Death comes In dreams

Clare lights with The Bell and Annie

Clare always had pretty Christmas lights, which are still up. Ann says this will bring bad luck to Clare as it's well past 12th Night. It was certainly nearly bad luck for me. I went to The Bell for a coffee, but had to dash for the loo before I could order. Though a large hotel, there is only one cubicle in the Gentleman's and that was occupied. I stood in the corridor with rapidly increasing anxiety until I could wait no longer, so dashed into the Ladies' in desperation. I streaked past the washbasins almost in a state of exposure, but just made it. The cubicle there is tiny and almost impossible to turn round in or adjust one's clothing. To avoid further embarrassment, I left rapidly and washed in the Gents'.

Moving On

I do not spend time idly wishing
for things that are now lost:
the love that I've been missing
now belongs locked in the past.

The bird upon the swaying tree
sings a sweet, soft melody,
but it does not keep on tweeting
of things that will never be.

You can never make good cider,
with life's worm-eaten fruit;
wait for the warm glow of summer
and pick from the tree anew.

The stream will keep on flowing,
the waters fast move on;
I will not keep on dreaming
of a life that is clearly gone.

Annie Elliott

My body is at a low ebb. Only two hours sleep last night before I awoke to wee, and then only dribbles despite the urgency. I do not know if it is the after-effects of irradiation, or some manifestation of the cancer. I smell like a sewer – it is always bad when one can smell oneself coming. I do not think it is the smell of cancer (see "The smell of death"), but I suspect it arises from a permeability of the inflamed bowel wall. It is a strange battle, not an angry fight of open warfare, but more like a fifth column undermining the integrity of the whole, working undercover to bring disruption and sew doubt.

I awoke with memories of uneasy dreams. I was accompanied by a band of my children, attempting to reach the edge of a deep valley. I had been there before many times in previous dreams, but had always approached from the far end, usually having emerged from some tunnel. Now the track took us past a nest of tiny cobras, each erect with flared hood and menacing, and before us was a conveyor belt feeding a furnace that we had to cross. Though silent now, I knew a great lump of coal would soon drop from the chute, and the thing would start up. One of the children started to play with the conveyor belt, and I had to warn him to keep away, least he be caught up in it when it started up.

Ann's new poem too is about moving on. It is as though she read my dreams through that union of mysterious synchronicity that has been with us since we met. She too can smell the smell of decay. The time to move on comes closer now and I must prepare the way.

Post DXT

Diarrhoea bad

It was cold after walking the dogs through the field, with an air temperature that didn't pass 2͒ C all day. Waiting for Ann in The Swan, I succumbed and ordered a double brandy, to keep the cold at bay. Only later did Ann tell me that alcohol, along with spicy food, was verboten for the next couple of weeks. It certainly can inflame the bladder/colon. I deteriorated again after my lapse, with pain from both exits. At least Ann keeps us well provisioned against need.

Listening to another episode of Billy Connolly, I was moved in a different way when a reporter asked him, "What does it feel like to get a knighthood when you've come from nothing?"

Sir Billy bridled at this. "I did not come from nothing! I came from something - something special!" It set me thinking of my own roots, not a Glasgow tenement, but a tiny upstairs flat above a bakery in Leicester, during the bombing and the blackouts. Unlike Connolly, I have no affection for the city of Leicester, nor for Coventry. I could not wait to leave, and have no desire to go back to either place. But it did remind me that my parents too were not "nothing", but were equally special. Too easily have I thought of what they could have done or should not have done; but they gave me freedom to choose, and that is of huge value. I may have made some bad choices, but they were my choices: no one forced me down a road I did not want to travel. My lessons have been learnt the hard way, but they were my lessons, and forged the man I am become.

I do not know the cause of my bladder cancer; probably it will never be known. But I did know, as we all do deep down, that certain food stuffs, or excess alcohol cause harm. No one made me eat unhealthily, nor booze until the cells suffer. My life is my own.

Radiotherapy

Two wonderful new poems by Ann, reflecting the emotional upheaval that hits us all when cancer strikes, and the support given by the few who count.

Radiotherapy

Like an exclusive club
they sit crutching one another,
wishing each other health
drinking water from plastic cups,
no Waterford crystal here,
just disposable kidney bowls
hairless heads
wrapped in flowered bandannas,
or home knitted bobble hats
wrought by loving fingers,
there is gentle charity
in each soft, weak smile
of camaraderie,
sympathy
and huge humanity.

Annie Elliott

Lip Service

They come and go
with fancy words
and Judas' kisses,
touching sorrow
digits never dirtied,
souls never bleeding,
but yet, they touch you
more than the love
or the constant ardency
of the faithful band
who always have your hand.

Annie Elliott

I considered the crudity of radiotherapy (DXT) in previous articles where I likened it to "burning the witch". In some ways, it is just as crude. Lines of people waiting treatment of all ages and backgrounds, rows of old men drinking to fill the bladder for their prostate therapy; women for breast or ovary cancer; younger people with brain cancers; or children with leukaemias. Many in caps to hide their chemotherapy-induced hair loss. All get the crude blasting of the rays. Somehow, it is reminiscent of bygone days of treatment with insulin, or cold douches, or ECT: violent, indiscriminate, yet it is all we have.

