Mushrooms or toadstools?

Mushrooms or toadstools?

 A brief update on our Covid status. I tested clear yesterday and temperature has settled, though foul taste remains, so I walked the dogs in Clare park where I found an amazing cluster of fungi growing on an old tree stump. I've no idea what sort they are, but I'm guessing they may be poisonous toadstools or else some enterprising chef would have gathered them for their stewpot.

Ann is still getting very high temperatures with a deep cough, and she feels terrible. This was supported by the most positive repeat Covid test we have seen, with a bar that could have been drawn with charcoal. She is managing cups of tea, and a little scrambled egg, but otherwise is taking little.  We just hope she recovers quickly - we are trying to support each other, but I regret I'm rather a weak support. The melanoma monster continues to spread and grow within me, as I wait upon its next outbreak, but poor Laura, who also has the dreaded disease and is much younger than I, has found it spread to numerous nodes in her groin, and is suffering more surgery to hack it out.  Today too, I took my next injection for the dermatitis. They are very expensive - I'm embarrassed to say how much - so I'm embarrassed also to admit I wasted one of them. I pushed it to my stomach to trigger the needle, but nothing seemed to happen, so I pulled it away to look at it. Naturally, it then triggered, and the thick, oily fluid shot out and dribbled accusingly down the radiator. 

Edwin is finally in São Paulo in Brazil. It is their election day for the president, and everyone is compelled to vote by law, so today the bars are all closed and all transport is free, as the electorate have to vote where they are registered. Andre, of course, was not in Brazil to register, so he was required to attend a polling station anyway to fill a form to explain why he could not vote, or he would have been fined. Voting is fully electronic, so the result from a population of 214 million people is expected later tonight as soon as the polling stations close. These modern countries clearly have much to teach us in the UK, who rigidly stick to the ancient method of drawing crosses on bits of paper.

Matthew shares some good memories

 

Seeing the sights of London together

Happy birthday to Edwin in absentia - tonight he is celebrating with a dinner in Madrid; and congratulations to Mike and Ryan who have sent an invitation to join them in December to "tie the knot". 

After my separation and move to Saltburn-by-the-Sea, Matthew faithfully visited every weekend without fail, and continued to visit when we moved to Clare and later Kent. Now he has sent a special get-well card with a poem he has written about his memories of some things we did together. It is a beautiful, moving recollection and brought back so many memories of happy moments we spent together, and I am proud to reproduce it here. I wish I had done something similar for my dad; I always took him for granted, and all the things he did for us and the moments we had together. Thank you Matthew.

MY DAD

Making me proud,

Keeping me safe,

Showing me love,

And so many firsts,

My first time abroad

My first Judo lesson

My first kebab – that’s a big one!

So many memories,

Climbing Roseberry Topping on his shoulders and,

knowing I’d be OK even when he slipped!

Sitting in a dinghy in the sea at Saltburn and,

knowing I’d be OK even when I got flipped out!

Feeling his had reach through the water and pull me back up!

Riding the American Skyliner at the fair – I loved every minute!

But dad didn’t – he was sick and in bed for three days!

Teaching me to swim, which took some patience on his part,

Then buying me a Transformer toy when I did my first full width

of the pool!

Helping him to move house – several times,

Driving seven hours to visit in Kent, just a few weeks after

passing my test

Trips to the Science and Natural History Museums,

Interests we both share and soch a wonderful feeling

Discovering new things together,

Making me proud,

Keeping me safe,

Showing me love,

That’s my dad!

How once we were

 Poor Ann remains ill, coughing, nausea, and loss of appetite. This afternoon, she did a third Covid test and this time it was positive, with a bar even stronger than the control bar. So now we are both lying about, getting drinks for each other, and trying to buck each other up. At least I feel a little better since I've started the antivirals, but Ann is in a bad state today.  

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