Waste; the final frontier.

I am now two weeks into the current 6 week chemo cycle (weeks 5 and 6 being drug-free), my 14th. I continue to oscillate between optimism and the 'slough of despond'. At this precise moment, I'm feeling good - largely I think because I've had a couple of (modestly) thorough workouts on exercise bikes both here at home and at my old school's Health and Fitness Centre.

But then, I am reminded that I was feeling similarly upbeat just one short week ago; my exercise regime was on the up, my weight down (marginally) and I was back to juicing and making smoothies using our home-made, organic, almond milk.

Then, on the Friday morning, just as we were preparing to leave for a forecasted wet weekend in Southampton, Di called to me from the bedroom, to say that the green waste lorry was outside, on the road. She knew that I had recently filled three bags with woody clippings and trimmings from the garden and was ever-hopeful for a collection.

I kerlumped and plodded into action.

The three bags left on the patio had to come through the house. They were not heavy but they were bulky. Leaving all interconnecting doors open and various ornaments and household papers strewn across the floor, I reached the front door.

'Too late, they've gone,' added a distant voice, helpfully.

I was already too breathless to tell Di of my instantaneous decision to pursue the lorry. I decided that the front door, as with all the others, would have to remain open.

If all this already sounds a little over-the-top, you have to understand that, in our part of the solar system, green waste removal is not subject to any known laws of physics. Comets are more predictable - and more frequent. It was, and is, necessary to seize the moment; carpe temporis punctum.

So, by the time I'd opened the door and reached the pavement, the wheezing, cumbersome bulk (that's the lorry, by the way) had disappeared from view. I quickly resolved, reverting to my pre-cancer mindset, to run after it. Here, after all, was a man who had exercised just the previous day on an elite model exercise bike for a combined total of 45 minutes, burning more than 250 calories in the process and who still had the strength to walk around the perimeter of the local golf course. The vehicle had to be somewhere just around the corner. I didn't wait to do the maths - it was a no-brainer.

By the time I had reached the crossroads, looked right and spotted the stationary lorry some 300 metres further up Cambridge Road, I had been forcefully reminded of my new status. It was as though my waist was attached to some strong, inelastic, rubber rope that permitted me to move but only at the cost of increased resistance. An alternative analogy would be that my veins carried, not oxygenated blood,  but the product following its mixture with my toxic medication, molten lead.

Encouraged by the fact that the vehicle was motionless, I continued my pursuit, catching up and then overtaking, an elderly neighbour, Rosemary. With my bulky load I pushed her, with arms splayed, to the wall  and exchanged a few incoherent words by way of apology and explanation. After further exertion, I realised that I had been spotted by one of the hi-viz-jacketed team who waited nonchalantly for my arrival then helped me to throw the bags into the rear of the vehicle; for that at least, I was grateful.

I was wrecked. I slumped forward with rubbery hands on rubbery knees. The rubbery band, against which I had so recently strained, had reached maximum extension but far from pulling me back, now required that I  fold it up and return under my own steam.

I reached a bemused, but patient, Rosemary, who, at nearly 80 years, has, on occasion, been the recipient of community-care type interventions on my part. Now she, her brow furrowed with concern, insisted on walking me home. This frail, white-haired woman with poor eyesight and dodgy knees, took hold of my hand and hobbled with me across the road and back to my, still-open, front door. So much for my regained athletic prowess. I was reminded of what I had irrevocably become - needy and knackered.

I felt deflated for much of the weekend in Southampton, recovered by Sunday, (thanks, in part, to a late-night chat with Mike) only to hit more choppy waters on the Monday -

and so it goes, and so it goes.

Here be dragons.....

In former times, both the prospect and undertaking of travel have (usually) been a source of enjoyment. Since being diagnosed with kidney cancer and scoliosis of the spine however, my feelings have shifted. I want to use whatever time is available to see, to meet with, to experience both known and unknown people and places but I am also more circumspect about moving away from home with its comforts, security and routines.

All this is a preamble to recording that we have just returned from a few days in north Suffolk exploring the coastal region between Southwold and Aldeburgh. This is the area in which we were staying last Christmas (There and back again; 08/01/2013) but having received the gift of an overnight stay in a Suffolk village coaching inn from my sister, we thought it a good idea to turn the single day into a longer, exploratory holiday and then tacked onto it a weekend with the extended family in Norwich.

I particularly wanted to sample, with Di, the delights of Minsmere RSPB reserve. It did not disappoint - and neither did Di. She was so enthused that we spent the larger part of two days there. Safe within this wildlife sanctuary it was as though we could take long, deep breaths as the wheels of  the world slowed. Against the backdrop of the distant 'Taj Mahal of the nuclear age', Sizewell B power station, we scanned acres of brackish, shallow pools bespeckled with all manner of ducks, gulls and waders. With the help of various fellow-birders we spent hours in various hides disentangling our teal from our wigeon, our snipe from our redshank, our shovellers from shelduck, our avocets from exocets.

