The Duke stops Brexit

The news has just broken that Prince Philip the Duke of Edinburgh was in a road smash. Everything is being said about the Duke, including reading prayers for him. He is 97, and clearly in no fit state to be driving; but they are called the Queen's highways, so I expect he feels entitled to charge about on them with impunity, long after the age at which we mere mortals would be banned from taking the wheel. But not one word has been said about the condition of the other poor driver whom the Duke ran into. Yet another example of gross overprivilage of the few. But at least it's pushed Brexit off the lead story.

Ann is unwell today; she struggles on, but had to cancel her hair appointment. She is carrying a heavy load just in looking after me now, but somehow she always gets everyone else's problems too. I walked the dogs today, but it is very painful below, and I think it would be more accurate to say I hobbled round with the dogs. It was a beautiful clear day, with a bright, light blue sky after a dusting of snow this morning, but I could not walk far and was glad to get back under my blanket.

A Health Bulletin

People keep asking how I am getting on, which is kind and thoughtful, but I find I'm saying the same thing to everyone. I therefore am publishing a bulletin like a pregnant royal to announce the state of play of my body. As a measure of my improvement, I got out twice today! I have picked up the thread of work (happily I can work from home), and this afternoon I managed to sit through a presentation in Cambridge, between dashes to the loo. I am definitely gaining in strength, doing more and feeling less tired after being blasted by the radiotherapy, but I'm still very sore below, as though it has burnt everything in the area. My taste has altered too, and coffee tastes foul. I guess it will just need some time to heal now.

Illness certainly shows who one's friends are. Many people have rallied round, with offers of practical help as well as sympathy. Equally, we have discovered how incredibly cruel and nasty some people can be. At the first hint of disease, and with Ann in plaster from her fall last year, her sister slammed the phone down on her and said she didn't want any more contact. Her children have followed suit, so we have lost contact with the two great nephews. On my side, one of my children has refused to have anything to do with me, and sent not one word of concern or care. I still don't know what caused the rift, but as he ignored all my initial attempts to contact him, I will probably never know. Now, I just don't want to speak with him again either - thus does enmity grow.

In contrast, this morning we were invited for coffee to Robin and Yvonne's, a rare and welcome chance to get out and a change of scenery. Unfortunately, they too have some internal family difficulties, and they too won't discuss it. These family fallouts seem remarkably common - but what chance the world, when even kin hold rancour close.

Loneliness and gay roles for gay actors

Who Cares?

Who cares?
None - but the lonely piper
Churning out his dirge across the stair
That leads down, down, down to dark despair.

Who cares?
None - but the dark moon howling
In the silent night; calling at the last
Those dear departed dead loves of my past.

Who cares?
None - but my heart, which beats slower
With each passing stroke, reluctant yet to flee
From hopeless, hapless, love of she.

JHM

An article in The Guardian today (gay roles for gay actors) highlights the problems modern actors face in following their trade, i.e. should any actor play a role as someone other than themselves. This is a real problem for the profession: should women play male roles (e.g. Glenda Jackson in Lear - brilliant!); should non transvestites cross-dress to play women (Charlie's Aunt); should actors be padded out to play fat characters (Falstaff); or healthy people play the roles of invalids or people with some form of mental disability (A Day in the Death of Joe Egg)? Eddie Redmayne was in trouble for this recently in his role as Stephen Hawking. The problem is, he portrayed Stephen deteriorating from full vigour to severe disability. No actor inflicted with motor neurone disease could do this, so should they select an actor with some other disability to mimic a different disability?

I am happy with gay roles for gay actors if the actors are the best in their trade; but in fairness, I would then like to see straight roles played by straight actors, which is never going to happen. No - let our actors continue performing their trade: they are a mirror to reality, and must never be confused with reality itself. The problem with PC is that it is only ever applied by the vocal minority. It's a bit like Brexit, where a very vocal minority are making every effort to thwart the wishes of the silent majority. Would I could wave a wand and it would all be over with a clean out!

Loneliness

And so I am alone,
more alone than I have ever been,
no one at the end  phone
or here to walk the path with me.
So this is what was meant
how the story meets it end.
no one by my side,
not brother, cousin, child nor friend.

Annie Elliott

Ann's poem reflects so closely that which we all feel deep down. Loneliness. That sense of isolation, no matter how we disguise it with the idle chatter of friends or the distractions of a busy life. In the end, our inner being is ours alone, and the journey through life is a journey we must take for ourselves.

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.

Companionship

Companionship

Through everything I have been,

wished for, or dared to dream,

You are a constant at my side,

my dearest friend, my one true love,

my steady ship upon a sucking tide.

And always I have loved you,

so proudly watched you,

felt your strength guiding me,

living life alongside me.

When dark storms came,

sad memories, distant dreams,

We battened down together;

faced the warlike weather.

How could our story be

that two souls so lost at sea,

would find such gentle harmony

within each other's company?

Annie Elliott

Ann's new poem is about companionship, a reminder of how valuable and supportive our friends and some relatives have been. She particularly had been my one true companion, there through each turbulent day to cheer and sooth the troubled brow.

