Death is in the air

Dead Flowers to mark the solstice

Yesterday, 21/22 December 2018, was the turning of the year, usually marked in our family with a small celebration. I always believe, marking as it does the ending of the year, that the winter solstice be of greater importance than its summer cousin. And believe me, 2018 has been a right bad year. So, despite knowing Ann always thinks of cut flowers as 'dead things' (see: pacifying-pilot), today I bought a bouquet to celebrate the death of the year, complete with Lilies-of-the Valley, white roses, and gypsophila to mark the passing of the year. I told Ann, "I know you don't like dead things, but I've bought you some flowers," and explained their symbolism in this case, but she didn't seem to believe me, saying "Only you could buy me something I don't like!"

It really has been a stunningly bad year for so many of us. Now we hear the announcement that Paddy Ashdown has died from bladder cancer. It was only one month ago that I wrote to welcome him to the BCB (Bladder Cancer Brigade, see: paddy-ashdown-joins-BCB). He was one year older than me, but he must have had stage 4 - that's the stage where they just say, "go home and keep warm."

Yesterday, too, Ann's friend Sylvia fell and damaged her wrist sufficiently for me to agree she should get it X-rayed and may need to visit A and E over Christmas! Her son-in-law is now so ill and debilitated with pain from the cancer of his face and DXT that he is wishing he were dead. Now, to add to catastrophe, comes in the report of a tsunami in Indonesia with hundreds dead. Another poor Christmas for so many.

Friendship

We are suffering here

while other lives go on,

we welcome not New Year

to pin our hopes upon,

instead, we live each day,

with friends we hold most dear

who offer their support

to share this pain we bear.

 Annie Elliott

This year has almost seen the death of Brexit as well. A satisfying article by Julie-Burchill in The Telegraph today, "Not even a Christmas miracle can save the sanctimonious, obsolete and Orwellian BBC". So many of us who voted 'out' are derided by the powers that be as intellectually lacking. The great campaign of fear that drove the remainers was one of the convincing arguments for me voting for Brexit. I hate being told what to do, and the more people try to scare me into something, the more I wish to rebel and oppose. To be coerced into remaining in Europe is the opposite of freedom - we heard not one word of all that is good in unity; there was no plea to higher causes or to the harmony of peaceful coexistence, or the sharing of historical ideals. If I had pleaded the Brixit cause, it would have gone very differently. Thank you Julie-Burchill.

Please add any comments if 2018 has been bad for you too

Mail to: Grandad.John@2from.com

Society for Acrimonious Divorce S.A.D.

Alan, Ann's cousin, added to his observations about difficult divorces. We know so many people who are going or have been through problems with divorce, he is considering starting a special group to meet and compare problems. It is to be called S.A.D., or the Society for Acrimonious Divorce. He plans to charge a small fee as a fighting fund, and members shall gather round the bar of their local pubs to discuss tactics in warding off the evil ones. Members can contribute towards Jamaican obeah if they want their Great X dealt with.

Two friends came round today for coffee, Robin and Yvonne, who live in Tilbury Juxta Clare. They are the parents of Sam, Mary-Anne's husband, and always full of interest and fun. Today they were telling about Robin's cousin, Paul, who had to have a cataract operation. He worked as a signwriter, but his sight was so poor he had to put stencils of the lettering on van sides, to paint through. After the operation, he could see well enough to paint directly as he used to. Another relative of Robin lives in Southend, and after his cataract operation his sight was so good he began to take walks to the coast to eye the girls in bikinis. He had forgotten how much he had missed seeing, and wanted to make up for lost time.

They were reminiscing about Tilbury Hall, when the lady of the Hall used to hold the Christmas Carol service in her home if the church was too cold. Yvonne described her as speaking in a voice that 'made Prince Charles sound common!' Now the Hall is enclosed by a high fence and the owners have shut out casual walkers with a locked gate across the old footpath. The new lady of the house is a chain smoker, who has a private helicopter and plane so she can continue smoking.

