The Healing Spirit of Avalon

I received many many messages following my last blog entry , after the sad death of Hannah. I really do appreciate the fact that people take time to comment and send me messages – thank you ! I have to confess though that I feel a bit of a fraud. It’s easy to write good things about good people. The praise was all due to Hannah, not me. I am sure I was only echoing the thoughts of the many people who had been fortunate enough to have come into contact with her. I just happened to put my thoughts down ‘on paper’. Sadly it wasn’t just Hannah who succumbed to the deadly disease. I’ve since learned of another three who have lost their lives in recent weeks. I am sure there were many more of whom I was not aware, but however many, there are far too many. More friends and families grieving for loved one’s taken away by such a savage disease, and all in their early thirties. Never has a campaign slogan been more appropriate .Never Too Young is a campaign by Bowel Cancer UK, and aims to ensure, among other things, that young people are diagnosed quickly and receive treatment to reverse the statistic showing that bowel cancer in young patients has increased by a quarter in a decade. And don’t forget, bowel cancer is almost 100% curable if diagnosed in it’s early stages. Information about the campaign can be found by clicking on the logo. We rely on the support and encouragement of sites like Bowel Cancer UK to enable us to survive, and to change the perception and understanding of the disease. If you are able to support them in any way, you will be helping future generations survive this awful disease.

You may conclude that April was a pretty black month, but if there was one sign of encouragement it was the fact that there was a record number of hits, over five and a half thousand, on my blog during the month. Even if a small proportion of those will now be more aware of bowel cancer than they were before, then something has been achieved. The figure is astonishing, I could never have imagined that little old me could have such an impact. 

I’ve come to the conclusion that my own grief is merely another reality check, as selfish as that may sound. As I reach the end of my current treatment plan, with the completion of surgery planned at the time of diagnosis there is a fear that lurking somewhere in my body are a few, or even just one rouge cell waiting to mutate and spread it’s destruction. I always thought there would be a sense of relief when I reached this stage, in fact it turns out to be the opposite. I am more anxious now than I have been at any time during my treatment. In a few weeks I’ll be undergoing yet another CT scan, searching for those signs of irregular cell growth. Of course I’m hoping for the ‘all clear’. After all it’s only a few months since my last scan, and the procedure will be repeated again and again over the next five years. I hope the anxiety diminishes as time goes on. Somehow I think not. I’m pleased to say that the pain following my lung operation is , at last, receding. I still have the feeling that my ribs have been broken and my shoulder blade is not where it should be, but believe me, that’s an improvement. The downside is that the lack of pain allows me to think I can revert to a normal life, only to find that I don’t have the energy to do more than the most basic of tasks. 

And so thoughts turn to Glastonbury, just 43 days away. I’ve already done my first ‘ticket tracker’ check, it will be the first of many over the coming weeks. It starts to get worrying when other people are receiving theirs….’where’s mine? ‘ My body is telling me it’s a one bag festival this year, although that’s easier said than done. No barbecue, no food, silly gadgets, spare this, spare that. The wellies will remain in the car until they become essential. Of course I reserve the right to change my plans should my strength return in the next few weeks. I’ll miss that barbecue, and it will save me having to walk across the site to find food. Food is energy, and I’ll certainly need energy. I’m hoping that the healing spirit of Avalon descends on me again as it did two years ago. Then I was struggling with the symptoms of bowel cancer, not knowing that I was already at the advanced stage of the disease. There was a time when I doubted I would be able to endure the six days of music and entertainment. Miraculously the symptoms disappeared for the duration of the festival, and I’m hoping the same healing force will be present. One thing I will be taking with me this year is the selection of drugs to keep me out of pain and control symptoms of side effects from treatment I have had. Oh yes, and the fifteen or so scars on my body, a reminder of the surgery and procedures I have undergone in the last 12 months.

@sitemanagergal – Another post I didn’t want to type

I don’t apologise for using the title of someone else’s blog today http://sitemanagergal.wordpress.com/2013/03/27/another-post-i-didnt-want-to-type/

I could never have imagined that I would be sitting down writing this. No sooner had I published my blog yesterday than I received the awful awful news of the passing of Hannah, aged just 30. Probably know to most of you as @sitemangergal on Twitter, Hannah and I never met, although she did threaten to take me shopping on more than one occasion. We did however exchange messages when it really mattered. I left a comment after her latest and final blog entry. It’s still awaiting moderation. Just from the comments in her blog, I knew that things had taken a turn for the worse, far worse than any of us imagined, although I suspect Hannah knew herself. Hannah was never one to shout from the rooftops about her illness. She didn’t need to tell everyone how ill she was, how much worse her cancer was than many others, or seek sympathy over the way cancer had truly devastated her life. Although she was a regular Tweeter, you could not say she was prolific, and rarely were her tweets about herself.

I can’t recall when it was that Hannah and I began our exchange of personal messages. We both had blogs in common, and of course bowel cancer. As cancer patients we often receive words of encouragement from others, but Hannah’s messages always stood out. She had a different type of empathy, always had the right words to say, always at the right time, and you knew that her words came straight from the heart. Hannah had experienced everything that I had been through – and more. Whenever I had surgery, you could guarantee that one of the last messages I received before ‘going down’ would be from Hannah “Thinking of you” or something like that. The last was just prior to my first lung operation in February, even though she was now becoming seriously ill herself, she still found time to message me. For a while our chemotherapy appointments would coincide, we would tweet each other during treatment, we had our own little chemoclub, both going through the same experience at the same time. Even though we were hundreds of miles apart, our beds could have been next to each other. I was lucky in that I slept through most of my chemotherapy, but on more than one occasion I would be awoken by my phone, and a message from Hannah “How’s it going?” More often than not silly comments, but enough to remind me that Hannah was thinking of me. “I’m painting my nails” or “ the person down the ward is really annoying me”. She once told me I had no right to sleep whilst she was having to endure the stupidity of other patients relatives. She would joke about how I was on the ‘posh ward’ because I had a room on my own due to the fact that I was on a drug trial. She would remind me of Glastonbury, keeping me focused when chemo wasn’t going so well. And she was there in the middle of the night, when neither of us were getting any sleep.

