A stirring Eurovision night

A precious new book from Brian Bolland

Ben and Kaz came over on Saturday morning to celebrate our Eurovision defeat with Edwin and Andre and us. While Andre set about organising food for the evening, Ben and I strolled down to the pub with the dogs for a quiet drink. Ben is a huge fan of Brian Bolland who lives in our village, so he asked the landlord if he ever came in. Ben has amassed a huge collection of comics from the early '80s onward, and Bolland is the comic-collector's favourite illustrator. Seemingly, Brian comes in regularly and the landlord knew him well, so gave Ben a copy of Brian's new book, Bolland Strips. It is a delightful story of two memorable characters: a bishop and an actress, but told as a straightforward relationship rather than the subject of old jokes. Very imaginative, and inevitably beautifully illustrated.

When Andre told us he would organise the food for Eurovision, he did not go half measure. I lost count of the number of dishes he prepared but, including English pork pies (selection of meat and vegetarian) and Ann's English trifle, representative foods from perhaps sixteen countries. After that, the competition itself was an anticlimax and the songs seemed to merge one into another with a certain sameness of beat and instrumentation that washed over my numb ears in a torrent of sound. The colour and costuming surprised the senses, though, and I think the points must have been awarded for those flickering, epileptic designs that best impressed the judges. 

Eurovision Food Hall

Edwin and Andre left next day mid-morning, as Andre was booked onto a Zoom chat with his family to celebrate international Mothers' Day, which Brazil follows although the UK and America go their own way. Ben and Kaz stayed over till the afternoon, allowing us to watch the Middlesbrough/Coventry match as part of the playoffs for promotion, a complex procedure which Ben explained but is still probably beyond me, but it ended with a draw, so they meet again later in the week for a rechallenge.

Ann had yet another hospital appointment. Her AF remains poorly controlled, but they could offer little advice but to tinker with the tablets and await an indefinite appointment for an echocardiogram before they can proceed with anything more definitive. Once, GPs were proud to be called "The Gateway to the NHS". A&E was strictly for emergencies: people who'd fallen out of trees, or brought in by ambulance for a suspected heart attack. Now that wize gateway has been smashed with the outpatient clinic basically a glorified GP practice to which Ann has been going once a week for a check-up. Even busy pharmacists are being paid to do GP's work, and so many people complain they can never see the GP the only solution to the NHS crisis is to completely close all GP practices and attach them to hospitals, such as Addenbrookes and West Suffolk, where the GPs could take on a new salaried role as outpatient triage doctors. So bad and slow is NHS care, we are now seriously considering a private cardiac appointment. Ann's compulsory payments into the NHS over the years would far outweigh even expensive private care! 

Unexpected visitors

Richard and Chris are welcomed

An unexpected call from my brother Richard to say he and Chris would like to drive over to take us to lunch. We immediately said, "Yes please!" and booked the Half Moon Inn at Belchamp St Paul, a wonderful old, thatched pub overlooking the village green, with a good selection chalked up on the blackboard and all finely cooked. Ann had a hair appointment late in the day to which Chris took her, so they enjoyed a good session with Kelly in her new salon. 

We then watched a short film Ann had recorded, "Look at Life: Rebirth of a City" about Coventry's regrowth from the ashes of the war. Suddenly Richard called, "Pause it there!" It was a shot of the newly developed circular indoor market built to replace the old outdoor street market, and on a large stall at the entrance was a sign, "J, Cooper". The stall, selling fine china, had been owned by Chris's grandfather, and there in front, busy with a customer, was Chris's Uncle Arthur who had taken over the stall. Just inside, but out of sight, her father too was selling chinaware. The film was from sixty years ago, and an amazing coincidence. Richard used to help drive a van  and set up the stalls for them at the country's biggest china fare in Cambridge. Their stall was popular with Romanies who delighted in the brightly coloured goldleaf decorations.

Ann remains unwell with her heart condition. The blood report came back suggesting cardiac failure, and indeed she was coughing all night despite several pillows. She remains on the list for physical treatments in addition to the many medications, but it may be a long time judging by the state of the Health Service. 

My own leg pain has eased considerably. I have now diagnosed it as Meralgia Paresthetica, which is limited to one specific nerve, the lateral femoral cutaneous nerve. This seems to get trapped in the femoral canal - probably from sitting too long hunched over a keyboard. The whole nerve has now given up, leaving a patch of total numbness over the outer thigh but minimal pain. Fortunately, it is a purely sensory nerve with no motor fibres, so there is no accompanying weakness or paralysis. Numbness I can live with. Unfortunately, age dictates that my legs seem to get weaker each day anyway, so it gets harder and harder to stand up without using my arms, or to walk any distance at a reasonable pace. Because Ann was admitted twice from A&E outpatients, she has now packed hospital bags for each of us to take whenever we visit the hospital. It is very much a toss-up which one of us might need our bag first.

