Clare is a different place

Clare is a strange place. It eclipses Hundon like the sun outshines the pale moon, for it is a thriving tourist centre, with many pubs, shops and tea houses, and numerous ancient sites dating to the iron age. There was a Roman town there, and a Saxon. The heirs of the Conqueror built the castle, and it featured in Magna Carta with its baron Richard de Clare. The rites to a medieval market have been held for centuries.

Hundon was mentioned in the Doomsday book, and doesn't appear to have changed much since, in population or area, other than its housing now being mostly modern brick conformities peopled by commuters or home workers like me, rather than the tithed agricultural cottages of history.

There are no historical sites here, and I am unaware of any archaeological dig or find. Even its church, though old, burnt down in 1914. It wasn't the war! The fire started even before that monstrous event. Now, it is an empty shell of history, barely used but to keep it on the ecclesiastic rolls. Its graveyard contains no famous son. There are no tea rooms, and no tourists to demand them. Its only visitors are kind relatives or friends who call from pity for we inhabitants, to take us out to for shopping or tea. And they always have trouble finding Hundon on a first visit, even with a good sat nav. But we do have a village shop, manned by (womened by? peopled by? no - staffed by, perhaps) volunteers who keep it well stocked and well run, with a hive of knowledge for we peaceful village folk.

Great train robbery at Clare

But Clare is a town, and seems to attract petty arguments that would have no place in Hundon. Last week, a notice was posted throughout the town telling of "The Great Train Robbery". This referred to an old railway wagon that used to sit on its rails in the museum. Entry was from a mock platform, and the wagon itself contained many fine exhibits from past glory days when steam locomotives thundered through the town. The museum was a useful spot to take children or visitors, but has been closed for a while. Now someone has sold off the wagon and provoked an outrage.

The Facebook pages of Clare are filled with petty squabbles. Someone posted a picture of a cigarette stub on the pavement outside the Co-op that led to a litany of accusations.

Smile Stone at Clare

There are some pretty walks in Clare, and I once spotted a Smile Stone hidden by the river bank. Shortly after were reports that 'someone has been stealing our smile stones', with many complaints and snide suggestions (no - it wasn't me. I only took the photo). But the fiercest debates are always with people who suggest Clare is a village. These are usually tourists or visitors, but this only raises a knowing smile from the residents. Then some incomer added a comment to Facebook to the effect that "they loved to live in such a pretty village". This raised over 30 replies! Clare is not a village. It is a medieval town. It was given a town charter. It has a town fair and a town market, with a High Street and Market Street. The debate was brought to an end by one resident commenting, "The difference between a village and a town is that a village has its idiot, whereas a town has two. On that basis, Clare is a city."

My Samsung Galaxy S6 explodes!

Following the call for an explosion yesterday, my Samsung Galaxy S6 responded by exploding before I did. It was Edwin who noticed it; he wanted to check something and said, "your phone's all bent," so took it out of the case. We thought it must have been from keeping it in my pocket, but then he noticed the back had been pushed off and was badly bowed; in fact, it had been blown off its glue by the phone's innards. Closer examination showed the battery had swollen like my overfilled Cat bag, and was bulging as though about to burst. Palpation revealed a tense fluid interior that looked potentially dangerous if it had it discharged in my pants.

My Samsung Galaxy S6 blows its back off !!

By chance, Edwin had just upgraded his phone, so he passed his old Apple on to me. Now we all have Apple phones and can talk together with Apple Talk. I just have the task of learning to use the thing. I have already learnt that Apple do not play any of my recorded music! It all has to be in Apple format, or downloaded from the Apple music store. Another example of greedy profiteers putting their shareholders before us, their users.

A short while after this, I followed the Galaxy. The levels of Dulcolax and syrup of figs entering the system may have been overdone a little.

Explosives

The downstairs toilet is patterned with book covers. There I see nothing but a row of old titles etched into my brain. One is Explosives by John Reid. The blue Pelican cover contains enticing blurb about its contents. "Tales of Explosives, their Magical Creation, their Fierce Energy, their Sudden Disruption...".  For four days I sit and stare at this, wondering when some decent explosion will happen for me to wonder at. I am taking prunes, syrup of figs, and repeated doses of Dulcolax, plus numerous cups of strong coffee on Ann's advice. But all remains silent. It is uncomfortable to be so distended, with colic and mild nausea making me reluctant to eat. But we must persevere.

The Great X offers to help

Ann has allowed me to take over her special room. This is her sanctuary, into which no-one is permitted without special and rare permission. It contains her private things, with their special meaning for place, time, or person, and is the place to which she retreats to be alone, or to recover her spirituality. Now she has put me in here to nurse. All week, she has worked tirelessly to support me, physically, mentally and medically.