Hanna’s blog could easily be misinterpreted. Yes she was angry, but she was angry with cancer and she had every right to be so. Hannah loved life, and yet it has been so cruelly taken away from her. She loved her boyfriend, her weekends away. She loved work, and wanted nothing more than to return. She did so on a number of occasions,d each time having to give up because of her illness. She loved shopping, she loved shoes, painting her nails,she enjoyed being beautiful and she certainly excelled in that. She was far more beautiful than she ever knew, and her beauty was deep, running throughout her body, even those horrible cancer cells that eventually killed her. 

Acquaintances or relationships on social media can be so fickle, which is why I valued knowing Hannah so much. We didn’t communicate that much, but when I heard from Hannah I knew that every word she spoke was 100% genuine. When I heard the awful news on Sunday I began shaking, followed by tears for an hour or more, but more than anything there was anger. Angry because of her age. Anger because she had been misdiagnosed. The tears were maybe tears of fear, because the death of Hannah has only demonstrated just how vulnerable we really are, particularly when we think we are getting better. I’ll be joining the long queue of people who were touched by Hannah during her brief life. Writing it down is my own way of coping with it, and I don’t have the patience of painting my nails, anyway she always told me it wouldn’t suit me !

I feel blessed that I am just one of the many people who’s life has been made better by coming into contact with her. Hannah, you will be truly truly missed. xxx

Sweet Dreams

That’s another one crossed off, not quite so quick this time, but seven days isn’t bad. By the time the anaesthetic had worn off and wires and tubes removed, I was ready to come home. Well in my mind anyway. The first 3 or 4 days were, once again, pretty much a blur to me. Just a couple of days in intensive care this time, less than that, about 36 hours. Such was the intensity of the pain I was kept dosed up throughout my stay in hospital, and in the main they did a good job. I don’t remember anything before waking up in ICU sometime on Tuesday night, with an oxygen mask over my face. I remember asking where I was, even though it was pretty obvious. The nurse reassured me that my stay in ICU was “just precautionary”, although I am now well able to read the monitors to which I was attached, to understand that my blood pressure and oxygen levels were far from normal. Even so it wasn’t long before I was being transferred back to the ward. 

The wheelchair I was transferred in was rather overcrowded with equipment as I was wheeled back. Drips, PCA, oxygen and yards of trailing wires and cable that were attached to my body. The veins in my arms were now collapsing faster than a pack of cards , and so all drugs and drips were now using veins in my neck which made movement of my head rather tricky. I was accommodated on the heart ward due to lack of beds on the appropriate lung ward although this didn’t make any difference to my recovery. It was interesting to see the speed of recovery of heart patients who had undergone double/triple by pass operations. They were certainly mobile far quicker than myself. It seemed that they were doing three or four a day, the success of which were clearly visible. The nursing staff were particularly caring and helpful while I was there and did everything they could to ensure that my pain was kept to a minimum. The consultant came to see me the following morning to discuss my operation. Far more difficult than they had anticipated due to the previous collapsed lung and the proximity of the tumour to a major blood vessel in my right lung. The tumour had been removed in it’s entirety although they had not been able to achieve the usual clear margins they would normally hope for because of the position close to the blood vessel. The ‘clear margin’ is an area of tissue surrounding the tumour that is disease free, to ensure no infected cells are left. Obviously we would all have been happier had the margin been achieved, but it demonstrates just how lucky I had been, just a few millimetres more and it would have been deemed inoperable. I’m so glad I didn’t postpone the operation until after the summer, as I had anticipated at one time. I had been in ICU because of difficulty they had re-inflating my lung after surgery, and so it was imperative that I should be up and mobile as soon as possible to avoid and further problems and infection. It was no surprise therefore that the physio was one of the first therapists to visit me, and no surprise that she wanted me out of bed. The pain in doing so was equal to that following my bowel operation. It didn’t really matter how long I was in the chair for, I still had to make the return journey. Both left me gasping for breath and almost screaming in pain, despite the doses of morphine prior to both exercises. In the main my pain levels were kept to a minimum due to the help of an epipleural anaesthetic( the same as an epidural except in the pleural layers of the lungs) and the PCA. PCA stands for Patient Controlled Analgesic, a syringe pump that delivers a dose of morphine at the press of a button. The device limits you to one dose every five minutes to prevent any overdose, but anyone that has had one knows how reliant you become on them, and how effective in pain relief they are. Whilst on morphine your obs (BP,oxygen, heart rate) are monitored every two hours, and in the early hours of day 3 post op, I noticed that my BP and oxygen levels were falling. When the day shift came on I mentioned this to them. My stats were being monitored hourly from then on, still showing consistently low levels. I knew that the third day would involve me walking, and sure enough this was to be the case when the physio arrived. We set off, me with a walking frame, whilst the physio pushed the drip stand alongside me as I made my way along the corridor. We made it halfway down before we turned round for the return leg, at which time I experienced an overwhelming pain in my chest and collapsed on the floor barely able to breath. Within seconds I was surrounded by nursing staff, oxygen face mask back on and helped into a wheelchair, and swiftly taken back to my bed. Obs were taken again, still worryingly low as I sat on the side of my bed, where I was most comfortable, as the nursing staff went off to find the on call doctor. I was anxiously waiting for the green light to come on that would allow the next shot of morphine, pressing the button as soon as it was illuminated. I pressed it, eyes fixed on the pump as it gently pushed the syringe forward. Drip, drip, drip – what ! I looked closely as droplets of the drug slid down the inside of the pump encasement  It’s not supposed to do that ! The dripping stopped as the gentle movement of the syringe ceased. Just to make sure I waited again. Pressed the button once the five minutes was up, and drip, drip, drip. I could hardly believe my eyes. I called the nurse over and showed her. She looked horrified. The syringe inside the unit was minutely out of place, and as a result the dose of morphine was dripping inside the unit instead of being pumped into my veins. Good reason for my collapse, low BP and oxygen levels, I had not been receiving any pain relief since the early hours of the morning when the syringe was last changed – under the light of a mobile phone. With a quick key turn, and ‘click’ as the syringe was correctly put in place, the problem was resolved, and the relief from pain almost immediate. Nurse Lauren continued to apologise, even though I tried to re-assure her it wasn’t her fault, the syringe was changed by the night shift some six hours earlier. It could only have been noticed if she had been present at the precise time I had been pressing the green button.

