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.
Sunday, 24 March 2013
Thursday, 14 March 2013
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.......'
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.......'
Friday, 1 March 2013
'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
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).
Monday, 25 February 2013
The proof of the pudding....
Who said that romance is dead? A couple of weeks ago I took Diana for a uniquely amatory experience - a 'rawmantic dinner' at a private house just around the corner from where we live. You think you know what is going on in your neighbourhood but here was a new world of raw vegan food - on our doorstep.
Now, I know what you're thinking; 'the cheapskate - taking Di out for a lettuce and raw carrot salad followed by an artfully-sliced apple'.
Think again.
This was a delicious, four course meal of exquisitely intense flavours. We sat down with two other couples, the hosts and a visiting female trainer (in tantric yoga - seemed appropriate) living in France. We started with a fresh fruit and beetroot-coloured juice in a flute, the rim of which was frosted with psyllium husks. This was followed by a spicy, cold soup again of a blood-red colour derived from beetroot, with an accompanying 'pumpkin cracker' made in a dehydrator. Then we enjoyed a couple of sushi-like delicacies consisting of avocado and sprouting seeds wrapped in some kind of seaweed. The 'main course' was a raw vegan lasagna with 'courgette pasta' and a filling of, among other things, cashew nut paste. This was served with a sprouting seed salad (probably alfalfa or broccoli). The 'pudding' was a slice of a carob-topped 'torte' with a fruit filling and whole grapes on a dried nut base. To conclude, we enjoyed two exquisite after-dinner, heart-shaped, carob and nut-paste, 'petit fours'.
In terms of volume (my family's usual measure of a 'good meal') we hadn't eaten a great deal but in our post-prandial discussion we all commented on how satisfyingly-full we felt. I'm sure that this had something to do with the intensity of the flavours in this uncooked dinner so skilfully concocted from unadulterated ingredients.
If I could eat food like this all the time, I too could live on a raw vegan diet but I can't get away from the idea that our hosts must spend most of their time in the kitchen.
Meanwhile we continue with our more-modest, plant-based diet in the hope that it makes a contribution to slowing the growth of the tumours in my lungs. By the way, I have to take the medics word for the existence of these tumours. I don't currently suffer from any direct physical effects. I do suffer from the 'chemo' medication I trustingly swallow and from the sciatica resulting from the scoliosis in my lower spine but not from the cancer itself.
Apparently, scoliosis is more widespread in the general population than you might think. We sufferers should form a support group, perhaps with Richard III as our patron?
Meanwhile, we should learn about the all-important latest CT scan results this Thursday (28th) at my regular oncology appointment. The proof of this particular pudding could well be in the eating.
And if things have not gone well and if I do become less mobile as has my old friend Geoff, who suffers from a similar condition, I can now, at least, look forward to enjoying the greater variety of wildlife visiting the garden. Why? Because my generously-motivated brother has dug a pond for me. It is still at the stage where it needs the softening effects of plants and the covering of the unattractive black liner at the margins but its an exciting addition.
I have wanted a pond since Shakespeare shredded the reputation of the last of the Plantagenets - now, at last, thanks to recent excavations, I have one.
Now, I know what you're thinking; 'the cheapskate - taking Di out for a lettuce and raw carrot salad followed by an artfully-sliced apple'.
Think again.
This was a delicious, four course meal of exquisitely intense flavours. We sat down with two other couples, the hosts and a visiting female trainer (in tantric yoga - seemed appropriate) living in France. We started with a fresh fruit and beetroot-coloured juice in a flute, the rim of which was frosted with psyllium husks. This was followed by a spicy, cold soup again of a blood-red colour derived from beetroot, with an accompanying 'pumpkin cracker' made in a dehydrator. Then we enjoyed a couple of sushi-like delicacies consisting of avocado and sprouting seeds wrapped in some kind of seaweed. The 'main course' was a raw vegan lasagna with 'courgette pasta' and a filling of, among other things, cashew nut paste. This was served with a sprouting seed salad (probably alfalfa or broccoli). The 'pudding' was a slice of a carob-topped 'torte' with a fruit filling and whole grapes on a dried nut base. To conclude, we enjoyed two exquisite after-dinner, heart-shaped, carob and nut-paste, 'petit fours'.
In terms of volume (my family's usual measure of a 'good meal') we hadn't eaten a great deal but in our post-prandial discussion we all commented on how satisfyingly-full we felt. I'm sure that this had something to do with the intensity of the flavours in this uncooked dinner so skilfully concocted from unadulterated ingredients.
