Kites

 To know the date of one's demise is a privilege granted to few, yet the knowledge carries distressing burdens. At our last meeting with the oncologist team at Addenbrookes, Ann challenged them with the unenviable question, "How long does John have?" The reply was starkly uncompromising, "Twelve months." This was on the autumnal equinox, September 21st, so the countdown has begun. Already, one month has passed of the twelve I have been allocated, with a memorable visit to Brussels, but it is hard to plan too far for the future, so one ends up living day to day under the ultimate deadline. Logically, such times are unpredictable, and as a GP I was careful to be vaguely hopeful when asked a similar question. It is the question many people with terminal cancer will always ask, but to be given a hard date produces a strange situation where I ring next year's equinox with a black box and begin the final countdown. I have three hundred and thirty-three days left for delight and enjoyment, or creative production, though not much sign of novel inspiration at the moment. Happily, I remain pain-free and active, with a brain still ticking over even if, where once words flooded in readily to hand, it sometimes takes an age now to remember the word I want. I retire each night with a brief question, will the weary heart fade quietly; will unwelcome death creep in this night? Yet sleep comes gracefully with many vivid dreams, and I wake refreshed, glad to take each new day. 

Strangely, I don't feel despondent but am cheerfully enjoying the health and days I have. Ann is working hard to build me up for the battle to come, even to the extent of getting beef and ale pies against all her convictions, to give me iron and protein to strengthen my natural immunity to fight the beast within. I have another paper accepted in a peer-reviewed journal, Astronomy, and have been asked to submit another to a journal called Galaxy, which published a previous paper and for which I have acted as  occasional external reviewer, but I do wonder if I can complete another paper. One thing did come to mind though. With the hindsight of age there is so much I wish I could have asked my grandparents, but as a child never sought to know. Grandad was born in 1874, his father, John Moorhouse, in 1836, and his grandfather, Roger Moorhouse was born in 1794. My grandmother, Grace Kershaw, was from a large family with many brothers and sisters that I never knew because she died so young, but mum would have known, yet never talked of them. If any one of them had left a diary of their lives, how fascinating we would now find it. I am therefore resolved to write my own recollections as objectively as I can, though doubtless glossing over more embarrassing episodes, in the vain hope that perhaps some grandchild or distant great grandchild in their more mature years may enjoy reading of how life was in the deprived 1940's and 50's.

My life has now spanned eight decades so to celebrate, Edwin and Andre are arranging an eightieth birthday binge after Christmas to which all friends, rels and neighbours are invited. He is theming it as a costume party, with any costume in the decades of my life starting from the wartime forties, so breakout those drainpipe trousers, winklepickers and mini-skirts! It should be fun.

Kites

Then into this great divide

Comes the Lord of life’s short reign – 

Old death, whose ghost

Hangs round us all, waiting:

Here a day less,

There a day more – 

To step leisurely from the gloom

And claim us to his bosom.

Uncaring, untiring,

Never sleeping, never smiling,

Solemn and grotesque he waits a while

To give us pause and tempt us on

To think we’re kings whose much crazed notions – 

Given wings by tiny moments leant by him – 

Exaltingly strike upwards.

Soaring kites that test the air for half a day;

And then he pulls the string.

And down we plunge into his waiting arms,

As if we’d never flown.

 JHM

Brussels

Edwin presents to the Brontë Society of Brussels

We spent a memorable weekend in bustling Brussels, and are now in the process of recovering. Not, I hasten to reassure the reader, because of anything bad about the visit, but rather because of a surfeit of all things good. We stayed at the friendly Brussels Moxy, where Andre entertained us on a cushion guitar.

The explicit reason for the trip was to accompany Edwin who had been invited to give the opening talk and presentation to the Brontë Society in Brussels. For anyone unaware of the powerful connection between a major European capital and the tiny, remote, Yorkshire town of Haworth, it arose from the time two of the sisters, Emily and Charlotte, spent time in Brussels learning French and teaching at a school for girls in the city. From this an active Brontë Society was born which thrives still, with regular walks, meetings, and talks, in this case centring on the influence of the Brussels' school on Charlotte's life through her two late novels, Shirley and Villette. 

Andre entertains

Afterwards, the speakers were invited to lunch which we also attended, and where I was sat next to an American called Jones, a journalist for the political journal, Politico. 