So we were back on track. Pain relief now being delivered successfully. The consultant was having a weekend off, so the last time I saw him was Friday night after he came out of theatre. My lungs were working okay, albeit in a limited capacity, and the only hurdle now was controlling the pain . He agreed I could go home once I was comfortable with pain relief measures. By Sunday evening I’d had enough, I convinced the physio that I could manage stairs at home and so armed with the usual parcel of drugs I left for home. 

A week has passed, the district nurse has been and removed the stitches from the hole that was my chest drain. I wish I could reports a massive reduction in pain. I can’t. Hardly surprising considering the mechanics behind the surgery I’ve undergone. I have a lengthy scar across my back almost mirroring the one resulting from liver surgery in December. My shoulder blade is sticking out like a dorsal fin as a result of the parting of my ribs to get access to my lungs. Movement of the scapula (shoulder blade) involves eight different muscles alone, with a further eighteen directly attached to the scapula. The opiates I normally take for background pain have been increased, and I’m still relying on additional drugs to control breakthrough pain. I’m waiting for the Macmillan nurse to call me with regard to this, she’s always come to my rescue before, in managing pain. Opiates are fine, and effective, but not something I want to rely on in such high doses. They affect sleep, digestion, appetite, and more importantly the mind. What little sleep I get is accompanied by disturbing dreams. Not frightening, not scary, just never nice. Oh sweet dreams. A comment made so casually, yet something I would willingly pay for at the moment.

if you have any worries or concerns about bowel cancer, please click on the logo for information and help

Oh What A Circus

I don’t normally allow anyone to address me as ‘uncle’, even though my eldest two nieces, and their neighbours, always used to do so. It was almost in a comical way, so that didn’t really matter. Somehow it never really sounded right to me, it had a formality to it that never really fitted me. I’m glad that the said eldest niece has grown up and dropped the ‘uncle’, but I have to say I could quite easily get used to ‘great uncle’ as I was introduced to nieces daughter for the first time. Oh and she’s a ‘great’ niece too. My sister, bro-in-law, niece, great niece and myself spent the afternoon in the Derbyshire Dales. Dovedale to be precise which is a fantastically beautiful spot on the Derbyshire/Staffs border. We used to go there as kids, although I don’t remember those hills being as big as they are now. I suppose they have grown in the years that have passed. Not that I had any thought of climbing them. As with all childhood memories, it was always summer then, the stones that bridged the river were wobbly and someone always fell in, and had to endure the journey home sitting in the back of the car in their underwear. I always envisaged the car park being much further away than it is now. Certainly when you’re carrying a picnic for four, five six seven of us, the number depending on what year it was. You could always guarantee that my mother was either expecting or at least carrying a babe in arms, which prevented her from climbing the hills or crossing the river with us. I’ve now realised that the car park is no nearer now than it was all those years ago, it’s just that was the distance we had to be to avoid the car parking charges, and the ice cream vendor. Every penny counted in a family that size.

Dovedale

All but me had been to see my Dad, before we met for lunch, prior to our trip down memory lane. Dovedale just happened to be a convenient half way point between Manchester and Birmingham, where Pat & Clive live. I was reminded that it was 12 months to the day since they had brought my Dad up to see me whilst I was in hospital following bowel surgery. It seems far longer than a year ago, and a lot has happened since then. Certainly my Dad would not be able to make the same journey today. As if to mark the occasion, at the end of lunch I received the phone call that I had been waiting for, my lung operation is scheduled for Tuesday. Yep, that’s tomorrow. The chances are that while you’re reading this I’m waiting for a phone call to confirm that they have a bed for me, but I don’t expect them not to have and so it looks like all systems go again. I went for my pre op MOT on Friday, no problem there. The nurse went through the procedure with me. A posterolateral thoracotomy, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thoracotomy A Long incision in the back between two ribs. Ribs parted to access the lung, whip the tumour out and sew me back up again. It might be staples instead of stitches, and having had staples (42) after my liver op, I can certainly say they are far more uncomfortable to remove than sutures. Oh, and there’ll be lots of pain afterwards. That was the long and short of it. This is the procedure I have not been looking forward to, just a single tumour, but the larger of the one’s on my lungs. I know (HOPE) they’ll control the pain as much as they can, but considering the pain and discomfort I was in after the keyhole surgery some 6 weeks ago, I know that this is not going to be comfortable. It’s likely that I’m going to be pretty much out of my tree for a few days afterwards, so if I phone anybody or send confusing text messages I apologise in advance. I’m glad I didn’t get much notice, less time to think about it. I hoping to be home within a week so I’m sure I’ll be letting you know how it went just as soon as I can.

I’ve been frantically trying to get some work done in the garden before I go into hospital. My lack of mobility after my last op, and the fact that the snow has only just cleared from the garden have prevented me doing so before now. Now the better weather has arrived and I’m not going to be here ! I managed to get a few bedding plants in and half a dozen window boxes and planters, but I’m going to have to leave them to the elements whilst I’m away. I hope we get at least a little rain to keep them watered whilst I’m out of action. Somehow a few crocus’s , snowdrops and the indestructible crocosmia managed to flourish under the Arctic conditions so at least we’re not starting with a blank canvas.

I always thought I’d be dancing in the street when it happened. Flags out, celebrations, and the chance to say good riddance. When the news came, and I heard it as it was first announced, I quickly turned off the TV and radio. As I expected, there followed day after day of adoration, even those who stabbed her in the back were lining up to smother themselves in the scent of her corpse. There’s not much that I can say that hasn’t already been said. I’m sure you won’t thank me for repeating it. Like so many I am left wondering who it is who supports the pantomime that purports to be a funeral. It can’t be the Scots, she managed to alienate them in one election that wiped out every single Tory MP in one go. Surely not the Welsh, and no-one can deny that she was divisive when it came to Northern Ireland politics. The success of the Good Friday agreement is testament to her absolute failure in that region. And England ? The mere mention of her name in the North is enough to provoke abuse and anger.So just who are the ‘majority’ of people who feel the £10m ceremonial funeral is justified?  I’m sure the sanctimonious blue brigade are more than capable of meeting the exorbitant cost of her final party conference. Perhaps they should pass round the collection boxes, as Cameron puts on his grieving face to read to the elite congregation. Will he be preaching about austerity? What worries me more is that he is well on the way to causing more social harm to this country than Thatcher ever did. I’m glad that I’ll be well of the way of any TV or radio, and sufficiently sedated not to have to have any care about what happens when the circus begins on Wednesday. There’ll certainly be plenty of clowns there !

