Annie and I have turned into each others carers and this is a tale of gloom and ill health. If, dear reader, you do not care to journey down such corridors, please logout now. I gloss over the time just before Christmas when Annie had her major heart attack and was confined for several days in Papworth; likewise her second recent admission when she relapsed in Kelly's hairdresser salon and was admitted by blue light ambulance to WSH with acute and severe heart failure. On both occasions, I was too distressed to write of it, and even to talk of it now brings me to the brink of tears, for the anguish was extreme. No, I write to keep people informed of my own illness, my constant and present companion, metastatic melanoma.
In addition to the breathlessness, weakness and cough, I have now acquired a series of 'lumps'. The one above the shoulder is about marble-sized, but on the arms I have one in each biceps the size of eggs: one like a hard-boiled shelled egg, the other more like a flat rubbery fried egg. They are larger than my flabby muscles, and make me look like Popeye, but they beat me up more like his rival, Bluto. I mentioned the first to the dermatology consultant in November, but she shrugged it off. I then mentioned them to the Respiratory nurse in January, but these people are too specialised to take interest in anything outside their immediate remit. I phoned the MacMillan and oncology nurses at Addenbrooke's who had especially given me their cards, but both said just to see my doctor. So, after some prevarication, I have listed to Annie who also said to make an appointment with Doctor Bone. I know there will be no more surgery or radiotherapy offered (A visit to Dr Doom), so I have doubts that he can do much either. But I now have a new one on my back near the site where a previous one was removed (A growing tumour) and have agreed to see him to ask if he can offer new suggestions. For those still reading this, the tale is to be continued.
In the meantime, Annie and I continue to manage the house between us with its cleaning, its maintenance, and a thousand unthought of jobs, shopping, or tax returns, as they crop up. I even got to the tip last week with a microwave that has sat in the back of the car for over a month with Byron, to his intense annoyance. But I then took him for a walk in the park, which cheered him. I judge the length of a walk by the number of times I have to sit down on it; this one was a two-bench walk, about my maximum now.