Chris and Ann

But while I remain mobile, I am grateful for what I can do, and this week I have a new, invited paper published in the journal, Galaxy.  I submitted it in November last year, but the reviewers wanted a number of changes that took longer than expected, and finally it is there in their Special Issue: A Trip across the Universe: Our Present Knowledge and Future Perspectives. My paper is a review of Galaxy Number Counts. Looking out into space in any given field of view, modern large telescopes see ever greater numbers of ever fainter galaxies per unit area as they continue to probe deeper, seemingly without limit. By counting the number observed at each depth, we can lay some limits to the shape of the Universe and its expansion history.

Wild camping, science fiction, and the NHS

Ben has completed another wild camping trip in the Brecon Beacons. He is well prepared, but it looks cold and damp and very wild indeed. I don't think he met many people at the top.

Ben wet and wild camping on Pen Y Fan

On Thursday, the Science Museum in London held a late-night opening, with a special session on Science Fiction. Edwin and Andre had bought tickets, so we met up in South Kensington after Edwin finished work. The special exibition was old out, so having advance tickets enabled us to walk in the rain past a long damp queue to enter through a VIP entry. The display was cleverly arranged from the vantage of an alien visiting Earth, and noting how SF inspired new ideas and inventions, or simply encouraged youngsters to venture into science. An auxiliary hands-on exhibition focussed on the role of technology in supporting new science. Edwin tried his hand at welding until another hand (mine!) jerked his elbow, provoking an ungentlemanly response. Andre and I just kept laughing.

I was always inspired by the steam hall, under the heading 'Power', with the sight of so much ingenuity of invention, and the huge flywheels and connecting rods bringing raw power into the world from awesome engineering ability. Yet now I am reminded of T.S. Eliot, "In my beginning is my end.", or my own poem, Emergent Power from Girders in the Sand: 'O Power, emergent from the mind of man, /  Existing by our blocks of tumbling thought,  / Yet powerful as God of the Koran / Or Christian deity from Yahweh wrought;...', for surely we can trace the destruction of species and habitat to those grim furnaces of coal.  

Saturday, coronation day, brought the boys back to us to enjoy the many tempting nibbles Ann had set out. I well remember seeing, on a tiny black and white set at a neighbour's house, the previous coronation of H.M. Queen Elizabeth. There was then a magesterial, almost magical, dignity to the process, where QEII looked aloof yet regal. I always held that she had a deep intelligence and understanding of people. The new incumbant looks gormless and always has; he is a vague, uninspiring figure whose face has a vacant expression with no evident charisma or inspirational drive. Neither Ann nor I are arch royalists, but my defensive argument is, it is a better system than the corrupt money-driven system of America, better than the recurring vicious dictatorships of Russia, and much better than anarchy or civil war. Our monarch still rules by popular consent, by and large, although in Britain it would take a fearsome revolution to ever attempt to dispose of it.

Ann continues to be monitored weekly now at Addenbrookes, pending her cardioversion and eventual ablation therapy at Papworth, although no one knows how long the wait for these procedures may be. Monitoring outpatient drug therapy, heart rate, ECGs, and titrating drug doses up or down were once all done by the GP. I enjoyed this type of work, for it was simple and rewarding, with the hospital consultant always in the background if more aggressive measures were needed. Now, the GP is nowhere to be seen. They don't even give routine injections at the surgery any more; I had to go to our local chemist for my Covid jab, and the pharmacist even monitors blood pressures. The simplest method of improving the health service would be to move all GP surgeries to help run the A&E departments; these seem to be little more than glorified GP surgeries these days. 

We have just watched a newly released film about our Health Service, adapted from a stage play by Alan Bennett, called Allelujah. It is a depressing reminder of how good local cottage hospitals were, and what a loss now most of them have gone. They can never be replaced.  

Ann in hospital

Ann with a brave face

 Ann has had a tough time since my last blog, with severe bouts of recurrent atrial fibrilation causing palpitations and leaving her breathless. It started over a week ago, causing me to state "If you're no better by Monday, I'm phoning the doctor!" It wasn't, so I did, but without success. After holding for a long time, I finally got through to a receptionist, who needless to say wanted a full description and diagnosis, but seemed to cut me off half way through. I told Ann I was going to drive her to A&E, and her willing cooperation was a measure of how ill she was. But not to West Suffolk, after the torrid time before when she was left in a chair all night without so much as a cup of tea. This time we went to Addenbrookes. 

