Double trouble

Early morning dawn

This pretty picture tells a story. It is just before sunrise, and the story is what a bad night I had that forced me to rise early enough to see it. I said in my previous post I would not bore people with the symptoms of Covid, for they were already too well known. Well, I'm breaking that pledge. I had a torrid night, wet with sweat, throat sore, and a taste like the floor of hell in my mouth. It is as though I have chewed the most bitter medicine ever made, but unlike a medicine, no amount of gargling or throat washes will clear it out, it persists through my waking hours and into my dreams. The only temporary relief is from the Gin-Gins ginger sweets that my niece Sue bought for me two years ago (see Two-ways-to-manage-bladder-cancer). They are incredible things - so strong they blind the taste buds to anything else going on, and mask even this foul taste, so once again, thank you Sue.

Edwin and Andre got away to London early this morning before catching their flight to Madrid, a staging post for going on to Brazil for Andre's sister's wedding. It is being held in sight of one of the biggest waterfalls in South America, right on the Argentinian border, so should be quite a spectacle. Edwin had to go into Senate House to present his credentials, before taking up his new full-time job as Careers Consultant to the University of London. This is a huge career step, so congratulations Edwin. 

Poor Ann, who has been working so hard to look after me all week, was ill herself today. She suddenly rushed to the bathroom and started a bout of violent vomiting. She slept most of the afternoon, waking this evening but rushing out to be sick again. She has tested negative for Covid twice now, so we don't think that is causing it, and she has had little food and no alcohol at all today, so we can't pin down the cause. I have given her some anti-emetic tablets I was given when I had chemotherapy, so we are hopeful they will kick in and she will get a peaceful night. More updates tomorrow.

Covid strikes

 Now, to add to my problems, I have developed Covid. I will not bore everyone with the symptoms, which are all too familiar from the extensive publicity it has received, but to say it started Monday night, and was confirmed yesterday with a positive Covid test. Happily, Ann is still clear, but we had planned to take the boys and their luggage to London tomorrow to see them on their way to Brazil, so that has gone by the board. I do not feel like eating much, and am mostly sitting in my chair still in pyjamas, while Ann repeatedly tests my high temperature before feeding me paracetamol and drinks. We were advised that vulnerable patients may need a course of antiviral medicine, so this morning we phoned the GP (twice), the oncology nursing team, and finally 119 which advised contacting the emergency 111 number. I spent a long time chatting to a lady who asked many questions, finally concluding that I needed an emergency ambulance. I don't feel that bad, and the last thing I want is an ambulance turning up outside the door with blue lights blazing, so I refused, whereupon she said she would contact the clinical team for further advice. A little later, one of the clinical team phoned to agree I probably needed antivirals, so she said she would contact the Covid medicine department to arrange it. Now I am awaiting a call from that team to decide how they should proceed. 

The team was very efficient. They called back to say they agreed that antivirals were my best bet, and they would have a prescription ready for me at West Suffolk Hospital, so Ann went in this afternoon to collect it. I am still having high temperature spikes etc, and don't feel very energetic, but at least it is being treated so I am hopeful of improvement soon!

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