If I could eat food like this all the time, I too could live on a raw vegan diet but I can't get away from the idea that our hosts must spend most of their time in the kitchen.
Meanwhile we continue with our more-modest, plant-based diet in the hope that it makes a contribution to slowing the growth of the tumours in my lungs. By the way, I have to take the medics word for the existence of these tumours. I don't currently suffer from any direct physical effects. I do suffer from the 'chemo' medication I trustingly swallow and from the sciatica resulting from the scoliosis in my lower spine but not from the cancer itself.
Apparently, scoliosis is more widespread in the general population than you might think. We sufferers should form a support group, perhaps with Richard III as our patron?
Meanwhile, we should learn about the all-important latest CT scan results this Thursday (28th) at my regular oncology appointment. The proof of this particular pudding could well be in the eating.
And if things have not gone well and if I do become less mobile as has my old friend Geoff, who suffers from a similar condition, I can now, at least, look forward to enjoying the greater variety of wildlife visiting the garden. Why? Because my generously-motivated brother has dug a pond for me. It is still at the stage where it needs the softening effects of plants and the covering of the unattractive black liner at the margins but its an exciting addition.
I have wanted a pond since Shakespeare shredded the reputation of the last of the Plantagenets - now, at last, thanks to recent excavations, I have one.
Tuesday, 5 February 2013
Credit Tebbitt
It has arrived - and there is an air of anticipation in the house. I am referring to our latest item of conspicuous consumption, a Technogym Excite 700i upright exercise bike. The idea is to build on recent progress made with my exercise regime. I need regular cardiovascular work to counteract the toxic effects of the powerful 'chemo' drugs. The problem has always been; 'How to do this without creating further problems for my scoliotic back?' Recent, graduated and regular workouts on the equipment at my former school's Health and Fitness Centre, have indicated that an upright bike would be best. £450 later and the second-hand bike is here. Diana says I need 30 minutes a day of cv exercise to add to my 45 minute Pilates routine. Together with a regular walk to the shops, managing emails, a 'cup-of-tea' visit (home or away), catching up on the BBC news website, meals and the usual bouts of procrastination and that's it, the day is over.
It has arrived - and I'll admit to being more anxious this time around. The letter informing me that my next thoracic/abdominal/pelvic CT scan is scheduled for the coming Thursday evening came with the enclosed small bottle of 'omnipaque' contrast that I have to swallow 24 hours before the appointment. It is strange how I briefly experienced a butterfly wing of excitement when the padded envelope complete with bulge arrived through the door. Amazon parcel? A forgotten order? An unexpected gift from an unknown admirer? I'll confess to a feeling of disappointment on opening the seal.
Yet, I should be pleased. This scan, already delayed, is important because it promises to provide information on the critical question as to whether the reduction in my 'chemo' dosage has reduced the efficacy of the drug. If it has then my recent tangible, physical improvement and the accompanying, reassuring sense of control, will have been dealt a serious blow.
The 'sense of control' referred to above derives from the two areas of lifestyle that offer a measure of self-help when confronted by a barely-understood condition like cancer and the barely-understood interventions of medical science. These areas are diet and exercise. When things are being done to you, you need to feel that there are things you can do for yourself.
As far as the dietary element is concerned, if 'you are what you eat', then my flesh should, by now, be composed of organic vegetable fibre, my hair of wholemeal vermicelli pasta and my heart powered by soya protein. My pulse should be regulated by pulses and the blood that courses through my locally-grown veins must be a blend of organic carrot and beetroot juice. Tumours should have no purchase within such a body; they should wither on the vine-leaf dolmades. Our weekly supermarket shopping trolley is now so stuffed with vegetables that we serve as role models for those still fortunate to be eating high sugar-salt, dairy-drenched, processed, hydrogenated, saturated fat-fuelled ready-made meals. A fellow shopper, following me alongside the checkout conveyor belt, asked whether she could come home with me. She was, she said, 'so impressed' with the contents of my trolley.
She could, quite plausibly of course, have been employing a euphemism.
My mood swings according to whether I am focused on that which I can (up) or cannot (down) do. When I exercise, I sense the possibility of restoring something of my physical self. Intellectually, I know that I cannot undo what has been done but there is, at least, a possibility of improvement.
Ok, that's enough procrastination for one morning.
