it.

The latest persecution is against a new shop setting up that has painted its front a bright colour, to attract notice and clients. Naturally, this has produced a massive backlash, trying to force them to repaint it a subdued pastel colour. The town did the same to an old, privately owned mid-terrace house once that was daringly painted purple. The cry goes out, "we'll end up looking like Tobermory, if this is allowed to carry on!" But what is wrong with Tobermory? It's brightly painted waterfront is known round the world and is a feature to attract tourists. Goodness knows, Clare could do with attracting a few tourists; it's character, it's shops, and the remaining pubs might have a chance of survival if the town only dared to be different.  

A silent protest

Facing Death in Rafah 2024

After a long hiatus, I have completed a picture I started last year depicting a couple in Gaza who watch the devastation unfurl around them as they fear they may be next in their family to die under the hail of bombs. This is not a covert protest in support of Palestine Action; it is an overt protest against so much mindless destruction and death at places of violence around the world. In the aftermath of the Second World War, I walked the streets of Leicester and Coventry, and later London, but saw only a spatter of bombed out houses. The devastation and waste of Gaza is worse than anything I remember or have seen, short of the pictures at Hiroshima Peace Museum depicting the final bombs of that war. Only in Hiroshima were more buildings flattened per area than Gaza, and that was with nuclear bombing. 

Today there were many arrests in London of people supporting Palestine Action, a group proscribed by the current Labour government. Most people watching the news look in horror at the mass bombing of the mostly civilian population, but following the desecration by paint of RAF bombers by protesters, even peaceful protests or holding a simple message on a sheet of paper results in arrest and possible imprisonment. Oh England, my England, what has happened to the right to peaceful protest? Since when did a ruling party block and stigmatise people objecting to mass bombing and starvation? I have not labelled my picture with words of protest; the people there speak eloquently enough without my vain words. Let us just trust that Starmer's thought police don't come knocking upon my door to arrest me for a silent protest, for in this country now, it seems even private thoughts can be offensive and be penalised! Heu, patria mea non iam est. [Alas, my country is no more!]

The boys are moving on

On Sunday, Annie was invited to meet Edwin in Bury for a shopping spree and a chat and ended up going to a Ukrainian lesbian wedding. Gay weddings are not permitted in Ukraine, so the couple seized the opportunity to hold the ceremony here while they are living in the UK while some of their relatives flew over to be with them.

Besides the wedding much has occurred in Maison Marr since last week. Edwin and Andre have finally signed and exchanged contracts for their first house; they and their dog, Morris, are to move out of Bury-St-Edmunds and into Newmarket. The boys will collect the keys tomorrow (Wednesday) and have invited us to visit the yet empty house on Thursday. As they are currently renting, they don't have to vacate their own property on the same day but will spend a week cleaning and preparing the place, with the intention of moving their furniture in the following Thursday. But not just their furniture: they have also earmarked our chesterfield, the piano, and a wardrobe to go on the van, so we spent the day looking for a new sofa and chair. Annie emptied the wardrobe and this morning I took three bags of clothes to the charity shop. By one of life's many coincidences, the boys' landlord phoned them just before they phoned him to give their notice; he is selling the house, so they have to leave anyway. He even offered them first refusal to buy the place! 

By another coincidence, a guy I have been corresponding with for some time about some papers we wrote turns out to not just be the same age as me but was also studying physics at Queen Mary College (now University) in the same three years that I was there. We each scarcely remember the other being there, but I do remember the project he had: to measure the thickness of dust on the moon using the radio telescope on the roof of the physics building by measuring infrared emissions before and during an eclipse of the moon. This was in the early 60's, before man had landed on the moon, when there was a fear that the dust layer might be so thick that the NASA lander could sink right into it. As a result of this and other work at QMC, the department was at the forefront of the moon landings and was given one of the rare samples of moon dust returned from the Apollo Eleven lander; I remember seeing it displayed in a glass case in the physics department when I returned some years later.

A visit to Dr Doom

 Dr. Doom is a severe, grey haired lady in charge of the oncology department. Her job is not always rewarding; she is dealing with people of all ages with advanced cancers, many of them young with families, and for every patient who appears to be in good remission, there must be many more she has to break bad new to. A box of tissues is never far from her. I suspect only the team in paediatric oncology have a worse job than hers.

We first met her when she told Annie and me that I had less than a year to live and could offer no further treatments, therefore they wouldn't be doing more scans. At that point, they handed me over to the MacMillan team who visited us at home, left their number and said to ring them if we needed them. That was three years ago. 

