Of Papworth and Paris

On Monday, whilst still dark at 6a.m., Andre came to take me into Papworth Hospital for the lung biopsy. He had been to Paris with his parents, only returning at 1a.m., yet was up again at five to collect me, as Annie is unable to drive at night. 

I gave my date of birth at the desk, and the receptionist said, "Oh, that's the same date as me!" Another patient overheard and said, "but not the same year. I too was born in 1942." I guess one in every 365 people must be born on 27th December, although the receptionist was the first person I have met to make the match; strangely, I calculated the odds of other people born in 1942 and they must be very similar: approximately 1:300. 

PET scan: metastasis
in the lung 

The radiologist came onto the ward to share her intimate pictures of my insides. She pointed out the area of the new tumour metastasis: a massive bright area of the lower lung, glowing in brilliant yellow and orange like the sun where the rapid metabolism of the cancer had avidly taken up the lion's share of the radioactive sugar tracer. "But unfortunately, we found a second metastasis," she added. Then, by way of compensation, she said, "but it's much smaller." She then showed a small, inconspicuous, yellow spot high on my back in the muscle layer. They then laid me down on the CT scanner on my abdomen and poked about for nearly an hour. The first biopsy, though to a much smaller target, was easily done in a few minutes, but unexpectedly, the second to a much larger target was more difficult. Initially, a trainee doctor was doing it, but after a few attempts with the senior consultant guiding him, she took over to complete the job; it was clearly not straightforward, and she too was a long time poking the long needle in and out until she was finally satisfied and a loud click announced she had taken the sample. The hospital keep the heating low, and I was shivering in just a flimsy hospital gown on the cold metal table, being constantly slid in and out of the scanner to check the position of the needle tip, although they threw a thin blanket over my legs. When they finished, I asked her outright, "what was the problem?" "It was its position," she said, "the diaphragm kept getting in the way every time you breathed."

Later, the check X-ray showed a small pneumothorax where air had escaped into the pleural space between the lung and the chest wall and I was kept for longer until a repeat X-ray confirmed it was not continuing to enlarge, so I was cleared to go home. It was well dark by this time, so again Annie could not collect me, so the taxi service was provided by Edwin.

Andre's parents will be with them all week. The boys brought them up from Heathrow; they had five large suitcases for Edwin's small car, so the parents had to sit in the back with a suitcase each on their knees. November is not a good time to bring older people from just south of the equator, where the summer temperature is 30C, to a snow-covered Suffolk, but they were so keen to visit and see Andre's and Edwin's house. They called in to visit us last week, and his mother sat wrapped in a blanket, saying she wanted to stay with us and abandon their cold, wet, Paris trip. She did of course actually go, and I think they will have enjoyed it: they saw Rome and Florence on their last European visit, and wanted Paris to complete the itinerary. They will be coming to stay with us tomorrow for one night, so we shall have a full house.

Death - the herald of change

He Is Gone…

He is gone, my gentle brother,

He who felt the sun upon him,

He who walked the fields in summer,

He who loved the green-treed pathways,

Over whom the birds soared skyward,

He is gone with summer’s end.

He is gone, the gentle father,

He who loved his grieving daughters,

He who loved them from their birthing

And who coddled them through childhood,

Loved them through the hours of darkness,

He has followed swallows’ flight.

He is gone: such quiet friendship,

He with care his garden tending, 

He who loved to walk with nature,

Driving through the rolling country.

He who lived a life so peaceful,

Gone to peace for evermore.

He is gone, the steadfast husband,

Through the years of tears and laughter,

Through the hours of quiet disaster,

Through the pain of grief shared with her,

Through sweet moments spent together,

With night’s darkness he is gone.

                                            JHM

Chris has phoned with the date for Richard's funeral, in mid-December. The death of my younger brother, barely three weeks ago, has induced an introspective depression and heralded more troubles, though mostly of my own making. As always, I know the pain for Chris and her family must be immense, yet like so many of us, I become self-centred even in the presence of death. Most recently, I had felt a rough edge on a tooth with food wedging. A visit to the dentist on Monday diagnosed a split lower molar, which now faces extraction. I am booked for this cruel procedure tomorrow morning. Having suffered the gruelling pain of a previous molar extraction, I do not welcome this news; I should not have vainly crunched hard nuts.

On Sunday, we went to a magnificent broadcast production of The Phantom of the Opera at the Abbeygate cinema, with the rare encore of five previous phantoms singing with Sarah Brightman in the presence of Andrew Lloyd Weber. Returning to the car, I had a parking ticket - the first for many years. Again my own fault - I had neglected to renew my disability badge in time (it takes up to 16 weeks to come through).

Now, in addition to the tooth, I am faced with a series of hospital visits to Papworth and Addenbrooke's following a PET scan last week. This was an impressive procedure where I was given a personal dose of highly radioactive glucose that arrived hot from Amersham in a huge steel syringe contained in a lead box. I was told not to go near pregnant women or children for a minimum of four hours, and avoid close contact with anyone on trains or buses. Once again, poor Annie had to suffer waiting in a chilling hospital cafeteria for nearly four hours for me to be done. That poor girl suffers much in her life, mainly through me: my decaying body, my actions, my thoughtlessness. 

Death is the herald of change. For some, the changes are unimaginable; for some, minor inconveniences, but always the ripples spread and disturb all they touch. Perhaps, if we get through all this, I will whisk Annie off to a glorious break away from here where she will be pampered and fussed for once. Alas, I can also imagine Annie rolling her eyes and saying, "very likely!"

Richard & Chris with Edwin