Choosing chocolate

Later, we explored the bustling central area and covered arcades where Andre could stock up on  rich Belgian chocolate to take to his family (especially his grandmother) when they visit for his sister's wedding in Brazil. We finished at an old bar called, appropriately, À la Mort Subite, or Sudden Death, where we were served hot chocolate, and Ann sampled a red cherry beer. Wherever he goes, Andre has a habit of meeting people he knows, or making new friendships. He had already met a Brazilian couple and here we remet Jones, this suggesting Brussels is a compact and friendly place compared to some European cities.

Enjoying Sudden Death

On Sunday, the boys went off to Train World, always a popular theme with Edwin, while Ann and I relaxed at the hotel before strolling to a nearby square to enjoy an al fresco lunch in a warm, autumn sun before finally leaving for the Eurostar return to London. At least, we almost left; I arrived at the station to realise I had left my silver-handled walking stick in the hotel room! Andre promptly ran to get a Metro train back to the hotel, returning with the stick brandished in victory. He  had already received a compliment on his fine cane, and said it made him feel quite classy. It did have a use though, besides propping me up, for as we shuffled along the queue to board, the four of us were pulled out of the line and fast-tracked through check-in and customs, as the staff spotted I was a vulnerable person! The trains are so fast and comfortable now, it is only two hours from London to Brussels, which is much quicker than a journey to Haworth will be. However, we are determined to return to the Brontës' roots soon, inspired by our memories and Edwin's talk.

Sunday lunch in Brussels

A time of leaks

Annie All Alone

It is a time of leaks, indicative of a time of reflective decay. First, the monitor on our oil tank needed a new battery - a simple job according to the manufacturer's instructions. Just unscrew the transmitter from the tank, remove four screws to take off the top, and replace the battery. No problem, and it worked fine. A few days later it stopped again. I repeated the process, but it was now full of water. Clearly the O-ring had unsealed. I stripped it down, cleaned it all, blew it for a while with a hair dryer, reseated the O-ring this time caked with grease to try to keep our moisture. Again, it worked fine for a few days. The plumber told us they often leak after they've been opened, so we sent for a new one which he fitted. Today that too has stopped working.

We had the plumber in yesterday because the kitchen tap had sprung a bad leak that drained into the cupboard. He brought a beautiful new tap, so that seems sorted. He has now gone on holiday but will sort the oil monitor when he comes back. Today, we found another leak round the sink in the bathroom, which had formed a tell-tale puddle on the floor, so we needed to find another plumber. He came within the hour, and diagnosed a leak from the waste exit point. Once such fittings were metal with brass nuts and thick rubber washers. Now they are thin Chinese plastic with O-rings like thin pieces of wool. He cleaned it all, but alas the weak plastic nut cracked as he tightened it. Being Saturday afternoon, he had to visit B&Q for a replacement and was forced to buy a complete sink drain and trap. Unfortunately, the new unit was even more flimsy than the older one and somehow the seal got damaged, so that too is leaking into the cupboard. He will now have to come back next week with a replacement unit, so in the meantime I have taped up the sink to remind us not to use the ensuite.

On a brighter note, Annie has discovered a new app for her iPhone: the ability to extract an individual from the background and is sending a batch of pictures she has produced. Also, the prednisolone steroids seem to be working. The diarrhoea has eased and my appetite improved, so probably the consultant was right that,  even though it was stopped in April, I had some form of delayed reaction to the immunotherapy - possibly a colitis of some kind. 

I used to write a lot of poetry, even seeing a number of pieces published in Literary Review. Following the generous comments to my new Sunflowers and another poem written at Haworth shortly after Ann and I met, I have dug out another older poem to ponder. So often have I floundered through life, wondering if I was able to move on, and each time Annie has been there to pull me through! Now she is there again, cheering me on to renew the fight a little longer. Thank you, Annie.

The Swimmer

I used to swim for my country – 

A few powerful strokes

and I was through.

Body thrust to the winning side,

every dive a winner.

Now I struggle to stay afloat,

flailing in their shallows,

lungs gasping,

I flounder slowly across

thinking I shall never reach that shore,

ready to yield and sink by the moment.

Until a helping arm grasps and pulls me out

and I lie, spent upon the side,

without a cheer for England.

 JHM

Dreams and memories

Dry Stone Walls

Dry stone walls lie crumbling;

At the year's end,

Each stone marks one long month passed.

Here, you stumbled on a frozen ground

And stretched a hand for steadying;

Here, I held you till we brought the night

To weld the hollow chinks as one.