Glastonbury Ticket Trauma

Damn, what an opportunity missed. Through the power of social media my blog broke through the thousand reads in a day mark, not just broke through but smashed it with over 1600 people visiting the site in a 24 hour period. I’d like to think they were all there to find out about bowel cancer, but of course they weren’t. That’s the opportunity missed, early detection saves lives. This is particularly relevant following the recent report from Cancer research UK, showing that rates among men have soared by more than a quarter in the last 35 years, while women have experienced a rise of only 6%. That’s pretty alarming isn’t it, especially if you’re a man. I often think that Bowel Cancer is the poor relation when it comes to discussion, sympathy, charity pretty much everything really. Thankfully the stigma of breast cancer has been reduced dramatically in recent years, it’s almost trendy for women to talk about it. To a lesser extent the same applies to prostate cancer. Twenty years ago few men would even know where their prostate gland was, never mind recognise the symptoms of any disease. But we’re reluctant to talk about poo ! Hardly surprising really is it. 

April is Bowel Cancer Awareness month, with the aim to raise awareness of the disease, the symptoms to looks for, how you can minimise your chances of getting bowel cancer, and the support available for patients and their families. Bowel cancer is among the most easily treatable if found early enough, yet among the most devastating if not. By the end of this month I will have undergone major surgery for the fourth time within a year. Five weeks of radiotherapy, the unwelcome side effects from which I’m now having to deal with. Almost 6 months of chemotherapy, with more planned for the future. On two occasions I’ve been close to not making it through treatment. I don’t have the choice as to whether I think of poo or not, it’s always there to remind me in a bag attached to my belly. Now if I could get a tiny percentage of those 1600 or so Glastonbury festival goers who read my blog to understand the early signs of bowel cancer, I might, just, prevent some of them going through the same as I am. That would be more than enough satisfaction for me. So in the hope that some of you have come back, you can find all the information and help you may need here. http://www.beatingbowelcancer.org/ There is also information as to how you how you help raise awareness, please take a look and see if there is anything you can do. http://www.beatingbowelcancer.org/bowelmovement

The balance of my Glastonbury ticket price is paid. It’s all systems go ! Not without the predictable panic over something or other. Each time I forget just how dreadful this period is. It wouldn’t be Glastonbury without the worry that something surrounding the ticketing process might go wrong. Firstly there is the nervefest as to whether you’ll get a ticket in the first place. Tickets can be secured with the payment of a deposit in October when they first go on sale. The 125 000 or so tickets sold out within an hour and a quarter. I can’t describe to you the feeling during that period as you try to secure your ticket, especially when you only manage to do so just as the ‘sold out’ notice is circulated. The period between October and April is relatively calm, but then it starts all over again. I paid my balance online, no problem. Just the wait for the confirmation email. Supposed to be delivered within 24 hours. Those 24 hours passed – nothing ! Not going to panic yet. 36 hours- still nothing, what the hell is going on. Check bank account, the money has been taken, phew. But still no email. 48 hours – still nothing. Checking email every ten minutes or so.72 hours, still nothing, what the hell is going on. Check ticket website.”If you haven’t received confirmation email within 48 hours contact ticket help desk”. Oh my god, something’s gone wrong, I’ve got to sort this out before the window closes, and my ticket goes up for re-sale. Now I’m really panicking. Ping ! Check spam folder. Big sigh of relief, there it is,

You have booked to attend GLASTONBURY 2013 at Worthy Farm, Pilton-Somerset on 28-30 June 2013

You have ordered the following tickets……….

OMG it looks beautiful. I forward it to my second email address just in case it gets accidentally deleted. I forward a copy to Lew, just in case in case. How dare they treat this as spam? I quickly mark as ‘NOT SPAM’, transfer it to my Glasto folder, then check it again…and again. Oh how I hate this time of the year, now all I’ve got to worry about is delivery of tickets. Are they using DX couriers again? When will delivery start? I’ll be checking ticket tracker weekly until, May, then daily after that. Once they’ve been marked as “Dispatched” I’ll start taking valium. Stop sleeping and stop going out just so I don’t miss that knock at the door. And stop telling me there’s nothing to worry about. Cancer is a doddle compared to this.

The Ancient Myths of Glastonbury

Contrary to the BBC News website, the acts named last week are not the “full line up” for this years Glastonbury Festival. It would take at least a dozen pages to list the full line up. And why do the BBC report that the inclusion of Kenny Rogers is a “surprise”?  Was Willy Nelson a surprise? Tom Jones…Shirley Bassey… Leonard Cohen… Rolf Harris? Was it his age that so surprised them or the genre of music ? Just what was it that surprised them, I’d love to know. Also according to BBC News last years festival was “cancelled” due to the Olympics. Was it? I don’t remember there being a festival scheduled for it to be cancelled. Why was there no festival in 2006….or 2001….1996….1991 and so on. Get the pattern? A few years ago I got chatting to a very glamorous Kate Silverton, standing just a few yards away from the back stage gate, she had made her way to a position where the pyramid stage was in the background, waiting to do her link for Breakfast News. She stood in the obligatory wellies (it wasn’t muddy) reporting on the diversity of the festival. I chatted to her as she waited for her link and asked where she had been, what she had seen so far. She hadn’t ! She had arrived the night before and would be heading back to London in a few hours. This was the first time she had been out of the press enclosure. She was pleasant enough, we chatted about the irony of her latest OB, when a few months ago she had been reporting from the Oscars, dressed in her £20 000 designer dress. Similarly, Jo Wiley and her crew were encamped in a small area backstage, a few bales of straw thrown around for good effect. Ah life on a farm hey ! Supposed live performances were introduced from a studio perched high adjacent to the pyramid stage. Occasionally, when it rains, news crew rush to areas where the water accumulates. It’s a farm for gods sake, of course it gets muddy, but contrary to media reports it doesn’t rain every year. In fact it can get unbearably hot. Festival organisers have spent hundreds of thousands of pounds improving drainage on the farm in recent years, I suspect the photographs of mud baths and water slides will be harder to find in coming years. The pyramid stage is just a small part of the festival, there are hundreds more acts than the BBC would have you believe. There are seventy or so different performance venues. The festival is open for six days, not three ! It’s a 24 hour city, it never sleeps. It’s the second largest congregation of people in Somerset for the duration of the festival. It would take well over an hour to walk from one side of the site to the other at peak times I can’t think of any other event in the UK that is so misreported. And to top it all, Mick Jagger clearly demonstrates that he’s never been before with his comment about wellies & yurts. Yawn yawn Mick, I’m not sure they do yurts yet but you can hire a tepee for about nine hundred quid ! I’m sure you could stretch to that.

