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.
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