My new Foundation Buddy

Watching with my Foundation Buddy

Edwin and Andre came round last night. Ann made us all a first rate shepherd's pie with all the trimmings, and it was delicious. It is easy to eat for strength with such food. Edwin and Ann are less keen on sci-fi then Andre and I, so the two of us watched several episodes of the new Apple TV Foundation series while Ann and Edwin chatted in the library. 

It is a high standard production for visuals and acting with dialogue up to the original of Azimov, so it is a brilliant series all round. I had wanted to watch it for some time, so am very grateful to my new Foundation buddy for encouraging me to do so. A new episode is released each Friday, so we will probably watch it independently to cover the series, then watch new ones together. 

I must admit, recovery from the lung resection is not the simple procedure I had hoped it might be. Everyone told me it would be painful, and it is: but I'm taking the painkillers the hospital provided every 6 hours, and they do hold it at bay most of the time. Also, the cough is more worrying - deep and productive, with nasty strings of black stuff the result of the hacking, and the tiredness, all in all like I'd just worked a shift in a coal mine. Not pleasant at all, and weak and breathless when I do too much. I am resting, of course, but I can't do much else! Ann is having to do everything, even to walking the dogs and emptying the bins.

Going home, bruised but surviving

The cannulae are removed

 Yesterday Mr Peryt visited once more and said I looked well and could go home. The drains had been removed from my chest wall yesterday and today the last of the cannulae were taken out. Hurray. I contacted Ann immediately afterwards, and she came for me about 11am, to restore a little normality back into our lives. It is good to be home. I am tired, but taking regular pain medication which seems to control everything allowing me to do the deep breathing exercises and cough to get up the gunge off my lungs. 

I am banned from driving for 4 weeks, which pleases some people but not the dogs, as I always take them with us in the back of my car. Ann's is too small to take them, so they will have to stay home whenever we go out. Not that I've been out yet! I'm confined to relative rest at the moment, forbidden to do any lifting or anything strenuous for a while, least the chest wound gapes or leaks air into the pleural space. I also have to take an injection each day into my stomach to stop DVTs, so life is not all sweetness and light despite the rest. 

The wedge resection of my lung is completed

Grandad John after surgery

Yesterday was the day of surgery to remove the metastatic melanoma from my lung. I was nil by mouth from midnight, and due to go down at 1pm, being third on the list. The first case was a bronchoscopy, so they said it shouldn't be too long before they called me, but in the event the second case dragged on overtime, until finally they called for me at 3:30pm. They said the second case was still blocking the thoracic theatre, so they had to prepare the cardiac theatre for me. I greatly pity whoever was in the other theatre: they must have been there for over 5 hours when I went down. They prepped me, put a couple of cannulas in, gave me oxygen to breath then knocked me out, and I knew no more till 7:30pm when they returned me to the ward. I had booked supper before I went down, but that was gone so I had no more than a KitKat and water. They were still running a morphine drip into my arm, so I was fairly pain free, though I did vomit in the night. I could not move from the bed, and was glad to use the urine bottles they provided.  There is much talk at the moment about people opting to change sex. Women are welcome to dress in boys clothes and call themselves Bill or whatever, I have no problem with it. They can insist on being addressed as he, but they will never know the simple pleasure of making patterns in the snow, or the simplicity of using a urine bottle while lying flat in bed, knowing there will be no leakage, anymore than I will ever know the pain of menstruation, or the joy of having a child grow within me. 

Next day, Mr Peryt the surgeon came round at 8am to tell me how well the surgery went, and they had managed to remove all the lump with a single wedge resection, which sounded positive. They removed the oxygen tubes and stopped the drip, and a physiotherapist walked me round the corridor then checked I could do 13 steps up to manage the staircase when I went home. Finally, they pulled the drain out from my chest wall - a large double hosepipe of a thing, through which air and blood-stained fluid had been sucked to keep the lung expanded. A purse-string suture was put in place and drawn tight to close the hole and prevent air from re-entering.

Ann visits

Only one stated visitor is allowed, and they have to book a time slot and are limited to three visits per week.Finally, Ann was able to visit at 3pm, bringing clean pyjamas, treats from Edwin, cards, and a ray of sunshine in her face. Never was a visitor so welcome. I could see the boys waiting outside and waved to them as we talked on the phone. It was Edwin's birthday, but I had been so knocked out I had forgotten, but Ann reminded me so I could wish him well on the phone.

The boys wave hello

Being prepared for surgery

The day began early while it was yet dark. At 6am, a nurse/barber entered to shave my torso and arms. I had a hairy chest, and soon the pile of soft fur grew in a mount on the paper towel he had spread over me. A little later, others entered and marked a cross upon me to indicate which side to cut on. The surgical team entered to tell me I was third on the list, so would go down approximately at 1pm. 

