A strange week

Luke visits Hundon

How lax I have been, neglecting my blog for lesser pursuits, yet much has happened for me to record, so I continue the saga. Our grandson Luke came to visit this week, on his way back to the University of Leeds where he is enjoying himself between studying, in the best traditions. His course is computer science, which should take him forward into the unknown future well prepared for whatever presents. I'm not sure if it was through good luck, a great tip, or the magic of computer analysis of the odds, but he managed to back the winner of the Grand National, Noble Yeats. Ann had considered this horse, but instead switched to the more generic name, Longhouse Poet. Luke picked it for a more prosaic reason. He thought the name reminded him of a modern term currently popular among teenagers, Yeets, which my urban dictionary defines as "an exclamation of excitement, approval, surprise, or all-around energy", rather than the Irish poet. No doubt "YEETS!!" is what he said on winning at 50:1 odds.

At a different level, it was a worrying week when Bronte fell ill. I went into their room last week to find mess over the whole room. The smell was beyond imagining. She would not eat and could only pass small foul dribbles. On Sunday, we took her to the emergency vet, but with no improvement. That night we left her in the hall rather than their room; next morning, she had done the same in every corner of the hall, upstairs and down, including up the stairs and on the walls. Again, the mats went out for a solid hosing down and were hung on the fences to dry, and we took her back to the vets who this time gave antibiotics and Buscopan and advised a very bland diet. That night we shut her in the utility room. Happily, she seems to be improving now, though still far from normal.

The evidence

It seems to be a week for silly things. In their new home, Edwin has bought a lawnmower to cut the small front lawn. He then sent a picture titled "Look what I have done!". He is so used to modern internet-connected gadgets being able to predict his every wish, I think he thought that the lawnmower would magically sense the cable and switch itself off. 

For myself, I continue to get up frequently in the night for the toilet. Last night, I turned the bathroom light off to leave, but remembered by habit to reach for the spray to remove any evidence of my passing. My fingers are so numb I can no longer touch-type but have to look at the keys, and in the dark I held the spray the wrong way round and squirted my face instead of the air. At least I smelt fragrantly as I returned to bed.

Luke with Grandad John

Arming birds against a cat

My portrait of Nick on display

At a recent meal in the Swan, we were surprised to notice that Nick had pinned up the portrait I did of him. I gave it to him some time ago, but hadn't seen it anywhere, so assumed he had taken it up to his apartment above the pub.  Now it has appeared in the restaurant area, looking out proudly onto the diners, my first public piece! 

Having finished the portrait of Michelle, our late and much missed niece, Ann suggested I do one of her mother, Ann's sister Jane, so this I have started, choosing a picture from her youth to base it on. It has made a good start and I hope to finish it soon. I'm not sure what has drawn me to portrait painting, rather than rural scenes, or more imaginative works. I suspect I don't have much imagination or originality, so portraits are an easy option. However, I do feel sometimes I am cheating by painting only from photographs, even though I try to chose photos I've taken myself. Perhaps I can find a real-life class now I am retired and practice drawing people properly.

At the weekend, we gave some money to the bookies to enjoy the Grand National, although Edwin did manage to win enough to get his money back. Mary-Anne had the neat idea of letting her budgie choose a horse. She read out the list of runners in front of his cage, and let him choose by making the most noise against the runner he wanted. I think she hoped to have a new and profitable system, but alas the budgie did no better than the rest of us.

Mike continues to recuperate at home. He seems to be on even more medications than me, but appears to be in good spirits, and says his partner Ryan is looking after him in royal manner. Alas, he has not managed to go 'cold turkey' in stopping smoking, although he has managed to cut down a little. Our thoughts go with you Mike, for your recuperation and your will power.

Today I walk the dogs while Ann goes into Waitrose. Walk is an ambitious verb. More accurately, I take them for a shuffle ambling about in a random manner in the Sudbury park, not liking to stray too far from the entry point and the sanctuary of the car. In the middle of the field a young couple are picnicking; their toddler sees the dogs and starts to cross towards them, rapidly chased by the alarmed mother who snatches him up before he's half way to us. There are many youths about but they do not frighten, seemingly enjoying cans of Coke in the sun rather than snifters of coke. No, it is myself I fear of getting too tired or breathless and struggling to return. Some boys are by the river barely 100 yards away but a long-distance hike for me to watch them jumping in off the roof of a brick hut and swimming across, a feat I wouldn’t have done even in youth. 