And so the Stones are confirmed as one of the headline acts for this years festival, and I’m delighted. I feel I should have seen them before now, in fact I did have tickets over 20 years ago but had to cancel at the last minute due to illness. I was gutted. Whether I do actually get to see them this year is another thing. I’ll probably make that decision a few hours before they are due on stage. There’s always something else going on to distract you, I might just be unable to tear myself away from some unheard of act performing on a tiny stage on the other side of the farm. Whatever I decide I won’t be disappointed, I never am. I rarely leave the farm f eeling “I wish I had………”.

I’ll be paying the balance of my ticket price this week. It’s the one expense I always look forward to settling. Then I just have to sort out my health and fitness. I’ve still not heard regarding the second operation on my lung, I’ll be phoning up this week to get things moving. There’s only 85 days left to get fit ! I saw the oncologist a week or so ago, the pathology report from the first operation confirmed that the tumour removed was bowel cancer. I suppose that’s good ! As much as I tried to be optimistic, Dr. S preferred to be realistic. Dr. S agreed that my Hickman line can come out, which gave me a little cheer for a few seconds, until he added “we can put another one in if it’s needed, there’s enough lesions on your lungs to suggest it might be ” He did tell me not to worry, slow growing and all that, and we can always consider more surgery. You can see why my glee was only for a few seconds. Anyway, the Hickman line comes out tomorrow. Can’t say I’m looking forward to that as I’m sure it will involve lots of pulling and tugging. At least it will mean I can have a bath without having to hold then end of the line in my teeth, and I can turn over in bed without it pulling my chest to pieces. And as Dr S put it, “You’ve been lucky having it so long without getting any infections….so we’ll get it out now”  You can see he was in a cheerful mood that day.

In more cheerful news, I spent a couple of days down south with the kids last week. Despite the temperature being four or five degrees higher down there, it was bloody freezing with the sea breeze and all that. Even with two pairs of gloves I lost the feeling in my hands for a couple of hours on one occasion. I was also reminded that you can get ‘super size’ in anything food wise. Quite how Lewis manages that amount of food on a consistent basis is beyond me. Eating out half a dozen times in three days was enough to last me a month, I know we all love our kids and think they are wonderful, but it helps when they are such good company also. The effort of getting down there is always well worth it. It was so nice to see and hear Alana so much enjoying her university life, she makes us very proud, such a lovely and well grounded young lady- love her to bits. On Sunday Alana and I were at the studio watching Lews band , The Maxibons, rehearse for their Easter weekend performance. Of course I’m biased, but I have seen a few bands in my time, and I know they are a great group of musicians who deserve far better than they have achieved so far. Nevertheless, it was a great few days away, made even more special by being able too see both my grown up ‘children’ doing what they love. What more could you ask.

A Budget Statement

I had my routine 3 monthly check up with the colorectal surgeon last week. Nothing amazing, everything ok. I’d had a scan a few weeks previous, and no nasty surprises. We’re now almost 12 months since the primary tumour was removed so I brought up the subject of side effects and damage caused by the original op. I had a faint hope in the back of my mind that over time some of the damage would begin repairing itself. The tumour was deeply embedded into the tissue and muscle surrounding it, and I knew that the surgeon had some difficulty in removing it, and that some of the nerves in the area had been damaged during the procedure. This was no surprise to me, I had signed the consent form listing all the possible side effects and they had all been carefully explained to me before the operation. It now seems there is little chance of any improvement, and what I’ve got I’m stuck with. For some reason I found this quite depressing. It really did make me take stock of things. In the overall picture it was a small price to pay, the alternative was that I’d more than likely not be here now to write this, but all the same, the news had quite a sobering effect on me.

I don’t get depressed easily or often. Peeved might be a better description, life’s too short for depression, but when I do feel down it’s usually spending money that I turn to. I stopped in Stockport on the way home, parking under my favourite viaduct. in the world. That might be a slight over statement, there are far many more picturesque viaducts around the country, but this one acts as a gateway to home when I return to Manchester from a long journey. Certainly, it looks better at night when it’s lit up, and it’s hardly noticeable when you’re travelling over it, but it’s still a massive feat of engineering. I’ve tried many time to get the perfect photograph, but it seems I’d have to stand in the fast lane of the M60 to achieve this. Somehow before parking I managed to end up in the bus station, blocked in by two double deckers, the drivers of which refused to move the six inches necessary to allow me to exit and head for the car park. I’ve driven through Stockport many times, been to out of town retail parks, restaurants, the wonderfully named Purple Turtle musical instrument shop, and of course more recently the enthralling hat museum, but never shopped in the town centre. Considering the amount I spent it’s probably a good thing that I haven’t discovered it before now. Firstly I headed to Debenham’s, where I hunted down a man purse (leather coin holder) that Lewis had convinced me I didn’t need a few weeks earlier. I had decided otherwise due to the discomfort of getting my hands in my jeans pockets. Happy with my £10 purchase I browsed the spring men’s designer collection and discovered an extortionately expensive jacket .. Far too expensive though, don’t be stupid ! I browsed a bit more, and this time found a pair of brown leather shoes I had been looking for, for ages. Not at that price though, even though they were exquisitely made. Fifty quid more expensive than the jacket, so no way I could justify the expense. I strolled around the store a bit more, sulking at my self imposed embargo on the shoes. The jackets were still there, it wouldn’t harm if I tried one one, even if it meant stripping off the hat, scarf, gloves, winter coat and a jumper. Mmmmmm…..fitted well too, perfectly in fact. I hadn’t bought the shoes after all, and you can never have enough jackets, can you? And I’ve only got….about a dozen. That was it then, carrier bag in hand, I avoided passing the shoes as I headed out of the store. The Jeans store opposite happened to have a sale on. Two pairs for £25 can’t be bad. Then the shoe shop, not the brown leather one I wanted, but a couple of pairs at a bargain price. Primark too ! Socks, more shoes and a shirt. HMV, I relieved another closing store of their diminishing stock. By now I’d brought the average price of all the items I had bought to an acceptable level, so the jacket wasn’t that expensive after all. Struggling with the carrier bags I made my way back to the car before I could do any more damage to my bank account. Making sure I avoided the bus station, I headed the wrong way round the motorway. Of course it was in an area where there were no junctions allowing you to turn back on yourself.