There, you leapt in yielding chase

Across the moorland to my hot pursuit.

And there, we lay in breathless wonder –

Shadowed by these stones from prying spring.

That rock, heavy with a rimey moss,

Gave itself to cushion your frail face

Through all of summer;

These were pulled by argument,

Ripped from their ancient bed

To spoil an autumn hill-scape.

Weakened, gaunt, exposed, grey winter's blast

Loosened to prise free these last

Until a sheltering sheep might lean them down.

Now, with the year's death, falls my love.

In badly weeded borders, bare with neglect,

written at Haworth, 1 Jan 1989 JHM

For some weeks I have had bad diarrhoea, going up to five times through the night, and of a type I am reluctant to describe in a homely blog. After some attempts to see my GP, I phoned the oncology nursing team at Addenbrooke's. They got me back onto the Oncology Day Assessment unit next morning, and the doctors arranged a follow-up scan. 

Then on Monday afternoon (who said the NHS shut down for a funeral bank holiday), they phoned back with an appointment to see the consultant on Wednesday pm. Such a rapidly arranged appointment will alway trigger apprehension, in this case warranted. The whole team pushed passed Ann into the tiny room: registrar, nurse and the consultant, who was clear and direct. The melanoma has spread with more secondary nodules in the lungs, and a large new growth in the liver. She bluntly confessed nothing more could be done, but they would arrange to liaise with the unit at St Nicholas Hospice for any additional support. They would also write to the GP requesting an appointment with the community dietician to try to reverse my weight loss. Also she will start large doses of steroids to dampen down the diarrhoea, assuming it to be bowel inflammation as a late consequence of the immunotherapy I had had, even though this stopped in April. Ann insisted on some sort of prognosis, which we have not been given, and the nurse suggested it might be twelve months, so I'd better make the most of each day. Ann suggested we might hire a boat, since we got rid of ours. That cheered me enormously, and I dreamt that night of visiting various boatyards to see what we could get. It was more exciting than a sexual dream (which I don't have anymore), for though Ann probably has ambitions to cruise down a river, my dream took me out to sea and to some of the ports we used to visit.

Thank you Kaz and Ben!!

Yesterday I am feeling stronger again, perhaps braced by a good dream, and I was able to take Ann to her hairdressers and walk the dogs, then take a light lunch in the Swan garden in the in the last of the autumnal warmth. Later Edwin took us over to Bury for a takeaway, followed by a lively game of "Go Fish". Today I had to go back to Bury to help Edwin sort out a problem with his new phone, then tonight, on grandson Luke's birthday, Kaz and Ben sent a most wonderful and moving gift of a champagne to celebrate our days together. Thank you both so much for sending such a joyful message into our lives. We particularly remember Luke's birth twenty years ago, as we were on holiday in our caravan in Wales that night when the biggest earthquake for many years struck Gwent, tilting the caravan and causing Edwin to fall our of his bed! Happy birthday Luke!

Sunflowers

Sunflowers

In badly weeded borders, bare with neglect,

we scattered seeds to brighten dismal autumn’s darkening day.

Birds flocked down, bright squawking, cheerful creatures,

glad to feast on the diet we had strewn.

That autumn, not a single flower showed ‘bove bare earth. 

But —high behind the fence, bright against a low sun — 

stands a burst of sunflowers: strong, brilliant, capped in gold, 

proclaiming our lives in gardens new.

Within the house, we live our ebbing lives,

once with hopeful promise sown: ending now.

Birds of time have winged away our dreams

and flowers of youth decayed to graveyard slime

midst borders choked with growth we did not seek.

Yet o’er the fence, the fresher voices cry: 

cheering sounds of song and happy dream,

carried on soft breezes, bringing joy 

from children delighting in flowers they did not plant.

JHM

For some weeks I have had bad diarrhoea, going up to five times through the night, and of a type I am reluctant to describe on white pages. Last week I managed to speak with a nurse who advised getting a stool sample to test, but this came back clear of nasty infection that might be treatable such as dysentery of typhoid. I tried to phone again this week, but could not speak even to a nurse, and they had no appointment slots, so I phoned the oncology nurses at Addenbrookes, who were magnificent. The consultant phoned back to discuss the case, and arranged for me to go onto the oncology day assessment unit in the morning. Yesterday therefore, I spent the day at Addenbrookes where they arranged an urgent scan, as it was overdue anyway. The young registrar came back to see me at about half-past-seven, to explain they had found some larger nodes on my lungs, and a new growing cyst within the liver, almost certainly a recurrence of the malignant melanoma. She advised me to continue with loperamide (Lomotil) to control the diarrhoea, and I finally got home at eight pm. However, she did add that the team will discuss my management next week, but whether they can offer palliative surgery or chemotherapy at this stage I do not know.

