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Celebration Tea from Matthew and Rosie |
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Celebration Tea from Matthew and Rosie |
Another week of radiotherapy is over. The days have been so similar and monotonous, varying only in the time of appointment or who ferries me in, that I haven't felt any urge to update this blog. The new procedure involves bombarding the area of skin with high-energy electrons from a small linear accelerator onto the scar on my back, where they removed the cancer from the muscles. The area is looking quite red now, like bad sunburn, so Annie is putting cream on as per recommendation. Now only three more sessions to endure.
Today was Andre's turn to take me in; an early start, leaving just after 7a.m. for 8a.m., but the poor radiotherapists start at 7a.m. so had already seen a string of patients. The NHS is clearly putting in the hours to get through their lists. Afterwards, Andre took me to ARM where he works, to show me round. It's a massive, complex campus, with multiple new buildings all belonging to ARM, and another under construction; clearly a very ambitious company that is doing well. They have several large dining areas that were deserted this early, but he generously bought me a wonderful full-English vegetarian breakfast, all freshly made and served, which made the early start well worthwhile.
Three of our close relatives are widows now: Ann's sister, Jane, my sister-in-law, Chris, and my ex-wife Nicola, whose second husband died some years after their marriage. All of them are going through a desolate time, emphasising how deep is the loss of a close partner. We know this treatment is no cure for rapidly spreading cancers like melanoma, but just hope several weeks of total disruption to our lives works sufficiently to damp it down and ultimately give us a little more time to enjoy life together.
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Wild Cat, aka Lewarne |
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My swollen wound |
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Happier Days in London |
Yet another hospital visit yesterday, to discuss the proposed management of my spreading cancer. At Christmas, it is traditional to watch the popular film Love Actually, with its classic scene of myriads of people meeting joyfully at the airport. The oncology waiting area was equally crowded, but without the luggage and romantic hugs of greetings. But Annie insightfully pointed out that the bonds between people as they patiently awaited their call to see the specialists was of a deeper love and carried more meaning than any fleeting reunion before a return to normal life. It was the love carried between marriage partners or lovers, a parent for a child, or a young man or woman for an ill parent through their stress of potentially terminal illness. One thing alone bound this group as we waited for another course of treatment or to discuss our progress: one person in each pair had cancer. Some were marked with surgical excisions, some with scarves covering their hair loss, or by sunken cheeks betraying a deeper cancer within their bones or blood. It made me appreciate how very blessed I am to have Annie, as she touched my hand through her suffering to give me strength and comfort.
At times like this Addenbrooke's shows its worth as a great hospital; they have had repeated multidisciplinary meetings about me before deciding to perform surgery to the more superficial mass then proceed to radiotherapy for the greater lung mass. As they explained with great emphasis, this is not curative but may improve quality of life and potential pain, at least in the short term. The lung mass lies wedged in the basement of the lung with the spleen on one side and the heart on the other, so the registrar warned me of various complications before he told me he considered their likelihood to be much less than certain, and persuaded me to sign the consent form.
Our dog Byron is lapping water in the kitchen. Oddly, each time I hear him, it sounds just like the clop-clop of horses that used to walk by the house from the paddock at the end of our road. I used to see the horses from my study, shading themselves under their tree in summer, or moving in circles on a training lead as they were broken in for riding. It was very rural and relaxing. Now the fields stand empty, for the trainer has taken a job in Newmarket, and the fields' owner has not leased them out. I used to take riding lessons when I worked in France, doing basic handling in a large barn in the evening, and then a good cross-country hack every Sunday morning which were wonderful. All my horsey terms were in French and really, I know little of horses, but a lot of country people keep horses or ponies so I thought these empty fields must be wasteful, as he could be collecting rent. However, based purely on the internet, it seems the rent from even quite large paddocks is ludicrously low, so it's probably not worth the effort of collecting it just to see it disappear again in tax. I know horse lovers must include insurance and vet bills and the cost of tack and food, but based on the cost of good grass pasture, the actual day to day running cost may be much less than a car, and miniscule compared to the costs of running a boat (this I do know from experience!).
I was never in the army, but even in the Air Cadets we were quickly taught how to stand to attention. Back straight, chest out, tummy in, head high and look the person straight in the eye. At my height, I was just short of six feet tall. Now my back is bent, my legs stooped, my head droops, and I am several inches short of the youth I was. But when my CAT scan X-ray results came back this morning, all was explained. It seems that, besides the obvious lung node which has grown a little larger and a new secondary in the other lung, I also have a fracture in the lumbar spine. I did not remember breaking my back, for although I do now get some backache I attributed it to "wear and tear", or osteoporosis. It seems I do, indeed, have osteoporosis and the first lumber vertebra alone has lost 25% of its former height. When added to the spinal curvature it is no wonder I am somewhat shorter; but I have the perfect excuse now whenever I am told to "stand straight".