Please add any comments if you have been through an acrimonious divorce

One down one to go

Some good news this morning - I had a scan of the lymph glands in my neck, to check for any spread from the melanoma of the ear, and they are all clear! The doc didn't even find one big enough to biopsy. So that front's looking good – one cancer down, just the bladder to go. As a second bonus, I love to listen to Bach Before Seven each morning, as an oasis of peace before the madcap day begins. This morning it was Céline Frisch playing the third of the 48 on the harpsichord, which is the best way they should be played. Absolute bliss, joy and beauty.

We have Ann's cousin Alan staying with us this week. He's always interesting to talk to, full of stories and usually they're about strange things that have happened to him. His current saga relates to his former second wife, Iris, whom he's trying to divorce, though without much success yet. Iris is from Trinidad, the larger of the two Caribbean islands comprising Trinidad and Tobago, and he and she both starred in a TV programme about retiring to a dream home, when they looked at a potential house on Tobago.

Iris seems to be intent on dragging out the divorce for as much as she can screw out of Alan. This seems to be something she is professional at, as it's her third marriage, plus a number of commercial interests she has sued. They were only married for four years, and the divorce looks like it will take longer than the marriage lasted.

Alan's new girlfriend is from Jamaica, and very strong on obeah, or Jamaican voodoo. We think he may be leaving the Trinidad fire for a Jamaican frying pan - she's already referring to him as "her fiancee". She has organised various exorcism rites to rid Alan of the evil spirits within his soul (meaning Iris). Now she has asked if Alan would like Iris "dealt with". However, Alan has said only if it resolves the drawn out divorce – but a definite no if it involves anything violent! As Iris was his second marriage, the way it's progressing, for Alan too it's going to be one down and one to go!

Some other patients

My treatment was delayed as I waited whilst an ealier patient was wheeled through on a bed for his treatment. He was in a bad way, with bags attached that had blood-stained fluid collecting in them. He took a good half an hour for the treatment to his bladder.

Cancer

How hard to watch
                      the weakening limbs,
the sagging flesh and creasing skin
of a once strong granite stone
now cancer scorched
through to the bone.

by Annie Elliott

Another patient came in to sit with me, an American with a scared bald head from his chemo. He said, "what do you say when people ask how you are? I tell them, 'I've got cancer and I'm dying, how are you?'" I had no ready answer to this, but I know what he meant. He has a lymphosarcoma of the pelvis, with blood-spread secondaries. It is strange and sobering to know that most of the people waiting with me are at least as ill as I, indeed many are at a more advanced stage.

Another day, another cancer.

Schrödinger Witch

Ten treatments down and ten to go. Half way through. I feel as though the witch inside my bladder is half-dead and half-alive – a true Schrödinger witch, simultaneously in both states that will only be resolved into one state or the other when it is finally looked at.

Waiting with our coffee, we shared a small table with another cancer patient. She has already had both breasts removed, and is in the midst of chemotherapy before starting her own course of RT. She had had her blood test at 12:00 but has to wait until 4:00pm for her next treatment, so was bored with the place and happy to talk. She was eating a chocolate bar and works by refilling the various food slot machines, including the ones in Addenbrooke's, but didn't expect to back as a user of them. A young teenage girl was wheeled by with a drip and nasogastric tube in place, reminding us all of how fortunate we have been to have enjoyed relatively long healthy lives, and how unfortunate are some fellow creatures.

Nimue and Merlin by E. Fortescue-Brickdale

I am reading the wonderful modern version of the Thomas Malory King Arthur legends, The Once and Future King, which is a revelation and pleasure to take my mind away from myself into the mythical land of neverwas. White was such a deep scholar, his use of multiple words from ancient English is overwhelming, and I have begun to read it with the computer switched on to look up meanings, and am pencilling them  in the margins, for future reference. Almost every page has a new word, and they're all wonderful:  kerns were peasant foot soldiers; Nimue was the ancient name for the Lady of the Lake and keeper of the sword. I know little of these Arthurian legends, but they are wonderful stories. The first part of the book, The Sword in the Stone, strongly reminded me of some features in Harry Potter, and it is interesting that J.K. Rowling described White as "her spiritual ancestor".