Saturday, I had volunteered to shake a bucket in aid of the BBC Radio Manchester/The Christie appeal to raise money for a mobile chemotherapy unit. I’ve had a guilty feeling for some time that I’m not giving anything back to the many institutions and organisations that have directly and indirectly helped me during my encounter with cancer. I’ve thought about running marathons. There, I’ve thought about it. No matter how much I admire those that regularly tread the 26 or so miles, quite often under adverse medical conditions or handicaps, I have to be honest, I’m no more likely to run a marathon now than I was decades ago when I sat in bed watching in admiration as the first London Marathon took place. So let’s rule that one out now, once and for all. Zip wires, desert treks ? Maybe sometime in the future, I don’t think my body is up to it at the moment. I could bake cakes I suppose, a coffee morning? I’m good at eating cakes and I drink enough coffee to sustain the GDP of Columbia by myself, but as a more gentile start I decided to give some of my time by shaking a bucket to collect much needed cash for those organisations that have supported me. It might be the easy option, but someone’s got to do it, and as it turned out, I was the only volunteer for the collection that took place alongside BBC Radio Manchester’s broadcast from Ashton Market on Saturday. I was surprised at the number of people willing to reach into their pockets and purses (including man purses) to donate pennies and pounds to the cause. What didn’t surprise me was the number of people who had told me how their lives had been touched by cancer, or those who spoke so highly of The Christie. Three hours later and my bucket was heavy and my arm aching. I’m not sure it didn’t do my internal scarring much good either as I’ve been noticeably more uncomfortable since then, but surely a small price to pay. Just how much I collected I don’t know, I’ll be dropping it off at The Christie later this week, but however little, every penny counts.

I should have left Ashton on a high, but two events clouded what was otherwise an inspirational morning. Firstly, as I headed for my car, I was approached by Nick Griffin who was in the area trying to spread his vile politics. He tried to engage me in conversation, surrounded by a clan of supporters that seem to have been borrowed from The Jeremy Kyle Show. The more he tried to engage me, the faster the expletives came out of my mouth. I’m somewhat ashamed at this, but it demonstrates the level of contempt I hold for his views. The second event was arriving back at my car, to find a parking violation notice affixed to my windscreen. Bloody hell, the second in as many weeks ! I had overstayed my pre-purchased time by 8 minutes. The ticket informed me that I had been observed for 1 minute, just sixty seconds from the exact time that my permit had expired. Obviously the warden had been loitering waiting for my ticket to expire, yet considering that it might have taken him another couple of minutes to process the contravention notice and stick it on my windscreen,he or she was nowhere to be seen. Thankyou, Tameside Council. 

Monday brought my weekly appointment with the district nurse. The wound from my chest drain is still not healing, and so we tried an inadine dressing in an attempt to speed up the healing process. I know all of the DN’s now, and so we always find something to chat about as she goes through the process of flushing my line. Half way through I pointed out that she had forgotten to draw blood through my line before beginning the flushing procedure. This is done to ensure there is no blockage in the line. As much as she protested that she should ‘start again’ I assured her it would be OK, the flushing fluid and anticoagulants were going in fine, and as I was back at The Christie in a few days time when it would be done again, any (unlikely) problems could be dealt with then. I drove home through the snow, and just as my lunch of cheese on toast began sizzling under the grill, my mobile rang. The DN had panicked and called The Christie 24 hour hotline, who had advised her that it should all be done again. Another trip back to the health centre ! As it turned out it was perhaps a good thing, as by the time I returned the inadine dressing was stinging like hell. I’d had them before without problems, but this one was certainly hurting more than I wanted to put up with. So the dressing was changed, line flushed (correctly this time) and I was on my way back home again. 

Apart from a particularly nasty, upset digestive system at the beginning of this week my recovery from surgery just 4 weeks ago has been rapid. From feeling so tired and helpless just a week or so ago, I’m now feeling much stronger, so much so that I now feel ready for the next stage of lung surgery. I’m not in any great hurry to embark on this, but I’m well aware that the time for recovery from what will be open surgery this time, will encroach on preparations for Glastonbury. Today marks the spring equinox, and by the time of the next one I’ll be in a field in Somerset along with another hundred thousand or so for the biggest party on the planet. Just 97 days now until the gates open, and I’ll be in that queue at 8 o’clock in the morning to claim my small patch of grass to erect a tent alongside my friends. I don’t care that another deluge of snow is forecast for the weekend, spring is in the air, the evenings are getting lighter and there are many green shoots appearing in my garden. Just one operation stands in my way now, considerably less than the last time I sat in the sacred fields. Somehow I feel this years festival is going to be extra special, and I hope to have one less item to carry with me – CANCER.

Stuck for a Title

Hello, it’s me. I’m back. Sorry for the delay if you’ve been waiting. By the magic of video assisted thorascopic surgery (VATS) I was in and out of hospital within 4 days. You can read into that, that everything went smoothly, no complications or infections. In the words of my surgeon “text book surgery”. Well, I’m pleased about that then. A three fingered sized wedge of tissue has been removed from my lung, the remains were stapled back together and I was sent packing two days later. So successful that the surgeon says he wants me back in a couple of weeks to do the other side. I think there’ll be some discussion on that. Of course I want this brought to a successful end as soon as possible, but I think that’s just a little too soon.