Washed, preped and ready to go

I have squirted Octinisan anti-MRSA nasal gel up my nostrils, had a second shower, covered myself with antiseptic gel, donned surgical pants and gown, and have struggled to pull up knee-high anti-embolus tights, which are a fetching shade of white.  A large notice on my door proclaims "NBM", so I've had nothing to eat or drink since yesterday and I'm thirsty. I'd love a large shandy right now. Many people have sent good wishes and prayers. Edwin joined Andre's prayer group last night, and the whole group prayed for me! Ann's Catholic cousins in Glasgow and her American cousin in California have joined in the prayers. I don't know any muslims or buddhists, but I'm covered on every front Christian-wise. 

By coincidence, someone I used to correspond with about our ideas on galaxies, dark matter and the Universe, got in touch last night with a question, having read one of my papers. I dug out the paper and framed a response, so this was all suitably distracting, but I then added the bombshell that I was actually in hospital and would have surgery in the morning. I think he lives on the East Coast USA, but is otherwise unkown to me, but he too sent his anonymous good wishes. 

I could not order breakfast or lunch, but the dinner lady recommended a light ommelette for dinner so I've ordered that. I don't anticipate being up to anything much once this violence upon my person has been accomplished, but they promise I will be hungry later. I trust the prayers will see me through, so I shall update this bulletin once I'm capable of rational typing again.

Admission to Papworth

 I left home asbut though it were the last farewell to England. The dogs were moping with their ears back and tails down as though they knew something was afoot. I stepped outside to breath the clean autumnal air, so crisp and fresh, so final with the leaves. Ann drove me to the door of Papworth Hospital, and we said a sad goodbye ere I donned my mask and was forced to locate and show my letter before the bouncer on the door would let me pass into the vast cavern of Papworth reception hall, eirily empty and silent during Covid restrictions. 

I tried to enter a lift, but they have a strange system whereby one has to enter the chosen floor from an external keypad: once trapped in the lift, we can only go to the floors preselected by the staff. I had to get out and enter Floor 5 and await a different lift to arrive. Another patient got in with me. I knew she was a patient, as she had no uniform and, like me, carried a bag and a stick. I assumed she too was going up to Floor 5, as it shot past her destination and she lamented, "I wanted Floor 3", a member of staff explained the unusual rule, so she had to go back to the reception area and try anew.

Now I have been admitted to the ward and have had a succession of visitors - more in one hour than in 6 months in Hundon. Someone called to check my name and afix an arm band, someone came to take an order for lunch, then a porter to wheel me down to a back lift for a chest X-ray, another to measure BP and vitals, another two to take bloods for cross-matching, a surgical minion to tell me I will have to sign more consent forms, someone else brought my lunch, a guy popped his head round and said "I'm Greg, I'll be in later", without saying what he did or why I might expect his later visit.

My luxiory suite in Papworth Hospital

Then a nurse came to ask many more questions about my mobility and state of mind, though she threw me when she asked what year it was and where I was. I thought she must be losing it if she didn't know, but then realised she was checking I didn't have dementia. "Can you get out of bed yourself, and walk unaided?" she asked. I said I could. "You won't be able to after tomorrow," she cheerfully informed me. That sounds a bit bleak.

Then an ECG with a shaved chest, followed by a form to consent to my bits being used for research. Finally, an anaesthetist came, a tiny Australian lady, to describe the procedure in tedious detail including all I might expect and all that might go awry. Unlike Ann, I have not read anything about it, for I reckon I'll find out soon enough. But my blissful ignorance was shattered by this woman who described in detail how they will be forced to place an extra large tracheal tube down my throat and into the main bronchial passage to facilitate the collapse of the lung, this making the surgery a little easier. I will be left with a sore throat, a large drain to help the lung reinflate, breathlessness and a horrible cough spitting blood! I wish I'd never asked. Oh, now I remember - I didn't. They just told me anyway.

The room itself is large and airy, overlooking the Gog Magog hills from the fifth floor, so a good panaramic view. It has an en suite bathroom and shower ready for tomorrow's ritual to begin. I will keep you posted as and when I can, dear readers, for now it grows dark as the day flees the dreaded night ahead.

Edwin's graduation ceremony and party

Dr Edwin Marr, PhD

Thursday marked the final milestone in Edwin's education when we attended the degree award ceremony at Anglia Ruskin University. We each had to show our Covid passports to get into the Guildhall for the robing and photographs, and again to enter the Corn Exchange where the ceremony was held. As any religious service, we all stood as a brass band heralded the procession of a mace bearer and distinguished academics who took their places in some order of seniority or precedence unknown to we mere mortals. Speeches were given and then the names of scores of BA's, BSc's, and ordinary Masters were read out to order their march across the stage to doff their mortar boards to the Vice Chancellor. Finally, at the very end of the proceedings, the names of a very tiny but much more distinguished group were read out, and the new Doctors of Philosophy stepped into the limelight. Each had the title of their thesis read aloud to us, and then were presented with their new gowns and very distinctive head gear, each placed carefully by the Vice Chancellor upon their shoulders and heads. The Vice Chancellor was a somewhat short lady, and Edwin had to bend the knees before her to come within reach while remaining vertical. 