We got to A&E early Monday morning. Ann was quickly seen and given an ECG, then the doctor came through and said she was going into the resuscitation unit. I followed, to see her strapped to monitors, with a drip in place, and subjected to various blood lets. Much later, she was taken up to a short-stay ward for continuing observations and intensive treatment to try to control the heart rate, which at one time had reached 180 very erratic beats per minute.

On Tuesday, they let her home with an O/P appointment for Thursday, but then they readmitted her for another night to try and stabilise her. All this time, Edwin and Andre had come over to share the visiting and look after us, doing some shopping and cooking meals. They even brought over their super-powerful vacuum cleaner to hoover up all round the house! And on Thursday evening they took me for a meal at a fine old pub they like in Cambridge. Ann has now been home over the long weekend, and is thus far feeling a little better, thankfully. The nurses are now on strike for a couple of days, so hopefully she will not require more attention! She has a further appointment on Friday, so must rest quietly till then - not something Ann is easily capable of. We are now taking bets on which of us might die first! Anyone care to set the odds and make a wager? Survivor to settle up all debts.

Let the dice decide

On going north

A visit to Haworth

During a joyful trip north to visit our grandson Luke in Leeds two weeks ago, we were looked after right royally in the Yorkshire Moors home of Dan and Faye, enjoying their generous hospitality of a home-cooked dish, a fine pub meal, and Whitby fish and chips wedged in-between. Returning south, we detoured via Haworth to savour the wild romance of Bronte country from an isolated base at the Silent Inn. Dinner there was first rate, but at breakfast Ann opted for the 'continental' which consisted of a burnt-black croissant followed by fruit. The waitress asked, "what fruit would you like? An apple, a banana or an orange?" Opting for the banana produced a ready-peeled, melancholy piece of fruit, already sliced up and sitting forlornly on its plate. On settling up, the landlord said in his wide Yorkshire accent, "This is't best bit, getting the cheque!" Certainly, it was better than trying to eat Ann's breakfast.

Today I tried to go to Clare to walk the dogs and do a bit of shopping. It was nine a.m. but already the place was packed; the auction was on, Clare market had stalls filling the High Street parking places, and there was a fun-run in the park with paths roped off and the carpark already full, with an early traffic warden issuing tickets like confetti. Walking the dogs would have been impossible, so I went on to Haverhill where the park was deserted - I was the sole dog walker and mine the only car.

On Haworth Moors

Today, too is the Grand National, which holds the same appeal for me and Ann as it does for so many in England, binding the nation as once the Cup Final used to. We carefully chose our horses using a judicious mixture of reading the form, the potential endurance of the mounts, judging the going after the night's rain, the happy resonance of the horse's name to stir some romantic memory, and a helpful pin. I logged onto the Paddy Power website and discovered I still had £38 in credit from last year's race! I don't even know which horse came in to produce this vast win; I certainly didn't think we'd won anything, or I would have gone back to claim it.

So, this meant we could each back our favourites plus a second horse for an outsider interest - and it didn't cost us a penny! Now we can watch the race with double interest, and for longer than it normally takes our lead horses to fall.

The penalty of time

 Old age has crept slowly upon me, almost unnoticed, certainly unacknowledged, until these last few months. I find more excuses to delay small jobs, or to avoid walking too far; where once I held lightly to the banister to keep balance, now I grip it firmly as I descend, stomping my feet stolidly step by step to avoid a fall that now would be fatal. I grip it hard going up to, to pull my heavy body against my weakening legs and painful knees, keeping my head down to see each tread with a sigh as I crest the top. Walking has become a slow shuffle, feet hardly clearing the ground and catching all too readily on any slight obstruction or irregularity. I have not tackled anything steep for a long while for slight slopes have become as hill sides, making the breath heave as though running. Dog walks have become slower and shorter, but happily the dogs can still bound off the leads and run far further than I could ever walk.

My grip, too, has weakened to the point where Ann has to loosen the caps of water bottles by my bedside since I once woke with my mouth dust dry, but could not open a fresh one. On a recent trip to London, I had bought a container of screenwash to top up the car, but the car park was empty as I searched for someone to open it. Finally, I saw a man approaching from the lift. He seemed to see me but veered off so I moved to the other side of the pillar to intercept him; but I was wrong, he kept straight on so I suddenly stepped out from behind the pillar to confront him, waving the can before him, and asking if he'd do me a favour by opening it. He looked surprised, but did so willingly, even asking if I needed help to pour it into the tank, though I refused this. Afterwards, I wished I hadn't because I didn't screw the lid back tightly enough, and when later Ann and I returned to the car, we were overwhelmed by the smell of antifreeze from the nearly full contents of a five litre can that had completely soaked the carpets.