The step from intravenous analgesia to oral is a pretty big one, and soon became noticeable once I got home. On top of recovering from the huge intrusion into my abdomen from liver surgery, I now had to cope with the puncture of the muscles surrounding my left lung. The need to avoid twisting, turning, leaning, lifting, even lounging is a full time job, and the result of getting it wrong is all too apparent and painful. Breathing, sighing, coughing even laughing carries the same risks and painful outcome as the tissue and muscle bears the strain of any movement. I think I’ve been left with just 4 incision wounds, 3 from the VATS and one from the chest drain. I’m not exactly gasping for breath, but I’m aware of the thought needed prior to any exertion and how valuable the oxygen I inhale is. I’m having to get used to the reduced volume of my left lung. The District Nursing team have again been looking after my wounds, still patched up, and still preventing me from taking the long awaited bath I crave for. There are proper medical words they use, but in short, they are still secreting horrible stuff. As they are on my back and I can’t see them, I pretty much forget about them until the nurse rips off the old dressings. No matter how much they say “sorry”, it doesn’t make it any less painful. It’s like the “sharp scratch” syndrome. The automatic phrase that precedes another attempt to get a needle into my veins. It took three people, and many attempts to get a cannula into my hand for the anaesthetic. The many attempts over many months has left the area very painful and permanently bruised, and I’m often seen grimacing in pain as I try to retrieve something from my trouser pocket without first remembering the damage to my veins on the surface of my hand . I think my left arm and hand is rapidly approaching the status of ‘no go area’ as far as future needles are concerned. To add insult to injury I came round from surgery with a large dressing on my arm, covering blisters from a burn as a result of a dropped piece of equipment during surgery.

So what took me so long to update the blog? Despite it being the shortest stay in hospital so far, the recovery has been difficult and painful. My body is becoming increasingly tired. I don’t remember feeling this tired, even during radiotherapy. There have been days when even getting out of bed and getting dressed leaves me so exhausted that I’ve soon been back in bed. The few trips out I’ve made have resulted in being asleep within minutes of getting home. My red blood cell count has been at anaemic levels almost since the beginning of treatment. Even after two blood transfusions there has been no signs of recovery. I think it’s something I’ll have to address with my oncologist when I next see him.
Sadly, it takes the passing of others I have come in contact with to remind me how lucky I have been to have been to have been considered suitable for surgery. The death of someone with the same illness no longer has the same impact as it did 18 months ago. Yes of course there is sadness and compassion for their families. There is often shock, not at the fact that someone has died, but the speed at which it occurs. There is almost an inevitability as to the eventual outcome of stage 4 cancer, the odds are heavily stacked against us. But more often than not, it’s not the cancer that kills us, but the inability to deal with other infections or complications. When they wheel you into that intensive care unit, “just in case”, it makes you think whether you’ ll ever come out, and indeed whether you’ll ever know anything about it. Your perception of what is going on is deeply distorted by the treatment you are receiving.

It sounds gloomy, I know , but I have to be realistic, it happens. I don’t expect you to know that, why should you. I see it as a league table, there will always be winners, there will always be someone who drops off the bottom at the end of the season. And then there are those mid table teams that somehow manage to survive year after year. I’m not aiming for relegation.. For now I’m glad to be home, even with the aches and pains. I’ve had enough of hospitals for the time being. I’m trying to build up my energy before the next onslaught. So there is it, there’s the update. No witty comments or musical anecdotes, just the reality of how things are.

Two Fingers To Cancer

If you’re reading this expecting to find out how I am after my operation, you really didn’t read until the end did you. For the rest of you, I couldn’t go without saying something. Besides, whilst I’m writing this I’m not doing all the other things I need to do before going into hospital. That is of course if I get there ! I found out the reason my op was cancelled last week. Something to do with fizzy drinks….the Coronavirus !  http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/health-21442519 . One of the patients being treated is in intensive care at the same unit I am due to be admitted to at Wythenshawe Hospital. I’m not even sure how I feel about this. I’m still half expecting a late cancellation, the guy is still in there and I can’t see how the situation has changed since last week. Am I better off in there? After all the precautions being taken are sure to be ultra ultra safe aren’t they ? And what about the last SARS outbreak, didn’t really amount to much did it, unless you were one of the 800 or so people who died. I can imagine the scenario, waking up dazed in ICU, casual conversation with the guy in the bed next to you.

“been anywhere nice on your holidays?”

“Yeah I just got back from the Middle East”

Of course the guy with the coronavirus ‘ain’t speaking to anyone. The poor guy’s hooked up to an ECMO machine and will be far away in gaga land thanks to the powerful sedatives and antibiotics they will be pumping into his body. The ECMO is carrying out the functions of his heart and lungs, mechanically. Pretty amazing technology don’t you think. It is amazing, but it’s becoming an all to familiar place to me and I’ve decided I don’t like it. My last stay in ICU was pretty scary. As time goes on I’m getting clearer images from my mind as to what I experienced whilst I was under sedation, and somehow it’s made the memory of the previous time even worse than I originally remembered it. It’s so hard to explain, the knowledge that you are conscious and aware of what is going on around you, whilst your minds perception of what is happening is something altogether different, yet perfectly feasible. You’re participating in an event over which you’ve got no control. I’ve never been scared of any procedures or surgery I’ve undergone, but losing control of your mind and body can be pretty traumatic. I don’t want to be visiting there again.

I’m passing time before I head into Manchester to pick Lewis up from the train station. Sunday Brunch on the TV is doing nothing towards providing inspiration and enthusiasm to get ready for tomorrow, never mind the addition of Lewis into the equation. I’ve still not packed a bag. I can’t decide whether to eat in or out tonight. I haven’t done the laundry (short break here whilst I load the washing machine.) If there is ever a time when you are ready to go into hospital for surgery, it’s not now. I’ve never felt more ‘not ready’. I feel as though I could do with another week of doing nothing. I’m tired. Tired of hospitals, tired of routine, and having no routine. I’m tired of surgery, I’m tired of hospital, doctor, nurse appointments, I’m tired of cancer. I want to get in and out as soon as possible, no problems, or hold up’s. It feels like I’m being kicked back to square one again. You crawl slowly up that steep hill of recovery only to be kicked back down again. Each time you look up from the bottom, the incline looks steeper and the journey time longer.