Lion poo guarding the birds

Ann has two loves: birds and trees. She watches in sadness as the latter are felled but can do little to prevent it. But now a new enemy has come to take down her birds: our neighbour's cat.  It squats on the roof of the saloon waiting to pounce and Ann has declared war against it, short of chemical weapons. Initially our flapping Ukrainian flag was enough so hold it at bay, but now it has rebuilt its courage to try a fresh offensive. Ann's friend in the village recommended 'Silent Roar' lion poo and brought some round which has been sprinkled liberally. Then we bought a cat alarm which screeches with a high pitch in the cat's ear. Now she has bought a whole tank full of citronella. I found a spray for it and this too has been added to the arsenal. Now we wait to see if these weapons of deterrence work

An inauspicious year

The year 2022 is going to be recorded in the annals of Grandad John as an annus horibilis. In addition to my own deteriorating health and the end of my working life, both our friends Malcolm and now Rae have gone down with Covid, and today we received notice that Mike has been admitted to hospital with a heart attack. He is still only 47 and ought to be in good health. Today, he had a cardiogram with dyes pumped through his arteries, showing a blockage in one, so they have fitted a stent. At the same time, I was having dye pumped through my veins for a whole-body CAT-scan. At least mine was just a check-up, and hopefully will not throw up any nasty surprises.

I have commented before that Byron invariably finds a ball when he is out. Usually it is a tennis ball, sometimes new sometimes already shredded; occasionally a full football; once, a child's beachball with coloured lights in it that flashed every time he shook it in his mouth. Today, he found a minature football hiding in the long grass/ Barely an inch across, I was frightened he might choke on it so had to take it off him, to his disgust. 

Newsy catchup

A family photo

Yesterday afternoon was a follow-up appointment with the oncologist. I am still short of breath on effort, my ankles are swollen, and I have peripheral neuropathy with numbness and tingling in the fingers, but my blood parameters for renal function have been improving, and even my haemoglobin has increased from 9.0 to 10.0 g/dL (normal for men is 14-17). My fear was that she would offered me the choice to continue treatment or not, saying "we can try one more if you'd like to", which would put the onus on me, with consequent worry if I had made the 'right' choice. If I went into renal failure again, I would probably wish I hadn't gone on with it, or if the cancer came back quickly, I would have regretted stopping. Nevertheless, the consultant decided I should permanently stop the immunotherapy, as at my age it may be doing more harm than good. I had been wondering whether to request it be stopped anyway, so now the decision is made for us, and I am glad. We asked about the overall prognosis, but she refused to commit, saying she will know more when I have had my next full scan, delayed through after-Covid pressures on the NHS. She ended by saying I might die of old age yet. I said, "you mean I might live to 88 instead of 80?" but she looked doubtful at this thought! Perhaps she meant 81 instead of 80.

My brother Richard and his wife, Chris, visited on Saturday, their first for nearly three years. Edwin and Andre joined us for tea to introduce Andre to some new members in our family. Needless to say, Bronte insisted on being included in the family photoshoot. Richard has lost much of his hair, but otherwise is in remarkably good health and is currently arranging a five-mile hike for his men's group. In contrast, I remain hairy on top while being a complete wreck underneath.

Mike has sent Ann a belated Mothering Sunday gift of a bracelet and a book of Bronte letters. This is so thoughtful, and reflects a rare love for a good stepmother. In pleasing Ann he pleases me, so the gift is doubly appreciated. He and Ryan run a new business from home designing websites, and which seems to go better each month, so we all wish them well with it.

Even though the majority of the population have been well jabbed, Covid seems to draw closer despite - or because of - the new freedoms we're enjoying. Next weekend, Ben and Kaz should have stayed with Luke, their son, but Ben has gone down with Covid for the second time and is quite unwell. Andre and Edwin had invited them over for Sunday lunch, so that will not happen either. Luke is studying computer science at Leeds, and gets on well with Andre whose career is also computerature. One of our friends in Haverhill, Malcolm, has also gone down with Covid and Edwin had it recently, so we are all too aware of the continuing risk. Malcolm also is well into his 80's, so our thoughts are with him for a full recovery.

Time to abolish general practice

Our GP surgery is proving increasingly incompetent and incapable of providing even basic services. I came out of Addenbrookes Hospital ten days ago, having been admitted with acute kidney failure (AKF). The treatment there was excellent, despite crowded wards and huge time pressures on the staff. AKF is monitored by measuring the blood levels of two breakdown products excreted by the kidneys: urea and creatinine. Both had been high on admission, but fell with treatment, and the consultant oncologist requested the GP to arrange follow-up blood tests after my discharge. 