Nearly one year ago, another consultant said I should have a follow up scan. This revealed spreading cancer in the right lung, other small nodules in the left lung and liver, and a new metastasis in the deep muscles of the back. They agreed to arrange further radiotherapy to the lung, and excision and radiotherapy to the back which was done earlier this year. Three weeks ago, I had a further post-treatment scan, and yesterday we returned to Addenbrooke's for the follow-up discussion. The nurse who came out for us said we would be seeing Dr. Doom: Annie and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes.

She was still her sombre self, although conceded I had "done well", and the melanoma had remained static or even shrunk a little in the lung and disappeared from the back muscles. Nevertheless, she emphasised again there was no advantage in further scans as no further treatment could be offered and, indeed, she wondered how I had obtained another scan. We had been fully prepared for just this message, so were not too downhearted. 

We had to admit Dr Doom was very efficient: there was zero wait to get in to see her despite running a busy unit, and she had already posted her summary letter online before we got home. We noted with smiles that she stated I was happy with her decisions given the limited future options and wished me all the best for the future. The letter sounded like it had been written by a HR person saying, "we agreed you have no further prospects with this company, but good luck with your future career." But in fairness to her, I don't really feel strong enough for further surgery or radiotherapy anyway, so she is correct in her harsh assessment. Also, she did end by saying her door was always open, and I can contact the team in the future if I think they can be of help. The nurse attending summed it up by slipping me a card as we left; it had the number for the MacMillan team.

Edwin wrote a bleak poem back in January when the melanoma was noted to be spreading; I include it now to complete the atmosphere of gloom, before finally moving on to more cheerful talk next blog.

Desolation

My father is dying;
And everything is worse now.
Fatherly wisdom
Now gasped through oxygen masks
And a future of soiled bed linen.
We know what the future holds,
We need no sorcerer’s ball,
To see the pitiful ending of it all.
Howls in the night,
Awaiting sister morphine’s dripping embrace.
The great physicist’s mind
Reduced to cancerous cells.
Junior doctors telling that there
is no more to be done.
‘Pick a door; any door’,
The registrar pronounces,
three doors to choose from,
But there is no prize car waiting
only the knowing of things to come.
Decline and desolation.
All is bleak.
Hope is gone.
And fatherly affection
Replaced by cursed affliction.
The storms rage their howling, desolate ban,
As cancer ravages a once proud man.

Edwin Marr

The Pigeon

The Pigeon Dealer

In the far east, pigeon racing is a popular sport with large bets placed on each race, and a good pigeon is valuable. The picture is included to illustrate the poem and reflect the pigeon as a model of life; a simple nature, versus the greed and destructive qualities of the dealer.

I have always tried to shrug off problems, to present a cheerful, coping face to the world. Perhaps it is an attitude of war babies, the "stiff upper lip", the never complain generation. But now, living with a terminal cancer is having some effect on my attitude to life. Normally when asked how I am, I simply replied, "not too bad...", but a couple of times recently I realised I'd suddenly confessed to people who otherwise would not know, "OK, except for the terminal cancer." Perhaps it is the rogue within, wanting to see their expression, or perhaps it is a more vulnerable me, finally facing up to the reality of an inevitable death or seeking a sympathetic response.

This even appeared in a recent dream; I was a young houseman again, doing a ward round with the professor. Although amazed by the range and depth of modern tests, I was still giving a reasonable account of each case based on clinical assessment, as we used to. Then an eighty-two-year-old man was admitted; this was clearly me, although I was still the young doctor admitting him. I gave a single diagnosis just from a glance, even without an examination: "he will have bronchopneumonia. He's over eighty, we don't treat him." 

Waking in the morning, I remembered the vivid dream as I looked out of my window to see a bedraggled pigeon on the roof opposite, leading to this mournful poem. But rest assured, dear reader, I'm not usually in so sombre a mood.

The Pigeon

Astride the ridge across the way
A pigeon squats in mournful grey;
His sheen is dull, his plumage bleak,
No seeds of corn adorn his beak,

While from his wing, like flag forlorn,
A feather hangs, defeat to mourn.
He cannot smooth this hurt away
But pecks it vainly through the day.

He does not strut but slinks along;
No coos provoke his answering song;
No more to soar among his kin
With swoops of joy upon the wing.

Like him, I squat upon my chair,
My features drawn, my lank hair spare,
Those wild conjectures - once to flout -
Now poke my pain with stabs of doubt.

And all I’ve strived and strutted for
Is lost, with hope, to bear no more.
With pain intense the hurt-strikes crack,
Each memory lashed upon my back.

I too can only limp along,
No more to strive with cheery song
But curl into a rueful ball ─
Awaiting death to finish all.

John Herbert Marr