The back was not helped yesterday when I fell out of my chair. I have a good quality office chair, solid but comfortable, with a high back and sturdy arm rests. Unfortunately, I knocked something off the table, and leaned to the side of the chair to reach it; further, and further till I nearly touched it when "bang", my centre of gravity crossed a threshold and I was on the floor, legs still in the air wrapped round the chair. Annie came rushing in thinking I had fallen down the stairs; but only my pride was bruised. Unlike poor Annie who has been nursing a black eye all week; the bruise appeared spontaneously, probably because she is on blood-thinners, but everyone assumes it must be through my abuse!
We rose early this morning to drive through the first snows to Bury-St-Edmunds for the service at the Methodist church. I have somewhat swung away from organised religion, tending to the view that there is a spirit in all of us that wants to strive towards some hidden purpose, suppress it how we will, and organised religions of any sort serve to follow their set litanies or dogmas while ignoring the individual, independent mind. In contrast, Edwin and Andre have entered the life of their church fully: Andre now leads the church choir, and Edwin is training to be a lay preacher. In fairness, they are both very good; the choir under Andre's leadership is innovative and melodic, and this morning Edwin preached an excellent sermon. His training in drama and voice, and textual analysis, comes to the fore here; it centred on the day of Pentecost through history, which drew a number of complements from the symposium (oops...congregation) members. The vast majority are elderly, like us, although their numbers were much depleted today with the bad weather; yet coming home it was just wet as the snow and slush melt, with the usual deep puddles round Hundon where the drainage is always defective. The service is concluded with tea and biscuits in the meeting room, after which there are tables and chairs to clear away. I started to lift some chairs, but Annie leapt to my defence, emphasising that I must protect my back now, or I will end in a wheelchair. That would not be a good start to a new year, so I played the obedient husband rather than the macho man. Coming out of church, we were abused by a loud man shouting that he didn't believe in the trinity. Annie commented that, in all the years she had come out of a Catholic church, no one had ever shouted at her; now we had a miltant Unitarian objecting to the precipts of Methodism; this somewhat supported my assertion about fixed dogmas.
The back did not stop me later taking a box to a neighbour over the road; they have lived there for over five years now but somehow, she forgot and put the wrong house number on her order, so a couple of parcels were delivered to us, one some time ago and the last yesterday. I wonder, do many people forget where they live?
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The familiar entrance to Addenbrooke's Hospital |
I am including this picture of the entrance to Addenbrooke's Hospital to share what we are seeing just too often at the moment. The information from the hospital regarding the management of my cancer has changed rapidly like the storms of winter. In my previous post, I was told by the registrar that nothing further would be offered to me (Hope was but a timid friend -), but suddenly a spate of hospital appointments began to come through. On Saturday I was told to attend for a repeat scan the next day (Sunday) at 7pm in Ely hospital; on Tuesday I was given an appointment for 9am at Addenbrooke's for a surgical assessment; at 8:45am came a further appointment for the cardiac unit at 10am on the same morning; then I was to go for yet another blood test. I'm not sure what was found or discussed, but this morning came yet another appointment, presumably for surgery to remove the metastasis from the muscle in my back under general anaesthetic. I am now to attend the plastic surgery unit at Addenbrooke's Hospital on the 22nd of this month at 7am.
Needless to say, Annie and I find this incredibly confusing. I believe the plastic surgery consultant must have overridden the message from the registrar that "nothing further could be done", and in his wisdom has chosen to do something after all. It is not only me that is confused: we told everyone the glum news. Now we are having to explain suddenly this change in plan. The surgeon himself had said there was only a fifty-fifty chance of surviving the op if it were done, but he looked bemused when Annie and I burst out laughing at each other and said that sounded like tossing a coin to see who lives or dies. I don't think many people laugh in his oncology clinics, where we more commonly see many oldies struggling on Zimmer frames or being pushed by a long-suffering relative, or unfortunate young women in head scarves to hide their hair loss, or cachectic children wheeled by distraught parents from the immunotherapy wards. No, the oncology clinics are not generally places of mirth but we feel that laughter, in the face of such imminent, potentially catastrophic changes, is the only weapon we hold to defend ourselves to defeat morbid speculation.