Edwin receives has gown and Tudor Bonnet

Afterwards, following more brass band music and a reverse order procession, we repaired to ARU for a celebratory glass of bubbly and much congratulations. The hour was then late, for to make up for the backlog of ceremonies from last year when all was locked down, the University has had to hold twice as many this year, and we were the last of three on the same day. We then migrated to a wonderful Cambridge restaurant, the Ivy, to enjoy a late meal booked for 9:30 pm. For it is a great advantage of a city that places stay open late, and contrasts grossly with little Hundon, where our pub only serves meals four nights a week and last orders are at 8pm. We finished very late and well oiled, but could take a taxi back to Edwin and Andre's apartment where happily they had made a bed up ready for us.

Celebrating with home-made Brazilian chocs

On Saturday, we were late stop-outs again, for Andre had organised a huge party with some of his Brazilian friends to double celebrate Edwin's graduation and his birthday. It was held at a beautiful house with an enclosed garden in which were erected two gazebos and firepits. Andre had been baking Brazilian specialities all week, and had commandeered the freezers of several friends to store them in. The house was awash with wine and speciality cocktails, and even Mary-Ann, Sam and the two girls came to the party. Ann and I left early, but again we were rather late finishing. Edwin had given us a spare key, so once more we could fall asleep at their apartment. The wild dancing had begun before we left, and the party itself went on until 2am, so we certainly didn't hear the boys come in, but I gather they had a good time.

Ann in party mood awaits her drink

Next morning, to sober reality, I had to report to Papworth for an official PCR Covid test. I then had to promise faithfully that I would isolate until my admission to the ward on Tuesday. So though I walked the dogs on Sunday and again today, it was in an isolated spot in the country where I met no one. Now my bag is packed, and I am getting last minute instructions from Papworth about what to bring and what I must do once I am in the building. It is all very strict and well regulated. I may be able to report more once I am on the ward, as I hope to be able to use my laptop there.

Papworth, the Baltic Amber, and a new stick

 Yesterday was another Papworth day, arranged to discuss more fully the potential treatments I have to face. However, true to Papworth's style, it didn't turn out that way. Ann and I were ushered in to Dr Yang, a young specialist in radiotherapy of the lung, but at the outset she said she did not know a lot about melanoma, as she usually treated primary carcinomas of the lung. However, it was a general service offered to any growth in the lungs included secondaries from other sites, so she would be quite happy to treat mine. She then went into detail of the doses I would have, the potential side effects, how long it would take etc., almost like a rerun of the surgical appointment I had had. Then she said I could have that instead of surgery if I wished, but the outcomes weren't much different. At least, that's what I think she concluded, though it was hard to be certain. What she could not elaborate on was the prognostic outcome from either. If I have the surgery, or the radiotherapy, would it add many weeks/months or even a year to my life expectancy? No one seems to know, or to commit themselves to even a vague guess. I suspect they are too concerned with being sued these days, in case their guess is wildly out. 

People sue so readily, I expect some might sue because they suddenly have an extra year to live but have spent all their money; or a relative might sue because the life was shorter than predicted, so they want compensation for the extra time of grieving or a missed holiday. Everyone is so lentiginous these days; or am I just being over cynical? 

Anyway, to try and find someone sensible, I have managed to make an appointment with a McMillan nurse for next week. Hopefully we can at least discuss our concerns and worries to a disinterested person who is not responsible for providing actual management care. 

My stick has arrived

Edwin had hoped to take us to Papworth, but was working at the last minute so I had to drive and park there. We were over 3 hours there in the end, following a repeat X-ray and blood tests. The carpark fee was over £8! We had thought to be less than an hour, and the poor dogs were stuck in the car. However, we stopped to give them water, food and a good walk on the way home, and they stopped again for a lovely meal at the Baltic Amber in Haverhill. I am anaemic, to add to my long list, so broke my vegetarian diet with a Beef Stroganoff on the excuse that I needed the iron. I also fancied it, and was not disappointed. It was scrumptious, cooked in cream and red wine.

Also this week, we received the largest box Amazon have yet sent. It was not heavy, and we couldn't work out what could be in it. It turned out to be a stick Ann had sent for me. It was lying across the bottom of the box, with a mountain of paper stuffed over it. I get a little weak and wobbly on my pins come the evening, so it is to help me get out of my chair, and steady myself. It is a beautiful stick, in polished beech with a chrome silver handle and a pleasure to use - more like a fashion accessory than an invalid aid. Indeed, I took it for a twirl, making out I was Fred Astaire doing a dance routine, touching my imagined top hot, and slinging it under my arm, nearly knocking ornaments off the mantlepiece as I did so. But it is a great aid, and a pleasure to use.