My cancer journey

 Every cancer journey is unique. I have been encouraged to write a little more of this most undignified journey, though I have little understanding of why people might want to read it. Perhaps because I have spent my professional life dealing with disease, I have become hardened and take in just symptoms and signs, and a differential diagnosis, as we were taught. I had wished to supress mine, perhaps in the vain hope that by ignoring it, I might forget its presence. But it reminds me anyway, with its visibly large, ugly, multiple, subcutaneous secondaries, and it aches like a dog gnawing the bone, growling and threatening if touched.   

For those who still wish to read further, I will add that it has not been an easy week. For three days, I had nausea and heavy urinal bleeding and passed a gravel-like deposit: but I have now started an antibiotic and all seems clear again. My appetite is small, my energy tiny, and I have become increasingly breathless on any exertion. I read this week of a successful trials for a new treatment specifically aimed at malignant melanoma; but mine is too advanced, and the treatment too demanding for my body, for me to be considered a candidate. Perhaps for those who follow, it will offer hope, and I am certain one day even this most vicious of cancers may be brought under harness and controlled. But it will be too late for me.

Now to a more diverting topic. We managed to get to Shotley mid-week, although disapppointingly the restaurant was shut, with only a standby burger-van. There was nothing vegetarian on the menu, so we had plain burger baps with a bit of cheese in. The bread was a little doughy, and Annie felt this may have induced my nausea; well, its good to blame something else other than my body. I took a photo of Annie, and asked Chat GPT to frame it as if Annie were helming a boat. It did a pretty good job, and even suggested a charming title. It even remembered to give Annie a smart lifejacket.

Joyful Senior at the Helm

An Irish Museum

Touring West Ireland twelve years ago, we chanced upon a sign to the Museum of Irish Life. We drove through narrow lanes and silent villages to a fence and gate that appeared deserted, though a small plaque confirmed it was the museum Then a family turned up. 

The man embraced me tightly, almost in tears, “you won’t regret it - this is really something special – just give me a moment to set it up – perhaps you’ll care to go and have a drop yourselves while you’re waiting – there’s a place of refreshment just across the way (the pub) – here, take these with you,” and he thrust a tray of rolls, still with balloons and ribbons attached, into the car, clearly the remains of a child’s birthday tea he’d brought back.

The museum was his home and he showed every item proudly with a full description, while introducing each member of his family with wonderful tales of their past and their links to the land, with many references to the English occupation; even his wife and children, two sons and a girl with the softest, long, red silken hair, he’d dressed in ancient clothes from the family chest, himself wearing a suit, remnant from a family funeral. Then his neighbours and the priest traipsed through, as though summoned by a hidden bell, each giving a passible imitation of an Irish rustic life of fifty years ago, reminiscing over old black and white photos, then tea and cakes were supplied: the refreshments.

They were in desperate poverty, and so grateful for the few coins they demanded for the entrance fee. “You see, Mary,” he turned to his wife, “I knew they’d be interested; it’s a living history museum. Now, you’ll be sure to write up about us, won’t you,” he pleaded. I have just found the note I made at the time, so belatedly I am keeping that promise: but to be factual, Ann has no recollection of this visit, so perhaps it was a dream I wrote down on waking.