Sorrows come not as single spies but in battalions. Matthew remains very low with poorly controlled diabetes, and now poor Rosie has been taken into hospital. She had had pain in the side for some time, which grew worse at the beginning of the week. She was found to have a ureteric stenosis (severe narrowing of the tube from the kidney to the bladder) due to severe inflammation in the duct. She has had to have a nephrostomy tube inserted to drain the kidney to an external bag until the inflammation eases. She remains in hospital today, in great pain and worrying about keeping two small and active children from climbing on her and dislodging the bag. 

Ann's Sunflowers!

Ann loves her garden so this spring she sowed a mass of sunflower seeds in the beds round the edge. Finally they have come up, some eight feet tall and facing the sun in brilliant splendour. The only problem is, they're all next door! It looks as though the birds, so used to feasting in our garden, assumed the tasty seeds were for them, and ate the lot. They must have flown to the fence and dropped some there - there is a full display all along the neighbour's fence, but we do not have a single sunflower in our garden.

Addenbrooke's Honours EIIR 

Visiting The North

 We went North on Friday to see some of the children and grandchildren who still live there. Ann chose to stay with the dogs, being too tired to travel far, and I did not feel up to the arduous A1, but was kindly chauffeured by Edwin and Andre. They were both working till the afternoon, so it was late when we arrived, just after eight, but early enough for a meal in the bar. We stayed at Guisborough Hall Hotel, a beautiful, spotless and well restored country house. Next day we saw all the children. The boys went to Northallerton in the morning, Edwin having promised Andre a visit to Betty's. I, too tired to stir, stayed quietly in the hotel until their return. 

Matthew welcomes us to their new home

Arwen centre stage

First port of call was to the Nicola's, where Rosie and Matthew are well ensconced with the two new additions. Arwen is a little beauty, and Nye is a bright and active addition to their family. Poor Matthew remains ill with severe brittle diabetes, poorly controlled by diet or medication. He continues to be off work, with no sickness benefit despite having worked for the company for over eleven years. Mateo had been brought by his father, Marco, to be joined later by Lucy and his sister Lucia. We were also joined by her youngest, Theo. Nicola made us all welcome then we all moved on to Mike and Ryan's house in Thornaby. I have been lucky with my ex-wife. Many ex's continue a state of hostility, but Nicola never stopped the children from seeing me, even at the height of our divorce, and never used them in the battle ground. She is now welcoming and friendly, with a warm civility between us, even sending cards and prayers in a way that is both caring and touching.

Uncle Edwin with children

Mike and Ryan have the most beautiful house, each room spotlessly clean and tastefully decorated by Ryan who is a true artist. The living room was in Bauhaus style, with large, framed posters and colour-matched wall panels. Arwen continued her lively streak as an active, normal, mischievous two-year old, throwing Mike's crisps across the floor, but he has great patience, bringing in a dustpan and brush with a forgiving smile. We ordered a takeaway from a place in Middlesbrough that had a wide menu and Andre was persuaded to try a Parmo, the Teesside equivalent of a deep-fried Mars bar in Glasgow. He absolutely loved it, and Middlesbrough went up two notches in his estimation. I have lost my appetite recently, so didn't order anything, but Ryan shared a small slice of his pizza which was fully sufficient.

In Remembrance of Michelle

Next day Ann's sister, Jane, came over to the hotel to see us with her family. We last saw her two grandchildren many years ago, but they are now so grown and mature I would not have recognised them. Later, we drove to Saltburn via the Acklam Road cemetery, resting place for the ashes of Jane's other daughter, Michelle, remembered in the month of her birth. Jane goes each week and had laid fresh flowers in her memory. Edwin stopped at a garage to buy flowers of our own to add to hers.