The time has come for me to follow Norman Tebbitt's famous dictum, 'get on your bike and look for [a] work[out]................'
It has arrived - and I'll admit to being more anxious this time around. The letter informing me that my next thoracic/abdominal/pelvic CT scan is scheduled for the coming Thursday evening came with the enclosed small bottle of 'omnipaque' contrast that I have to swallow 24 hours before the appointment. It is strange how I briefly experienced a butterfly wing of excitement when the padded envelope complete with bulge arrived through the door. Amazon parcel? A forgotten order? An unexpected gift from an unknown admirer? I'll confess to a feeling of disappointment on opening the seal.
Yet, I should be pleased. This scan, already delayed, is important because it promises to provide information on the critical question as to whether the reduction in my 'chemo' dosage has reduced the efficacy of the drug. If it has then my recent tangible, physical improvement and the accompanying, reassuring sense of control, will have been dealt a serious blow.
The 'sense of control' referred to above derives from the two areas of lifestyle that offer a measure of self-help when confronted by a barely-understood condition like cancer and the barely-understood interventions of medical science. These areas are diet and exercise. When things are being done to you, you need to feel that there are things you can do for yourself.
As far as the dietary element is concerned, if 'you are what you eat', then my flesh should, by now, be composed of organic vegetable fibre, my hair of wholemeal vermicelli pasta and my heart powered by soya protein. My pulse should be regulated by pulses and the blood that courses through my locally-grown veins must be a blend of organic carrot and beetroot juice. Tumours should have no purchase within such a body; they should wither on the vine-leaf dolmades. Our weekly supermarket shopping trolley is now so stuffed with vegetables that we serve as role models for those still fortunate to be eating high sugar-salt, dairy-drenched, processed, hydrogenated, saturated fat-fuelled ready-made meals. A fellow shopper, following me alongside the checkout conveyor belt, asked whether she could come home with me. She was, she said, 'so impressed' with the contents of my trolley.
She could, quite plausibly of course, have been employing a euphemism.
My mood swings according to whether I am focused on that which I can (up) or cannot (down) do. When I exercise, I sense the possibility of restoring something of my physical self. Intellectually, I know that I cannot undo what has been done but there is, at least, a possibility of improvement.
Ok, that's enough procrastination for one morning.
The time has come for me to follow Norman Tebbitt's famous dictum, 'get on your bike and look for [a] work[out]................'
Monday, 28 January 2013
Into ever-widening orbit drawn
A number of events have taken or will take place over the last few, and coming, days - and like any good continuity announcer, I continue to search for the links...................
Two days ago, I was in a packed St Francis chaplaincy on the University of Birmingham campus attending a memorial service for Tony, a long-serving member of the teaching staff. I didn't know Tony well but have been very fond of Alison, his wife, ever since she came to the rescue at the time Diana was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2005. Alison, a woman with more than a little of the no-nonsense Scot about her, helped both of us in many ways but particularly Diana with organising her work commitments in advance of an operation and subsequent time on sick-leave.
Tony died of complications arising from an operation linked to his bowel cancer. The funeral had been held in the Highland town of Boat of Garten near Aviemore, the family home since their respective retirements a few years ago. The memorial service was an opportunity, particularly for those unable to travel to Scotland, to pay their respects and take part in a celebration of remembrance.
I could not of course, though it feels shameful to admit the fact, stop myself from musing on the question of what might be said about me in similar circumstances. Would it be possible perhaps for me to offer some prompts for those reckless enough to address a future, thinly-populated audience?
One suggestion would, as was the case with Tony, centre on the importance of family. I'm really not sure what my children (and grandchildren) will say about me but around the same time as the memorial service I had received a late-Christmas, long-distance parcel from my son, Stephen, who, as most of you know, lives in the States. The parcel turned out to be a photo 'trans-imaged' to a large, frameless canvas. The photo had ben taken by Amichai on the dunes at Walberswick in Suffolk during our time there in Christmas week. It, the photo, is populated by my three grown-up children and two grandchildren.
The gift is a joy and I have already looked intently at it on many occasions. I am moved by the warmth within the grouping and if my muse hadn't deserted me (without so much as a 'goodbye', much less an explanatory note) I might have been moved to write something poetic - so, prose will have to do. How did this happen - that five healthy, life-loving, big-hearted young people were so indissolubly connected to me by both nature and nurture?
By the way, that's a rhetorical question.
