Trinken den Wein

Although it sounds a contradiction, Edwin visited a German market in Cambridge last night. He said he intended to "trinken den Wein", so I told him not to "trinken too muchen den Wein!" but he's never paid much attention to advice.

For myself, I haven't "den Wein getrunken"since I started this treatment last week. Not from any reason of virtue, but in case booze of any sort clashes with my stomach and makes me feel even worse than I already do. Matthew and Rosie came over today to take me in, and I carried a towel and sick bowl in case I vomited again. I spread the tablets out over a longer period today, and that seemed to help a bit. Though still nauseous, I avoided embarrassing myself or messing their car.

Radiographers wanted

There were delays for us all on treatments this morning, and the waiting area was full. One small child with no hair was wheeled in by her parents. Several women had scarves to cover their hair loss, and one woman had a large bald area over a depression over her skull, where probably she was being treated for a skin cancer. A man next to me, also with a cap on, told me he had surgery for a brain tumour followed by chemo and now radiotherapy. He was still in his 50's, and said he'd expected to have much longer to live. Now he was going to work through his money and get things he really wanted, starting with a set of Beat headphones, then taking his family on holiday early next year for which he'd rented a holiday home in Norfolk.

We are all at the point in our lives where cancer is the signpost to change, usually degenerate change. It served to point to the variety of people getting radiotherapy treatments, although a poster in the waiting area pointed to another reason for the delays: a shortage of radiographers. My radiographer explained that most people have never heard of therapeutic radiography as a career option, though it is so rewarding a career and full training offered. Anyone interested can contact their nearest hospital training group.

Chasing Dreams

Our conscious hours are so filled with existing and coping with reality that we ignore the underlying patterns of mind. We read, we converse, we cook, or eat, or watch TV.  We distract ourselves from our own being. Only in dreams do the elements combine in diverse ways to give presence to new thoughts. But for most of us, these thoughts vanish again in the bright glare of living.

Triviality

Alone
now as always
fighting new and menacing demons
wearing their black cloaks
and carrying winter scythes,
Alone
while battling petty minds
sweating stuff that is so small
not even a magnifier could find
its worth.

Annie Elliott

The subconscious behaves like an abstract mathematical construct. As in mathematics, where the ordinals are abstract concepts when unspecified until we give them specific form, such as two pens or three oranges, so too are our ideas like life or death or love. We can specify specific instances but in our subconscious being they are complete abstractions that can only present themselves to our conscious selves as concrete representations, such as the image of a broken car, or a pen that will not write, or an empty, dark room. This may be death of a life, or death of a relationship, or leaving a home that is loved.

Like the Fourier representation of a waveform, the components seethe in the brain like separate harmonics that can come together to build something new. Our mental knowledge is fragmented into tiny components joined by some algorithm of mind or memory. The elements are almost like coherent or entangled quantum waveforms. It is the conscious expression of them that 'collapses the waveform'.

The artist may seize these elements and recombine them as a new picture, a poem, an architectural construct, or a new mathematical theorem. But their underlying components are mere abstractions, and conscious striving to grab them leaves us but grasping air.

The ending of a bad year.

The year looks like ending as it's been all through. The company I work for is transferring my project for development in Japan, so I may be redundant before the year's end. And now the main sewerage drain is blocked with a tail back of filthy sludge, so we'll have to call the drain men out.

On only the third day of my radiotherapy treatment, scheduled for 6:30 last night, I was already dreading taking the huge doses of Vitamin B3. Edwin took me to Addenbrooke's, but I was right about the tablets, He had to stop on the way home to let me out, when I was repeatedly sick, and I have spent most of today in bed or shivering in a blanket.

One bright spot was a letter from my grandson, Luke. It is two full pages of beautifully written and interesting items, spelling out his hopes for A-levels and university, and quite unlike what one reads about messaging by today's youth, with their texted emphasis on Emojis and weird abbreviations. The art of letter writing is clearly not dead, and I was hugely moved to get the letter. Now I shall lie back and have another sleep, to gather strength of my next treatment on Monday. Only 17 more to go.

An Unexpected Treat

Edwin called Ann and me into the sitting room this morning, told us to sit down, and presented us with an envelope. It was a plane ticket to Brussels, with a five-star hotel, for a long weekend at the end of January once my treatments are over. After we had lost our special holiday to the Holy Land at New Year, he has treated us to this trip off his own initiative to make up for it, and give us something to look forward to. We are both touched by such a kind and thoughtful thing,

Last night I phoned an old friend in Luxemburg whom I was at college with. Colin has developed Alzheimer's and now has just been released from hospital with Parkinson's. His wife, another Ann, was showing him round the house, trying to revive a memory of the rooms he has lived in for 40 years. He barely remembered me, so although I had been hoping to visit him, I think it would have been more for me than him. 

Day 2 of the radiotherapy. The Vitamen B3 tablets are having a strange effect, with a sensation of facial tightness like draw strings being pulled about me. But compared to Colin, I think all this must be minimal. He was aware of losing his mind several years ago while still teaching, and realised he could no longer remember his students' names - something he had always prided himself on, and something that caused him to retire early. Perhaps I will be able to see him again next spring.

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.

Perfect Dawn

Too early yet for vapour trails, the sky glows a pure blue robe, soft and dark light until it touches the sharp edge of the waiting day. Venus swings bright, high in the horns of the crescent moon. There is no cloud. A sharp frost, the first of winter, whitens the roofs, covers the earth and crunches underfoot. The trees stand bare against their horizon of flaming red, too early yet for the hiding sun to show. Not a breath of wind shall stir a leaf to fall. It is a perfect dawn.

Bitter Fruit

Before I knew you
I was like a bitter fruit,
old Miss Haversham
biting into lives
I was jealous of,
envied, filled with spite,
felt they did not have the right,
to contentment, companionship
when my cobwebbed room
saw no light, was ever night,
even the mouldy fruit cake
knew the warmth of mice.
But you brought embers,
glowing logs of hope,
made the willow an oak
and the toad beautiful.

Annie Elliott

The day continued well. We had a great walk with the dogs in Haverhill, which has a glorious park. In the deep shadows, the heavy frost still lay even at midday.  I have completed my tax returns and got them into the accountants  in good time this year, without facing a late fine, and even better the money is ready to pay the demand. Coming out, I met Linda outside her antique shop in Clare, whom we first met when we ran our own unit in the antique warehouse. and Ann's ear rings were ready to collect from the jewellers, repaired after the pin had worn through.

Ann went for lunch and shopping with Mary-Anne, and Edwin went into his University for an assessment  which he proudly told us he had passed with ease and he was now a full PhD student.  so I had a quiet afternoon alone working. Work is still coming in, and I am still able to complete it, so that's good too. Even the Great X sent a text wishing me well for tomorrow. Ah yes - tomorrow I start my bladder burn. But today has been a good day.

Endings

All Shall End A glass that cannot be drunk from,  jagged on its rim to rip a mouth. Wine spilt upon the table. The pen that will not write. The boat smashed upon a shore. The car a wreck to nowhere. Blood drips on the porch from a top room  till the stain spreads. All shall end. JHM Dec 2018

The people of my dreams are the people of my youth. Hope is gone and there is no future. I march towards death bravely. But the route is set for me. There are no turnings, no detours I can take. It is a road set without choice or possibilities.

Awake I get on with my life and all is normal with no conscious concern. I laugh, I work, I chatter and I write. But the dreams seem to tell it all, and I write a poem of nightmare dreams. Each Christmas, each New Year, is counted on an abacus whose beads rattle away the years. My deeper mind teems with a storm that will not abate and of which, awake, I am unaware.