Walking alongside extensive, straw-coloured, reedbeds we briefly glimpsed the Wellington bomber of a bittern in flight and the dark and sinister spread primaries of hunting marsh harriers. We would have spent a third morning at Snape RSPB but the weather took a turn for the worse, reducing visibility and thereby our chances of seeing very much birdlife.

Thanks to an emailed suggestion from my friend John, exiled in London these last forty years, we also discovered the unusual, heather-cloaked 'sandlings' of Dunwich Heath which rises above Minsmere on its northern border. This elevated position is the reason for the location there of a block of old, white-walled, coastguard cottages now available for rent from the landowners, the National Trust. We will try to book a week very soon.

Finally, if you don't know Framlingham, it is well worth a visit. A barman insisted it was rated one of 'the ten best places to live' within the UK - but he did concede that it still lags well behind Moseley in Birmingham.The curtain-walled castle is enormous, signifying, as does the scale and wealth of the nearby church, the former status of what is today a small, relatively-unknown, market town. Now downgraded to a position where it is approached only by network of B roads, Framlingham's history and heritage leave us vestiges of the world of those who came before.

But to return to the theme of the first paragraph; however interesting, informative and delightful travel may be; however rewarding it is to see family and sites of familiarity - climbing into my own bed takes some beating. So here is another paradox; my condition provides both a stimulus to experience a wider world while at the same time, serving to shrink my horizons. In the last two years I have travelled to more places than ever but never been so fearful of the unknown obstacles that may arise; the furniture in a restaurant that makes sitting so uncomfortable, the bed that is too short or too lumpy, the inability to follow the diet that has become so central to my health, the prospect of mislaying my medication.

It is as though the psychological map of the known world has grown smaller and the uncharted oceans with their unknown lands, bear the medieval warning; 'Here be dragons.......'

'Keep right on to the end of the node........'

I promised that I'd let you know about the scan and blood results that were due at my oncology appointment today (Thursday 28th February).....

The news is good. Well, better than 'good' - it's just about fan-flipping-tastic.

To recap; around 4 months ago, I had asked for and been 'granted', a reduction in my 'chemo' medication (it goes under the brand name Sunitinib - 'soo-nit-i-nib') because of  the increasingly-intolerable side effects. The worst of these was 'sore feet syndrome' which made it nigh on impossible to walk more than a few metres in the latter stages of the period in which I was taking the drugs (weeks 3 and 4 of the 6 week cycle).

The 25% reduction in the dosage had the desired effect; my feet have been less sore and I have been less fatigued. However, one big question remained; how might the reduction in the dosage have impacted on the effectiveness of the drugs? A recent CT scan would help to answer this and it was these results we expected today.

So, we learned that the lymph node in my chest ('near the heart') had shrunk and the 'small' nodules in my lungs were 'stable'. My bloods showed a slight increase in haemoglobin (which is also good), my white blood cell count was ok as were my liver, kidney and thyroid function.

It doesn't get much better than this. We even spent some time with the registrar discussing possible options for further reductions but this is a complex issue with a balance of risks and technical stuff to absorb. What is  apparent is that our two parties look at things differently; the medics favour my taking the strongest dose I can tolerate while we favour taking the minimum that is effective in keeping the nodules under control. The big problem is of course cell mutation. Eventually the disease will seek and find a way around the drugs - then there may be other drugs available but they too come with significant side effects.

Never mind, all that's for another day. We have learned to live for today and today was good - even the sun agreed. We had a celebratory lunch of baked potato and beans at Winterbourne and then drove out to Worcestershire for a garden centre experience.

While writing of memorable days; don't forget that Sunday week (March 10th) is Mother's Day (note the apostrophe - apparently we celebrate a singular mother, our own, not all mothers).

Twenty-one years ago, Joe was just three weeks old when this event took place. I intuited his wishes and delivered a card on his behalf. It read;

                                               Mum’s the Word

                                            (Mother’s Day, 1992)

                                      Through my eyes, I see your face

                                      now coming into view

                                      through my mouth, a storm subsides

                                      the comfort drawn from you

                                      through my skin, I feel your skin

                                      a warmth I sense anew

                                      and sounds and scents are strangely known

                                      as though we are one, not two.

                                      So, though I cannot say the words

                                      I want you to know it’s true

                                      and for a voice, ‘til I can speak

                                      my dad’s will have to do.

                                      He writes these words; the first is ‘mum’,

                                                 then ‘I’ 

                                                             then ‘love’,

                                                                            then ‘you’.

I'm just hoping that I won't need to intuit in 2013 (for any of my progeny).