The Moroccan Lamp in Ann's Room

She is having to do so many extra jobs now, for while still preparing meals, getting shopping in, cleaning, and making drinks, she has the additional burdon of jobs I used to help with: sorting the rubbish, washing up and emptying the dish washer, and cleaning the house of dog hairs and the garden of their mess. All the pain and swelling on her head where she fell and hit the pavement, with her yet broken and deformed hand still prevent driving, so she has to ask MA to take her to Clare for her hair, or to sort out ordering more catheter bags from the chemist.



This afternoon, we had a card from the Great X, covered in pink blossom and well wishes, with a message that, "she was so sorry she didn't live nearer, for she would love to help."

The Great X is a nurse who worked in a hospice, and is at her best with these cases of high dependency. She is brusk and efficient, and indifferent to medical mess. Ann said, "would you like her to come down?" Edwin offered to pick her up from the station, and MA said, "you'd love her to come. She'd be really good at looking after you."

I shuddered a little, and said I agreed that she would be very good, but I thought it might not be appropriate, and I didn't really want her fiddling with me down below.

Then the doorbell rang, and our young granddaughter, who'd been silently listening, said, "That's her; the Great X has arrived!"

I am adopted by Cat

I do not know which is more likely to become infected: residual urine, or a catheter. As a man, I know I would prefer the residual, which for a few hours gave me mobility and relative comfort. As a medic, I know catheters often leak, and are always uncomfortable and get infected. However, the surgical team decided that a pool of residual is not a good idea, so I am now confined with a catheter and leg bag for a week, which is both uncomfortable and has developed a slight leak already, so I have to have pads as well.

Patients with colostomy bags are encouraged to give them names, but this contraption is unworthy of being so distinguished. So, like Holly Golightly, I call it "Cat", for it pulls and claws my leg, requires constant attention, and I had not sought it but it adopted me. Cat feeds off me, is not house trained, and requires constant cleaning out and grooming.

Bloggers are encouraged to post photos to lighten the page, but Cat is unworthy of even a derisory photo, so shall remain incognito. I have never been attracted to cats, and this is the worst of them all. My only hope is that it will be removed from my care and put down next week; but they have already hinted that if the residual does not clear, they may foist another Cat on me, with the possibility of a prostatectomy dangled threateningly before me as well.

A little light lie

On the day we are born, we are sentenced to death and fated to live our lives in a condemned cell. In youth, it is remote and unconsidered. With age, we learn for certainty that the sentence will not be remitted. The only unknown is the length of time in the cell. With age and cancer, the remaining time is shortened. Now I can only live each day as best I may, and enjoy those moments I am still free to explore a life yet to be lived, brief though it may be. For this is not a “clean” cancer, but a solid invasive tumour, requiring resection of the bladder wall, and eliminating the possibility of further treatment with purely intracystic local chemo.  This may require radio- and chemotherapy, or -potentially - cystectomy. 

The surgical, radiological and oncology teams will convene in two or three weeks to discuss future care. In the meantime, I continue with a bag and catheter, and such hope as I can muster. My fortune is to have such strong family support, though as yet I have not told them at work. I said, with some air of truth, that my wife would be in hospital this week, so I would have a few days off. I had not realised how racist is the phrase "a little white lie" until I started to write it; now it hits with great force, if one substitutes its opposite. I suppose this is not so little, though, as it is to protect me rather than the feelings of others. Perhaps that should be "a great red lie"; but the little ones, meant to protect rather than harm, could be called "little light lies". 

Going for TURBT

Tues 2/10/18

TURBT is "trans-urethral resection of bladder tumour". Edwin and Ann brought me to the ward in time for the 7am check in, Ann still being unable to drive. It was dark when we left, and Ann with her poor sight is unable to drive at night anyway. Eds dropped us at the door, and went back to see to the dogs.

So far so boring, then suddenly at 8am constant bustle and noise with the staff change over: cleaners with commercial floor polishers; trollies screaming like sirens as they carried patients out; an alarm from the adjacent bed going like a high pitched metronome beating out 2/4 time; and chattering nurses, auxiliaries, social workers, physios, students, the anaesthetic team, and occasional doctors. This is an acute surgical ward for all surgical specialities, so different surgical teams visit each patient. Mr Sangupta came to explain and sign the consent form: basically a legal agreement to let them do whatever they wish. It’s 11 weeks since the first sign of bleeding, and 4 weeks since seeing him and being placed on his urgent waiting list.

Ann helped me into the surgical stockings; they were tight and difficult for her broken hand. I said it was a pity Edwin hadn’t stayed, for his strength, but Ann said “he doesn’t do feet!” before she had to leave to wait in the restaurant. The op started at 10am, and was completed by 11am. Visiting wasn’t until 3pm, so Ann sent a text to MA asking her “to come straight to the hospital.” Unfortunately she sent it as a round robin, so up north Lucy panicked and started to make arrangements for the children to be collected from school before Ann could enlighten her before she set off. But MA and Edwin met in the lobby, and the three then spent the morning in town, lunching together.