It took three visits, a phone call, and an email of complaint from Ann before they would issue the blood form, and I finally I had to take a copy of my discharge letter in because the surgery couldn't find it. Then one of the GPs phoned in response to Ann's email to say the form would be ready to collect yesterday morning. Needless to say he was abrupt and annoyed, not bothering to even ask how I was since coming out of hospital. Ann went into the surgery, but the staff refused to give her the form, insisting I had to go for it in person. She was furious, and wrote about the experience on the Clare Facebook page. Of course, the GP surgery themselves don't do blood tests anymore, so I had to go to West Suffolk or Sudbury. Neither is available as a drop-in service anymore, and there was a waiting time of one week at Bury and ten days at Sudbury. In the end, I went to the drive-through centre at Cambridge, and they agreed to do the test there as it was for Addenbrookes.

I am writing this blog as Ann thought her Facebook post might attract a few replies from people to say they had had good experiences at the surgery. In fact, there was a torrent of responses, all negative, some heart-breaking, saying how poor was the service they had received. I was in hospital and GP practice for over twenty-five years, including time spent as a locum at the Clare practice when we first moved to Suffolk. We used to pride ourselves in being a family service, knowing the people of Clare, and giving a personal service with rapid appointments, and home visiting. Now, all that has gone by the board. Covid may have precipitated the end of traditional general practice, but there is no sign that it will ever return. 

I earnestly believe that general practice in this country is now dead. It should be completely scrapped, and a new salaried drop-in service started to replace it, supplementing the excellent work of A&E departments, and taking much of the pressure off them. All patient records are now available throughout the NHS, so anyone with an NHS registration number should be free to go to whichever drop-in centre they wish. These centres would be adjacent to pharmacies and a nursing station for blood tests and general procedures currently done through GP services. The whole thing should be centrally organised, streamlined and aimed at the convenience of patients rather than the profit of GPs. It is time for a fundamental overhaul of primary care in this country, and this must start with the abolition of GP surgeries which refuse to see patients or apply basic common sense.

 

Ann goes to London

The boys took Ann to the Stonehenge exhibition yesterday. Although it is something I would have loved to see, Ann walked five miles. London is like that - there is a plethora of transport with tubes, buses, taxis and Ubers, yet one always seems to walk miles between places. The British Museum itself is huge, so many of those miles were trodden in its hallowed corridors. Quite rightly, they all think I would not have made the journey, and I believe they are sensibly correct. Their only brickbat was to suggest I could have gone round in a wheelchair. While this is probably true, at the moment I value my independence more than a visit to the BM, so I will continue to walk locally within a shrinking radius.

Edwin was invited to one of the ancient colleges of the University of Cambridge this week. Emmanuel College was founded in the reign of Elizabeth the First, and is filled with tradition supplemented by fine wine. Edwin is now professionally engaged as a post-graduate advisor at UEA and Ipswich, and he appears to have held an interesting debate with one professor about the state of finances outside the golden courts of Oxbridge. Over the cheese and port, he was also able to chat with the guest of honour and alumnus of the college, Sebastian Faulks and his wife. Edwin has the remarkable ability to talk easily with people from all walks of life, and is brilliant at making new contacts. I feel his future is only just beginning, and we wish him all success and joy in the journey ahead.

Getting ready for the bath

The boys had read that finely ground oatmeal in the bath may help itching. My skin is a perpetual irritation, both to myself and to those who watch me trying to stop scratching, so they have ground up Quaker porridge oats in their food blender for me to try. I must admit there does seem to be some benefit, and I am certainly having more baths, which is like stepping in a large bowl of thin gruel. I suppose it is no different in principle to Cleopatra bathing in sour milk. One of the strange side effects I currently have is persistent tingling of the fingertips, and moderate numbness. This means I have to be particularly careful picking things up, especially glassware, as I am becoming even more clumsy than usual.

Once, the news on TV or wireless was a broad sweep of world and local events. Nowadays, especially with TV news, they seem only able to focus on one subject at a time, with undue emphasis on "vox pop". This week with our (largely) government-induced financial problems, they have switched from war to impoverishment. COVID hardly gets a mention despite hospital admissions for the over sixties  being greater than at the height of the pandemic. I wonder what next week's cataclysm will be.