Next Monday is my father's birthday. Had he lived he would have been 98 years old. He died 35 years ago, my age come the month of May this year. Of the five in the photo he had time to meet just Claire and Stephen. He too would be proud - in his own, low-key, hard-to-fathom manner.
A few short sentences ago you heaved a sigh of relief when I wrote that I had been unable to find poetic expression for my feelings about the family photo. You sighed too soon. Here is one I wrote earlier, in the year 2000. It features Joe, who will be 21 years old in a few days, my father - and me. I'll leave you to join the dots.................
Finally, we had a consultation at the QEH Cancer Centre last Thursday. I am cleared to go forward to the next round of oral chemotherapy, the 13th. The all-important CT scan will not be administered for another four weeks or so. I'll keep you informed.
Two days ago, I was in a packed St Francis chaplaincy on the University of Birmingham campus attending a memorial service for Tony, a long-serving member of the teaching staff. I didn't know Tony well but have been very fond of Alison, his wife, ever since she came to the rescue at the time Diana was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2005. Alison, a woman with more than a little of the no-nonsense Scot about her, helped both of us in many ways but particularly Diana with organising her work commitments in advance of an operation and subsequent time on sick-leave.
Tony died of complications arising from an operation linked to his bowel cancer. The funeral had been held in the Highland town of Boat of Garten near Aviemore, the family home since their respective retirements a few years ago. The memorial service was an opportunity, particularly for those unable to travel to Scotland, to pay their respects and take part in a celebration of remembrance.
I could not of course, though it feels shameful to admit the fact, stop myself from musing on the question of what might be said about me in similar circumstances. Would it be possible perhaps for me to offer some prompts for those reckless enough to address a future, thinly-populated audience?
One suggestion would, as was the case with Tony, centre on the importance of family. I'm really not sure what my children (and grandchildren) will say about me but around the same time as the memorial service I had received a late-Christmas, long-distance parcel from my son, Stephen, who, as most of you know, lives in the States. The parcel turned out to be a photo 'trans-imaged' to a large, frameless canvas. The photo had ben taken by Amichai on the dunes at Walberswick in Suffolk during our time there in Christmas week. It, the photo, is populated by my three grown-up children and two grandchildren.
The gift is a joy and I have already looked intently at it on many occasions. I am moved by the warmth within the grouping and if my muse hadn't deserted me (without so much as a 'goodbye', much less an explanatory note) I might have been moved to write something poetic - so, prose will have to do. How did this happen - that five healthy, life-loving, big-hearted young people were so indissolubly connected to me by both nature and nurture?
By the way, that's a rhetorical question.
Next Monday is my father's birthday. Had he lived he would have been 98 years old. He died 35 years ago, my age come the month of May this year. Of the five in the photo he had time to meet just Claire and Stephen. He too would be proud - in his own, low-key, hard-to-fathom manner.
A few short sentences ago you heaved a sigh of relief when I wrote that I had been unable to find poetic expression for my feelings about the family photo. You sighed too soon. Here is one I wrote earlier, in the year 2000. It features Joe, who will be 21 years old in a few days, my father - and me. I'll leave you to join the dots.................
Satellites
Tonight,
as we with separate purpose walked
you,
a perfect 8, playing by my side
and
into ever-widening orbit drawn
by
worlds new-grown inside your head
- and I, with my father once more;
he, a man, so sombre-proud
proceeding with lunar-heavy tread
straight and undeflected, as though
upon some path, we’ve walked before.
I saw my son, knew him for me
but still cannot be certain
across long light years, whether he,
imprisoned now in fading photographs
and of such gravity,
looked down and smiled,
and saw himself in me.
Finally, we had a consultation at the QEH Cancer Centre last Thursday. I am cleared to go forward to the next round of oral chemotherapy, the 13th. The all-important CT scan will not be administered for another four weeks or so. I'll keep you informed.
Tuesday, 8 January 2013
There and back again.
Lunchtime, the Sunday before Christmas, 2012. That would make it 23rd December if my maths is correct.
We are on Southwold beach in north Suffolk and though it isn't raining the wind-chill means that we are in 'survival mode' - thermals are vital apparel. My brother, 'John-the-elder', and myself are returned to the hunt, only this time we have brought a 'youngling' with us in order that we might induct him into the tribal skills of fishing from the beach. The 'youngling', is my son, named 'Joe-Bilbo' and he is puppy-eager to begin.
