Laughing at Bladder Cancer

Down to London this morning for a business meeting. London was its usual hectic self. I certainly felt much more energised than I have for some time. I suspect my tiredness has a strong psychological component, but Ann has an easier explanation: in London, you have to keep moving or you get mugged.

On the tube, and in the inevitable breaks in these meetings, I started reading a book Ann bought me when first I got my bladder cancer: The Funny Thing About Bladder Cancer by Guy Wheatley He certainly captures the positive side of what we go through, from the first finding of blood and the first cystoscopy through the drama of despair and hope as treatments progress. I envy his style - I'd love to have so much humour about it all. But he wrote the book some years after the first diagnosis, so hopefully he's looking from the perspective of being clear. My perspective is looking at a great pit, and I'm still waiting to be able to turn round and look back at it. Interestingly, I always thought the big advantage of private medicine was the speed of diagnosis and treatment, but Wheatley had huge delays despite having private medical insurance. He owed debts to the insurance company for some previous treatments that hadn't been wholly covered, so they called in a debt collector and refused to pay out anymore – even for his cancer investigations – until he'd paid off the debts. 

Ann is the archteacher of business meetings. When I started, I was abrasive, interupting people with my opinions, certain I was right, I generally didn't stay at those jobs for long. Now, I generally keep silent, answering questions if asked. I still think I am right, but I try to keep my opinions to myself. It's funny how little managment want to know about what's wrong with their system. I could offer them a one man Deloitte or McKinsey business consultancy and save them a fortune.

Who is my neighbour?

Ann attended the rheumatology clinic, to be told her broken finger was badly set, and should have been pinned. A bit late now, though, as she doesn't want it reset and in plaster with all the driving that lies ahead ferrying me to the hospital.

After the clinic, we went to Waitrose for lunch and shopping. Walking to the food counter, a thin faced, greying man called out my name and waved. I whispered to Ann, "who's that?" but she didn't know either, and then he waved at her too, so I walked over to apologise that I must have forgotton his name.

"I'm your neighbour," he said. "I see you when I'm walking the dog." Out of that context, both Ann and I had completely failed to recognise him. He and his wife moved in two years ago, and I've barely spoken to him. How much of our lives are like this, we pass each other, we nod a brief greeting, yet never know each other.

Hunting the lump that goes bump in the night.

I returned to the West Suffolk dermatologist this afternoon for my melanoma check-up. He is an abrupt, unempathetic Egyptian who usually just asks how things are, and is always satisfied if the answer is "fine", without wasting too much time checking anything in detail. Today, I mentioned that I thought a lymph gland might be a bit swollen below my jaw, and was uncomfortable at night. He poked it for a moment before saying there didn't seem much there. I added that I'd seen the oncologist at Addenbrookes on Monday, and I thought he might have written about it, so he checked through my record and found the letter.

Until then, he hadn't realised I'd had another cancer treated since I saw him last. Looking a bit abashed, he felt a little more thoroughly, then decided to refer me for further scans on my head and neck, to 'make sure', so at least something is happening, and I'm hopeful that I'll get reassurance.

On the news, all is Brexit. Against seemingly everyone on the cabinet and in parliament being opposed to her, she doggedly holds her course with persistent calmness and patience. She is beginning to win the sympathy vote for her plight, even from hardened labourites, and even from the public who think she has sold us a ribbon-wrapped turd. Yet those opposing her are too custard coloured to oust her, let alone offer any alternative with more than a pig's chance in an abattoir of getting it through Brussels.

What life lives beneath our gaze

Dawn over Hundon

Dawn over Hundon. The sun is skulking below the horizon and will not rise for more than half an hour yet, and well to the right of our neighbour's house. It's incredible how much in life escapes our notice. At this time on a Sunday morning, Ann and Edwin, along with most people in Britain not actually working, still lie abed, yet it's the best bit of the day, and I have it to myself.

Reminded of light, I distract myself by going over old lessons in quantum mechanics. I recorded them some five years ago from a course by David Miller of Stanford, and I've just spotted a typo that no one on the course spotted at the time, including me. Professors of quantum mechanics tell us just to shut up and calculate, because the maths gives us the answers. Yet we can't help but speculate, what lies beneath those equations of Schrődinger? It remains the fundamental mystery of our age: perfect answers with imperfect understanding. Somehow, it is like religion's claims to have perfect answers with imperfect understanding, but unlike religion, it is debated. Is the answer many-worlds, or hidden and unknowable variables, or 'just the way it is' to be accepted without further question like the wave-particle duality of light.

It may lead to lively argument, but – unlike religion – it doesn't lead to cults where one has to accept everything or nothing, or death threats if you deface an image of Bohr. Give me the peace of uncertain science any day, rather than the wars of religious argument.