I have to strip to my underwear, and pull them down to expose the tattoo marks to line up the lasers. I never pull them enough, so the young girls (radiotherapists always seem to be young girls) end up pulling them down further, exposing yet more of me to their indifferent gaze. They then push their hands under my buttocks to pull me about and line me up accurately. It is fortunate I'm in no state for arousal, or I might get more burnt than the bladder.  One day we will have potent treatments against cancer, perhaps a simple inoculation to stimulate the appropriate white cells to march against the invaders. Then shall we be unshackled form these mighty machines, and they will be no more than a curiosity in some documentary of the past.

Sir Billy Connolly sums it up in an article in The Mail today: "As bits slip off and leave me, talents leave and attributes leave. I don't have the balance I used to have, I don't have the energy I used to have. I can't hear the way I used to hear, I can't see as good as I used to. I can't remember the way I used to remember. And they all came one at a time and they just slipped away, thank you. It is like somebody is in charge of you and they are saying, 'Right, I added all these bits when you were a youth, now it is time to subtract'."

A history lesson at the carwash

Taking the car to be cleaned this morning ready for the New Year, and mine being the only car there, I was talking at length to the owner. He came from Macedonia 19 years ago, and has done well by the business. Unusually, he commutes from Cambridge where he owns a house, for prices were low 19 years ago. He employs several people, who pay £400 per month for a single room in Haverhill, but prices have risen so much even in Haverhill that he couldn't afford a house here.

He told me a little of the history of his region, and how the country had been stable under Tito when united with Yugoslavia, before the great Yugoslavian wars of disruption that ended with the country fragmenting along religious lines. He was one of five boys, but his father had earned enough to keep the whole family comfortable. Now, wages are so low each family member has to work. But he loves England, the land of opportunity, and is so well settled in Cambridge he has no desire to leave. In some way I didn't fully follow, Macedonia is not allowed to join the EU (something to do with Greece claiming it, I think).

Serbia/Croatia/Montenegro/Macedonia? The history is impossibly complicated for an outsider to comprehend, but I know from my history of Tesla (a Serb) that the Turks caused their usual mayhem, obliterating the original Serbian peoples and instilling Muslim theology into the region in the battle of Kosovo of 1389, which is still remembered. I remember an Armenian girl who told me a similar tale, of how the Turks had destroyed her people. Now, they are intent on destroying the Kurds also. How hatred perpetuates itself through the world, usually through the instigation of one wild man, unrestrained by his people.

On the domestic front, the cancer continues to make its presence known. The bladder is sore, PU'ing is difficult and painful, and dipstick testing confirms the presence of blood, protein and leucocytes, probably all a result of the vicious inflammation induced by the DXT. I continue to feel nausea, with reduced appetite, and have lost weight. Only three more treatment days, thankfully!

Happy Birthday To Me

Eds brings the cake

My birthday and three quarters of the way through the DXT ceremony. A number of visitors came to cheer me on, including the Great X with son Matthew and his new partner Rosie, and Mary-Anne and Sam and their two girls. Sam told some wonderful tales, such as the report on the Hundon Facebook page that a local burglar had been caught and would be sentenced in the new year. This brought a number of comments, including one from the burglar himself who said, "I didn't do it. You'll regret this when they find me not guilty!"

Another of his stories was of a mate of his who was having a microwaved Christmas dinner for one. His wife had walked out, and his own mother helped her pack up the things and move them out. She went off with a new man, drained his bank account so he couldn't reinsure his van for work, and took his name off the school mailing list to prevent him ever attending things involving his children. Definitely a candidate for Alan's SAD (Society-for-Acrimonious-Divorce). 

Sam is good at topping stories. Ann mentioned a friend of hers who had a strong odour, whom they used to call Bo. She thought it was a compliment referring to Bo Derek, even when her work mates left antiperspirants and talcum powder in her drawer. But Sam found one of his work mates shaving in his wing mirror. Another candidate for SAD, his wife had also thrown him out (the mate, not Sam), and he was having to sleep in his car. He smelt so bad he was banned from the bookmakers!

Please add any comments if 2018 has a special memory for you too

Mail to: grandad.john@2from.com

Burn the Witch!

Lining up the lasers

The day began cold, with heavy cloud leaving the sky still dark at 8 o'clock and wet with clinging drizzle. Cancer is like a wicked witch working evil within. And like witches of old, the evil must be burnt out. Let the fire begin!

The first ritual burning began at Addenbrooke's Hospital this morning. I stopped in a lay-by en route, to take the ten vitamin B3 tablets I am instructed to take one hour before the appointed time. Then I am stripped to my underpants to expose my tattoo spots, and laid on a cold steel slab. The oxygen mask is fitted across my face, and the laser guide beams turned on. I am moved and poked to manoeuvre me into position, then everyone leaves and a siren sounds to warn of radiation danger. The machine thuds to life, and cold air from the cooling fans adds to the discomfort. To the sound of loud bleeps, the whole thing begins to turn round me, blasting the bladder from different angles. Opening my eyes is highly disorientating; the optical illusion is so strong that it seems to be me that is rotating, rather than the machine, making me dizzy, certain that the table itself is tilting and will tip me off. So I keep my eyes closed, or stare through the gaps to the ceiling of the room rather than at the machine. Then there is silence, and a voice says "that's all done," and they release me from the straps and let me down.

Many people waiting for this treatment seemed to be alone; it was strange to think we all have cancer in common. But I was so glad that Ann and Edwin had come with me. They steadied me as I left, and gave comfort that I was not alone, and we would get through this together.