We counsel patience. There are arcane signs in this bleak and to many, featureless landscape. We must first take time to read them. Is the tide on the ebb or flow? What will happen with the weather ('John-the-elder' has much to say on this)? Where are the fish most likely to be found given that there are small breakers 150 yards from the shore? Which bait, ragworm or squid, is best suited to the conditions?
We claim our portion of the deserted beach and skilfully assemble our equipment. I demonstrate to Joe the necessary but brutal art of baiting the hook. Deftly, I disembowel a worm and work the hook through it to ensure that it is not lost when the cast is made. Blooded, I sense Joe's rising excitement, his wish to test himself.
Again, I (sometimes known as 'Greybeard') counsel patience. There is no 'youtube' here to offer assistance. I deploy well-honed pedagogic skills, forged in the furnaces of innercity classrooms, to help demonstrate the need for co-ordination of hand and eye, the importance of releasing the line at the precise moment the weighted 'trace' (technical term - see glossary) is launched in the desired direction. At its best, this choreography of man and rod (no relation) has been likened to four dimensional poetry.
I make a first, laboured cast of just 50 yards or so and hurriedly withdraw the line in order to allow Joe an opportunity. My tuition receives instant reward as he synchronises effortlessly to drop the weight with a satisfying 'plop' 100 yards distant into the deepest part of the trench that lies between ourselves and the breakers. John and myself take turns to use our second rod whilst keeping a 'weathered eye' on the youngling. My son is expectant. I smile in a knowing way to my brother and he returns the same - 'the boy has much to learn'.
Whatever the odds against success, we share the responsibility of awareness that back in our faux-traditional, black, weather-boarded, barns , rented for a full week, there are women and children dependent on our efforts. The nearest supermarket may not be open throughout the Christmas week and our numbers on Christmas Eve will swell to twenty as the tribe gathers for the annual ritual.
Distracted by our cares, we are at first unaware that Joe has decided to reel in. He says that he has some resistance on the line and I assure him this is likely to be the seaweed I have already encountered from my own casts. Then I see the silver agitation in the shallows and leap to help him with the catch. The fish is fat, sleek and writhing in my hand as I remove the hook.
In Dorset, Norfolk and most recently at Aldeburgh, a few miles to the south, my brother and I have spent many, many hours in quest of a fish worthy of putting on a plate. In fact neither of us has ever caught a (marine) fish as large as this. Now, Joe, with virtually his first cast has landed a sea bass (initially identified by myself as 'a large whiting'; a mistake rectified by a passing fisherman) worth £20 to a local restaurant. Later, Joe insists that Judy (who together with Diana has brought lunchtime sustenance) takes photos of him with rod and fish held aloft.
John and I continue fishing for several hours, long after Joe has lost interest and left us to explore Southwold with Oren, Ella and Claire. Between us we manage to catch several more small whiting and dabs but nothing like Joe's sea bass. It is the only fish we will eventually cook and eat. Though admitting it chokes me like a half-swallowed fishbone - it was delicious.
Fast forward to now. The stay in our well-appointed Suffolk barns was a great success. Photos can be viewed on my facebook home page or that of Chris Ling, Claire Lichtenstein, Anna Holland or Stephen Ling.
The week was unique, including as it did just about everyone on the 'Lingside'. To be honest, however, I was largely a spectator over the course of that memorable week. Everyone mucked in and created something truly special but it was as much as I could do to maintain some of the daily routines that have become so important to me. There were occasions when I lapsed from my healthy lifestyle and consumed some alcohol, turkey, chocolate and even a couple of pieces of gammon!
Back home our vegan routines have been re-established and given that I'm at the 'top' of my chemo phase of the cycle, I'm feeling pretty good. No doubt this improvement with sore-feet syndrome and fatigue is due largely to the reduced dosage that was agreed back in October (see 22/10/12 post). What remains unknown is the consequence of this reduced dosage for the efficacy of the drugs. The next CT scan, to be discussed with my oncologist in late January, will give us an answer.
I would like to send a Happy New Year greeting and much love to everyone who has made it this far. Oh! and I have managed to see 'The Hobbit - An Unexpected Journey' in the company of Joe and his old schoolfriend Matt before Joe returned to Durham.
But you may already have guessed as much.
We are on Southwold beach in north Suffolk and though it isn't raining the wind-chill means that we are in 'survival mode' - thermals are vital apparel. My brother, 'John-the-elder', and myself are returned to the hunt, only this time we have brought a 'youngling' with us in order that we might induct him into the tribal skills of fishing from the beach. The 'youngling', is my son, named 'Joe-Bilbo' and he is puppy-eager to begin.