My memory is lacking in so many ways; I struggle to recall names, and swear Ann hasn't told me something when almost certainly she is right to insist she has. I go on errands, but will always forget something unless I write it on a comprehensive list of "things to do".  All my life I needed glasses for distance, a great disadvantage when sailing in heavy rain, yet now my eyes alone seem to have improved with age. Although the acuity must be less, the lenses have settled into a relaxed position whereby I can see with six-six vision without needing glasses; but this advantage has come too late to be truly beneficial. 

We have just read the book "The Seven Ages of Death", by the forensic pathologist Dr Richard Shepherd. I cannot recommend it too highly, despite its title, for he is a wonderful writer with a brilliant command of English and well worth reading for its medical insights and descriptions, despite its gruesome nature. He quotes Shakespeare's seven ages of man, with old age the sixth age: "His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide for his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, turning again toward childish treble, pipes and whistles in his sound." But the seventh age is: "Last scene of all, that ends this strange eventful history is second childishness and mere oblivion; sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything." This is extreme old age, and awaits us all least overwhelmed by some earlier misalignment of our genes or accident. Once so remote, now lurking round the next corner, it draws ever nearer but not with regret or sadness; rather I find with a joy for each new day I'm given, wherein I can still walk and see and enjoy a great book, even one about that great and final leveller, old Death himself. "As Terry Pratchett might say, "STEP THIS WAY. THE DOOR NOW IS CLOSED." (For non affectionados, Death always anounced his presence in capitals, with a deep resonant voice).

The Psychological Anatomy of Pain

 The pain in my thigh was severe, constant, banging on the ceiling of my consciousness for attention and waking me at night. Last week I rang the hospice for advice, and they were hyper-efficient, sending a nurse called Nicola the following day who spent a long two hours interviewing me and Ann, less about the pain but more about how we wanted to handle the terminal phases. To direct questions, Ann bravely said she wanted to keep me at home and I said I didn't want to be resuscitated, to which she said they could stick DNR notices round the house to make sure any ambulance people got the message. She recommended paracetamol and co-codamol, with an offer of morphine if the pain escalated. Also, at a very practical level, she contacted the oncology team at Addenbrookes to arrange a scan. The appointment came through on Friday, and late on Monday evening a had the CAT scan. The first results were through for the head the same evening, showing the atrophy of the brain I have already commented on.

The other results trickled through the next day, surprisingly showing that the cancer was stable in the lungs and liver. The nodules have not increased in size, and there are no further metastases. The scan did reveal a hitherto unknown degeneration of the spine with scoliosis (curvature), which explains why my posture is bent as a tired comma. But no metastasis was seen in the bones, particularly the upper thigh. The pain is most probably referred pain from pressure on the lumbar nerves in my back! This has changed my whole attitude to life. Hitherto I had been told I would be dead within 12 months, with September looming daily, unavoidably closer. Now it is one more stop on life's journey rather than an ultimate terminus. Now, the pain has not changed, but my whole attitude to it has. It is no longer a marker of impending doom but a sign of aged decay, typical of the pain anyone might get if they live long enough, but not fatal. Suddenly, I am not trying to supress it completely or wondering if I ought to request morphine yet. Suddenly, it is merely a nuisance to be ignored and lived through. 

View from Borley Church

When I was a medical student, it was still accepted that we used euphemisms when talking in front of patients. Cancer was 'mitotic changes' or vaguely, 'neoplasia'. Gradually this changed and transparency became key. We told patients directly to get their affairs in order or say their goodbyes. I was one of those at the forefront in bluntly hitting them with an unpalatable message, and I remember witnessing the sudden change in demeanour, the shoulders drooping, the downturned face, the heavier step as they turned to leave. Now I have experienced it directly. Now life seems worth living again, for I might yet have a year or two rather than a few shrinking months. Life is much better imagining a bright ongoing future, rather than a shortening path to a certain death. My art today is 'The View from Borley Church'. Borley is a village in Essex whose church and rectory are reputed to be the most haunted in Britain. The churchyard was cold and shadowed even in summer, but the view north was across to Suffolk, looking sunlit, warm and inviting. Thus do I feel as though I have stepped from a cold, dark place haunted with fears and death back into the sunny fields of the living. I have learned that hope is the most valuable medicine of all. We must not destroy hope, but encourage the belief that there is always one more thing we can do before the end closes about us.