Andre admires ancient engineering

I am my nosey normal

In the Saltburn Cable Car

We visited Saltburn via the old lifting bridge and transporter bridge, remnants of Middlesbrough's once bright past as a leading engineering town. Both were renown world monuments, but both are now crumbling and unworking, a sign of the decay of a leading Victorian town. Ann and I used to live in Saltburn, so I showed the boys our old house at 38 Emerald Street. The new owner saw my interest from her upstairs bedroom, the window flew open, and she called down to us, before coming down to let us in and show us what she had done in the intervening years. It was a lovely house, and we enjoyed our time there, but of course can never go back. Saltburn at least has kept its heritage and maintained its Victorian railway and cliff cable car.

More Victorian Engineering

A trip to Birmingham

A feast of ripe, sweet blackberries

It seems a while since I posted a blog, a while filled with activity, including a Sunday morning in the woods behind Clare gathering blackberries. They are so plump and prolific in the warm sun, I quickly filled a punnet from just two bushes.

Oh yes, we've also had a change in Prime Minister since I last wrote. As with Brexit, the powers that be seem intent on running another project fear. With all the gloomy news about forthcoming heating costs, we've decided to hunker down for the winter. To this end, we moved the spare bed in Ann's special room up to our bedroom for Ann to use, and I now have Ann's old bed. My old bed was Edwin's bunk bed from when he was a toddler, which I had cut down from its base and was now very old, so I have dismantled it and we took it and the spare old mattress to the tip.

We spent another two days shopping for new chairs, a table and a small television for the corner. The chairs arrived today, and with their presence the room is complete. We may be able to turn off most of the radiators in the house, just leaving the one small radiator for the central room. We never had the radiators on in the bedroom anyway, just extra blankets as needed.

On Asha's red carpet

Last week, Andre had a conference in Birmingham where he was manning a stand for his company. The Automotive Electronics Systems Innovation Network Conference (the title alone suggests serious intent here) was held at The National Conference Centre in Solihull, for companies that make electronic gizmos for the motor trade: companies such as Bosch, and Siemens, and naturally Cadence was prominent among them. Modern cars rely on electronics not just for their power control and automated driving, but for the new electronic cockpits that have replaced traditional dials and knobs. In the words of their blurb, "Cars are becoming computers on wheels with more processing power than the average personal computer", and Cadence are at the forefront of bespoke chip design and programming. In consequence, he and Edwin invited us to go with them to Birmingham where we stayed in the Rotunda. Edwin took Ann round their favourite haunts while I relaxed over a Terry Pratchett book. The first night, Andre treated us to a meal in Birmingham's most celebrated Indian restaurant, Asha's. They even have a roped off red carpet area for their visiting celebrities, so naturally we stood there and got some other guest to snap us.

We enjoy cocktails in Asha's

We moved on to The Alchemist for post-prandial cocktails, then next evening we ate at a lively Cuban restaurant, with live music. One of the guests was dancing wildly to the beat, so naturally Andre, ever cheerful and outgoing, joined in. This brought the woman and her friend to our table, where we all introduced themselves before dancing lady gave me a big hug and began telling me something of her life. As I understood it, she worked by organising maintenance engineers for commercial sites that had drinking water available; her friend apparently was "an influencer", with some promotional blog. I guess she must have a few more readers than I get for my blog - I could never sell anything with my writing. That was the second unexpected hug I had that day. Earlier, while waiting outside Selfridges for Ann, a lady had come up to me saying, "Dr Marr - I was your receptionist at Clare". She had left some years ago, and now worked in the shopping centre in Birmingham Bullring. Before moving on, she threw her arm round me and said how lovely to meet again. I didn't remember her specifically, but I enjoyed the hug. Women can still get away with this, but as a man I am very reluctant to hug any strange female these days.

On the way home, we stopped at Huntingdon for Edwin to collect his new car. He had already sold his old one on WeBuyAnyCar and had used the money to pay for the new one, so the transition was quite swift. A couple of days later, I had an urgent call from Edwin to rescue him from a garden centre. He and Andre had bought a large parasol for their patio table, too big to fit in Edwin's new little Polo. We lowered the rear seats and slid it into my car where it still overhung the front seat. They also had a dozen large boulders to weigh it down. Edwin refused point blank to take a single one of them in his car; he never allows even food or a takeaway meal to travel in it, so they too had to be loaded into my car, filling the front footwell and surrounding poor Byron in the boot. The car drove like a pig with the added weight, struggling on hills and grossly over-steering on bends, but eventually I got to Bury. The boys unloaded and Edwin brought out his portable vacuum cleaner to tidy the mess from the dirty rocks. Today, I even received a bottle of whisky as a thank you.