We counsel patience. There are arcane signs in this bleak and to many, featureless landscape. We must first take time to read them. Is the tide on the ebb or flow? What will happen with the weather ('John-the-elder' has much to say on this)? Where are the fish most likely to be found given that there are small breakers 150 yards from the shore? Which bait, ragworm or squid, is best suited to the conditions?
We claim our portion of the deserted beach and skilfully assemble our equipment. I demonstrate to Joe the necessary but brutal art of baiting the hook. Deftly, I disembowel a worm and work the hook through it to ensure that it is not lost when the cast is made. Blooded, I sense Joe's rising excitement, his wish to test himself.
Again, I (sometimes known as 'Greybeard') counsel patience. There is no 'youtube' here to offer assistance. I deploy well-honed pedagogic skills, forged in the furnaces of innercity classrooms, to help demonstrate the need for co-ordination of hand and eye, the importance of releasing the line at the precise moment the weighted 'trace' (technical term - see glossary) is launched in the desired direction. At its best, this choreography of man and rod (no relation) has been likened to four dimensional poetry.
I make a first, laboured cast of just 50 yards or so and hurriedly withdraw the line in order to allow Joe an opportunity. My tuition receives instant reward as he synchronises effortlessly to drop the weight with a satisfying 'plop' 100 yards distant into the deepest part of the trench that lies between ourselves and the breakers. John and myself take turns to use our second rod whilst keeping a 'weathered eye' on the youngling. My son is expectant. I smile in a knowing way to my brother and he returns the same - 'the boy has much to learn'.
Whatever the odds against success, we share the responsibility of awareness that back in our faux-traditional, black, weather-boarded, barns , rented for a full week, there are women and children dependent on our efforts. The nearest supermarket may not be open throughout the Christmas week and our numbers on Christmas Eve will swell to twenty as the tribe gathers for the annual ritual.
Distracted by our cares, we are at first unaware that Joe has decided to reel in. He says that he has some resistance on the line and I assure him this is likely to be the seaweed I have already encountered from my own casts. Then I see the silver agitation in the shallows and leap to help him with the catch. The fish is fat, sleek and writhing in my hand as I remove the hook.
In Dorset, Norfolk and most recently at Aldeburgh, a few miles to the south, my brother and I have spent many, many hours in quest of a fish worthy of putting on a plate. In fact neither of us has ever caught a (marine) fish as large as this. Now, Joe, with virtually his first cast has landed a sea bass (initially identified by myself as 'a large whiting'; a mistake rectified by a passing fisherman) worth £20 to a local restaurant. Later, Joe insists that Judy (who together with Diana has brought lunchtime sustenance) takes photos of him with rod and fish held aloft.
John and I continue fishing for several hours, long after Joe has lost interest and left us to explore Southwold with Oren, Ella and Claire. Between us we manage to catch several more small whiting and dabs but nothing like Joe's sea bass. It is the only fish we will eventually cook and eat. Though admitting it chokes me like a half-swallowed fishbone - it was delicious.
Fast forward to now. The stay in our well-appointed Suffolk barns was a great success. Photos can be viewed on my facebook home page or that of Chris Ling, Claire Lichtenstein, Anna Holland or Stephen Ling.
The week was unique, including as it did just about everyone on the 'Lingside'. To be honest, however, I was largely a spectator over the course of that memorable week. Everyone mucked in and created something truly special but it was as much as I could do to maintain some of the daily routines that have become so important to me. There were occasions when I lapsed from my healthy lifestyle and consumed some alcohol, turkey, chocolate and even a couple of pieces of gammon!
Back home our vegan routines have been re-established and given that I'm at the 'top' of my chemo phase of the cycle, I'm feeling pretty good. No doubt this improvement with sore-feet syndrome and fatigue is due largely to the reduced dosage that was agreed back in October (see 22/10/12 post). What remains unknown is the consequence of this reduced dosage for the efficacy of the drugs. The next CT scan, to be discussed with my oncologist in late January, will give us an answer.
I would like to send a Happy New Year greeting and much love to everyone who has made it this far. Oh! and I have managed to see 'The Hobbit - An Unexpected Journey' in the company of Joe and his old schoolfriend Matt before Joe returned to Durham.
But you may already have guessed as much.
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