I enjoyed a visit from Chris today, the husband of Bible Ann. She was too ill to come with him, but we played some good chess. Though born in England, his parents moved him to Zimbabwe as a small child. Then it was still Rhodesia, and they worked on the farms until the coming of independence in 2000 forced them to flee leaving everything behind.

British colonialism is generally frowned upon these days, but Rhodes united a number of territories and waring tribespeople, all with diverse languages, cultures and leaders, and brought peace and prosperity to the region with the emergence of a new country. This coexistance collapsed with idependence, and many millions of people fled the country, with a majority of the remaining Zimbabweans living in total poverty. Chris's father could have chosen Australia to emigrate to; they'd still be there if he had, such are the vagaries of fate.

Addenbrooke's had warned me that the two weeks post treatment might be the worst, and they were right. Though getting stronger and eating better, down below is hell. I am going every two hours, with very disturbed sleep, it burns like fury, and seems to take for ever to wee. The other side is also painful, and for the first time in my life, I've developed haemorrhoids. The pain eases with painkillers: regular doses of ibuprofen and paracetamol. I don't generally advise anyone to waste their pennies on proprietary brands, for the generics are identical and a fraction of the price, but I do recommend Anusol - the relief is well worth the money!

Road ahead closed

We visited Haverhill yesterday. Haverhill is not somewhere we talk about much, but our good friends Rae and Malcolm live there and we were invited for coffee and chat. Their road is closed for sewer repairs, so we had weave through the shoppers by approaching via the High Street. Driving towards their entrance, we passed the "Road Ahead Closed" sign, and inched up through parked workpeople's cars towards the barrier where a large glaring yellow excavator was dredging up the road. The man driving looked more and more surprised, then apprehensive as we approached, thinking I was about to take him on in a daring challenge, and looked most relieved when I suddenly swung into the gate, just missing his little barrier.

Yesterday too, Edwin landed at Heathrow on his return from Israel. The airport was closed for an hour due to another drone sighting, but he missed the delays. He drank a good quantity of champagne before landing and stayed in a hotel overnight. I picked him up today from Cambridge station. They have done away with the 20 minute (or even 5 minute) stopping places; there is drop-down only there now, or pay over the odds for 10 minutes in their main carpark. I joined several other cars, cruising round, until Edwin rang to ask, "where are you?" and I could finally dash into the queue of cars, and urge him to sling his case in quickly. I had the dogs with me, thinking they'd be delighted to see their master back, but they were somewhat aloof as though sulking that he'd left them. They came round once we were back home and were all over him.

Ann had to see the glaucoma clinic in Bury early today, and is on the waiting list for cataract removal. She has already been waiting for two years, and is considering going privately. Coming home, a neighbour came up to intercept us with news of our next-door neighbour who spends every winter in India. He has had a massive stroke out there, and is currently in hospital and unable to return home. He is the third man in our road to have had a massive stroke, and the road only has four houses! I am the fourth man - not a nice prospect. Given a choice, I think I'll stick with the cancer: at least I can still think and act for myself.

More bad news

The new year is continuing as 2018 left off. We've just heard that Tony, Lucy's partner's father, formerly a leading nuclear physicist now with Alzheimer's, has been admitted to hospital with what sounds like a septicaemia. He is having IV antibiotics, and sounds to be very weak. His son is distraught and spent the whole night with his mother at the hospital.

I often liken life to being put in a long line, walking slowly up towards the pit of extinction. We start off at the back of the queue, but by my age I am among the group at the very front, waiting to drop over. Occasionally, young people are rushed up to the front, and jump in front of us. It is hard, but there is no escape. I will continue with this blog of my journey, but regret I will be unable to send back messages. It must be like falling into a black hole; death is the horizon beyond which nothing ever returns. One regret is that I shall not be able to report back from that dark pit; but I shall continue with this blog for as long as I can, and relate as much as I may.

It is recommended that one should take up an intellectual hobby to slow deterioration of the brain. I continue to do a crossword each day (really half a crossword, as Ann usually gives me half the answers!), and I am learning a language. The language is VBA - a programming language for manipulating data in Excel. Probably not much use for the holiday in Portugal, but it keeps the brain ticking over.

Bible Ann suggested yesterday that I must have got job satisfaction as a doctor. 'Tis strange, but I used to think of my life as a GP as a job rather than a vocation. It was something one 'got on with'; a long waiting list 'to be got through'. But struggling to wee at 4 o'clock in the morning, I remembered my work on the genitourinary (GU) wards; the many men coming in with retention writhing in pain; and the blissful smile when I passed a catheter to relieve them. Of course, like all pleasures, it didn't last long: we generally then had to tell them they had an enlarged prostate, and were being fast- tracked for prostatectomy.

Edwin has just phoned us from Israel. He's had a brilliant time, and after witnessing a Bar' Mitzvah in Jerusalem today, he told us he wants one. He was put off though when Ann mentioned that he would have to be circumcised first.