Although legend, it is surprising how much overlaps even present day life. "England's difficulty is Ireland's opportunity", as Merlyn says. How truely prophetic of the current impasse in extricating ourselves from Europe! Ireland seems to be the one difficulty that cannot be overcome. How cursed we are to have taken Ireland, and left a land divided. Now we must reap that which are ancestors have sown.

Some family history

Ann has been researching her family history, and discovered that, as a McVey, she is related to the McBeth's on her father's side, but her grandmother was Flora Elliot, which is a clan in its own right.  "That's why we're so fierce. We all know what McBeth was like," she said.

"But," I said, "McBeth did the murder, but his wife ordered it. He was trembling with his conscience."

"Yes," said Edwin, "and she didn't start out a McBeth. Before she got married, I bet she was an Elliot."

The Elliots were a great, fierce and rebellious border clan, also known as reivers. Ann said, "they caused so much trouble, they were cursed by the Biship of Glasgow. In 1525 he put a curse on the whole clan."

Ann looked it up; the curse is substantial and comprehensive. “I curse their head and all the hairs of their head; I curse their face, their brain, their mouth, their nose, their tongue, their teeth, their forehead, their shoulders, their breast, their heart, their stomach, their back, their womb, their arms, their leggs, their hands, their feet, and every part of their body, from the top of their head to the soles of their feet, before and behind, within and without.”

It runs to three pages in 1,100 words, and concludes:  “And, finally, I condemn them perpetually to the deep pit of hell, there to remain with Lucifer and all his fellows, and their bodies to the gallows of Burrow moor, first to be hanged, then ripped and torn by dogs, swine, and other wild beasts, abominable to all the world. And their candle  goes from your sight, as may their souls go from the face of God, and their good reputation from the world, until they forebear their open sins, aforesaid, and rise from this terrible cursing and make satisfaction and penance.”
(The Curse of the Elliot Clan)

I could only comment that I hoped their penance had been finally made and the curse lifted, but I do sometimes wonder that there maybe something witch-like about the Elliots and their line.

Ann loves to play her favourite tunes on her Apple HomePod. She keeps it in the kitchen, so it is often playing through the day, but it does have an independent mind. She told it once, "Siri, stop playing!"

Siri answered, "I'm not playing anything!"

In the meantime, I continue by resting, and dosing myself with antiemetics and antidiarrhoeals. Eight days done, twelve more treatment days to go.

Finding Zillian

Another day, another treatment. Yesterday continued much the same, with Edwin taking me to hospital. This time, they told me my bladder isn't emptying properly, and will have to be sorted out. So yet another hiccup to add to the diarrhoea and nausea. I just hope they don't need to recatheterise me.

There are two treatment rooms through the door I entered, and as I came out of mine to go back to the waiting room, I was pushed back and a crash team came hurtling past, so fast they misjudged the turn into their room and crashed into the door, sending equipment flying! When I finally got back out, poor Edwin had been sure it was being sent in for me, and was thinking how to tell his mum that I wouldn't be coming home with him! Even as we waited, two more teams raced past challenging each other to run faster. Then a trolley bed was rushed in, complete with drip, until there must have been a dozen or more people rushing past in total. Addenbrooke's is certainly the right place to be, if you must have a heart attack.

Me with Zillian the first table-tennis robot

Ann had a ghostly experience, looking for an old picture of me with my robot Zillian. She spent the evening looking through all 78 albums, representing thousands of pictures collecting a lifetime of memories, without finding it. She finally gave up and put the last album away when she saw a picture on the floor that had fallen out of one of them. It was the very same picture she had been searching for. She went cold like there was a creepy spirit in the room. Alas, poor Zillian is no more - only his ghost remains.

In the evening, we went for our annual Christmas Dinner to the Swan in Clare. This has become a tradition over the last few years, and was booked some time ago, before these treatments started, so we didn't want to cancel it. I managed to survive quite well, albeit without alcohol, and dosed up with antiemetics, but it was enlivened by the chatter of our granddaughters, who are a delight. One told us how she loves to cut off the heads of old photos, usually of her mum. When the photo is pulled from the album, the head stays behind, and they just get the shoulders coming out. She says it's fun to mix them up, and she has a bag of heads, like some psychopath. If someone annoys her at school, she can cut the head off their picture, and post it through their locker.