Finality – Buddhism vs. Jehovah's Witnesses

Finality

We will not speak of parting,
for I will be where you are
as you will ever be with me,
I will carry every day
with the haunting memory
of every thing you said and did
every dream we ever held
and every moment lived.

by Annie Elliott

Today, Edwin is at a Buddhist meditation day in Cambridge contemplating eternity, while we were visited by two Jehovah's Witnesses. Bible Ann, as we call her, is in a sad way with advanced Parkinsonism, to the point where she can barely walk. She prefers bare feet to feel the ground, even in this cold, damp weather, to help coordinate her movements. She stands for some moments before her legs suddenly begin to move, and has great difficulty with the small steps to our house. We have known her for many years, and she comes as a friend, but still displays her literature, and her mind remains clear as ever. "They say there are two types of cancer," she tells me. "Lion or pussy cat. Which is yours?"

"I think mine is more like a panther," I suggest, "it sneaked up unseen in the night."

Even at this late stage of existence, she argues her case that the believers will be segregated before God to rule earth from her heaven, whilst we will be left cursed below. "Only a few people are rulers. Since Jesus resurrects people to heavenly life so that they can rule over the earth, we would expect those chosen to be few." She is even able to count the exact number entering her heaven – 144,000. Their site suggests there are already 137,000 witnesses living in the UK, so I guess they must be filling up.

Returning from his day of meditation, Edwin attempts to enlighten us in the way of Buddhism, and the Four Nobel Truths. He describes it as very cultish, with cold people who wear it like a cloak. unlike Japanese Buddhism whose practitioners are born into it as a natural skin. There is no such thing as truth, just mindfulness, meditation, and reduction of suffering, so Cambridge Buddhists completely different from London, or Tibetan. The Buddhist must always ask questions, but without hope. There is no after life, one can only achieve enlightenment.

In dealing with suffering, he quoted the example of being shot by an arrow. To ease suffering, one must deal with consequences such as by removing the arrow; contemplating why one was struck just adds to this suffering.

Countdown to Blasting

The letter with my timetable for radiotherapy arrived this morning. It doesn't carry a radiation warning symbol, or glow green with smoke seeping out, but looks quite plain for the message it conveys. The X-rays are produced by linear accelerators working at voltages of up to 25 million volts, enough to blast deep into the bladder. The intention is to destroy the tumour cells without destoying me. The therapy will start early December and run through into January, at times that vary each day up to early evening. But they respected my request to start after 10 a.m. to miss the worst of the Cambridge rush hour.

I was right to cancel our holiday to the Holy Land – the treatments run right across what would have been the start date. I asked my GP to complete the insurance claim form, which was £32. It used to be free for colleagues, but those days are well gone;. I remain tired, and no doubt it will get worse yet, but hopefully there will be improvement again once the treatment is finished.

I will need to wear a mask during the therapy, so the team at Addenbrookes gave me a practice run. I will have my own mask throughout, with my name on it, and breathe almost pure oxygen. This makes cancer cells more vulnerable to radiation. They have warned me not to use any petroleum-based creams on the face, as they might spontaneously explode. Also, the oxygen is absorbed into the skin and clothing, so I mustn't go near a naked light for half an hour afterwards, or I could ignite. They reassured me they hadn't lost anyone yet, and don't want me to be the first. I also have to take ten large niacinamide tablets exactly one hour before treatment, to maximise blood flow to the tumour cells prior to blasting them.

This adjunct treatment augments the outcome of radiotherapy. It was developed in Mount Vernon Hospital, and brought to the UK by the treatment specialist at Addenbrookes who is now the national authority, and trying to get it adopted by other hospitals. He told me of a former patient who'd been an RAF pilot; he said the mask reminded him of flying at 50,000 feet!

The Fight of Two Cancers — Icing on the Cake

Two cancers, alike in power, fight for supremacy within my body. The bladder cancer  I have detailed in depth. It has been excised, and awaits radiation blasting. But the first cancer, equal in malicious intent, was the malignant melanoma of the ear. It has lain dormant since last year when this blog series started (see The Black Spot, The Spot Returns, and Watch this Spot). Now a couple of soft glands have reappeared in my neck, so the oncologist is returning me to the dermatologists for review at West Suffolk Hospital next Monday. It would be ironic if, after all the fuss and anxiety about the BC, it is the silent malignant melanoma that turns out to be the more deadly.

Icing the cake

Meanwhile, as Christmas approaches, Ann has made the cakes – a gluten-free one for herself and Edwin, and 'normal' ones for me, MA and the girls, and Robin and Yvonne, Sam's parents. They are heavy with fruit and brandy, and I am given the task of icing. Partly, because I used to ice my mother's cakes, but mostly because Ann's grip is still weak where she fractured her hand, and is unable to get great force to open bottles or wield the rolling pin.