Oh well, here we go again, guessing I’ll be updating shortly. In the meantime I’ll leave you with a song by Jake Bugg. Finally convinced to buy the CD by Louise – thanks Lou. No Lou didn’t record the CD, Jake did. Lou convinced me…..of never-mind. I  Liked the couple of tracks I’d been hearing on the radio, but never quite plucked up the courage to buy the CD and listen to the rest of it. Until now that is.and I’m pleased I did. It’s a long time since I posted a music vid on the blog, so it’s good to put that right. Might get reported for false representation otherwise..

My Bloody Valentine (but you’ll have to read to the end)

I never go out without my mobile phone. I might not hear it ring, or feel the vibrations. I might inadvertently press ignore as I reach into my pocket to answer an incoming call, but it rarely leaves my side/hand/pocket/coffee table/bedside table. But leaving it indoors as I venture out – never, ever. Except that is when decide to go to the windy city for the first time in ages. I decided, no, was prompted, to get out and try and break the monotony of my days. I filled up with diesel, the car that is not me. The diesel was a lame excuse, and I felt pressured and resentful as I watched the pump display click happily past the sixty quid mark. Resentful because I was being pressured to fill up by the recent news reports of another hike in fuel prices. Was it really a report of concern at the impending rise in fuel prices, or just another way of getting us to part with our money. At least with the ‘double nectar points’ voucher that ran out at the end of the month I must have saved all of a couple of pounds.

I tried to make my way to the vintage shop, but my attempts to get to there were thwarted by continuing Metrolink works. It’s more the fact that I can always find a parking spot there, that takes me to the vintage shop, but nonetheless, my young friend who works there must be wondering where I’ve gone. The numerous diversions that seem to have shut off almost half of one side of the town centre resulted in me ending up in the civic centre car park. I’m beginning to think that it’s only me that can see the directional arrows on the ground as cars raced round the car park searching for the elusive empty parking bays as though they were playing musical chairs. The council had done an admirable job in clearing the snow from the car park, but it might have been better had they not used every eighth parking space to pile the cleared snow into. Five foot high mounds of ice that has no chance of thawing ensures those spaces will be unusable for some time. Determined not to be beaten I parked my car on one of the lower slopes, like Thunderbird 2 on it’s launch ramp, without the parting palm trees. I battled my way through the wind tunnel of the bus station, irritating the bus drivers because I was not able to cross the road in the ten seconds allocated by the Green Cross code man. I’m normally half way across when the beeping stops and the engines start revving.

By the time I found my way into the shopping precinct, I had to stop and think why I had come out in the first place. Was it for a pay day loan ? Fast and easy household items on credit ( I have learned that a PS3 or whatever the latest console is, is now considered an essential household item) ? A lottery ticket maybe, the queues at the various outlets reminds me of the success of this poverty tax. Did I want to pawn my guitars, or mobile phone, or camera ? Cash in my gold ? A charity shop maybe, now that’s a possibility, although I could probably get new clothes cheaper in Primark. Ah yes, eggs and butter, proper free range from the farm shop in the market hall, the eggs that is, although I’m sure the cows have a pretty healthy lifestyle as well. It’s more the fact that the butter is less than half price than you would pay in the supermarket, and it’s always good to support your local farmer. I gave Primark the once over. The obligatory gloves to ensure I end up with more than one matching pair eventually, to counteract the ones I lose. A pair of casual shoes, £3, I couldn’t leave them there at that price could I ? Candles, in glass jars, a pound each, and more candles, different jars, as I queued to part with the few quid I had spent. I resisted the Haribo and packs of socks that are ever present as you are funnelled towards the tills. Feeling smug at my bargains, I made my way through the indoor shopping centre, more to get out of the rain than anything, but it did serve to remind me to get the cotton buds. I eventually found my way to the coffee shop. Burdened with my bags (candles in jars are heavy !) my stick and probably not looking too well after my first proper outing in ages, the girl who served me kindly offered for someone to bring my black Americano and cake over to my table when it was ready. The only problem was that she disappeared after serving me and failed to pass on her kind offer to another member of staff. They looked at me as though I was some kind of idiot when I made my way back to the counter, where my coffee had been waiting 5 minutes, maybe I was an idiot when I refused their belated offer of help ! With no mobile phone to take advantage of the free wi-fi I was left to study the packed coffee shop, realising that we could all have been cloned. Almost everyone, except me, seemed engrossed with their mobile phone. The glass facade allowed me to make the same observation about the pedestrians walking through the town centre, heads bowed, mobile in hand, barely able to take their eyes off the screen for one second to avoid obstacles in their way. It seems the Primark carrier bag is common amongst us. We somehow seem to be able to ignore the probability that our purchases came from some Bangladeshi sweatshop. Maybe the fact that we are prepared to spend equivalent of our Primark purchases on a FreeTrade coffee and a slice of cake makes it all seem more acceptable, whilst we sit and watch the previously ever present household name stores close around us.

Oh yeah, the mobile. I arrived home, with my Primark carrier bags. Two because the candle jars were put in a little one, inside a big one. They make great waste paper bins for the bedroom. My mobile was still plugged in charging. It’s forever charging. Love HTC, hate their batteries. Yes I know, Phones4U, just haven’t got round to it yet. 1 missed call. 1 answer phone message.

“Mr J’s secretary here can you give me a call”

I called

“We’ve had a cancellation tomorrow, can you come in? “

“Err……….No ! What’s the rush?”

“Mr J wants to get you in as soon as possible, how about 13^th then , surgery on 14^th ?”

Bloody Hell ! My mind was racing, things I’ve got to do, organise things, sort things out……I’ve got washing to do. No time like the present I suppose, let’s get on with it. A pre op assessment was arranged over the phone for the following Monday, everything would be confirmed by post. Pre op attended. ECG -again. X-Ray – again. Blood tests -again. Lung test-again. It wasn’t until a few days ago that I realised I hadn’t received the promised confirmation by post, a quick phone call rectified this, sent to the wrong address – again ! I find I hard to criticise the NHS. The things it does well are exceptional, you wouldn’t get it anywhere else in the world. Yet stupid little things, things that DO matter, continually let them down. Had made it not been for my own tenacity I might be sitting at home next week twiddling my thumbs, whilst a valuable bed, and more importantly a surgery slot going to waste because of some stupid clerical error. I had the same thing when I went in for liver surgery. It was only when I had singed the consent form that I noticed M’s address was still on all my paper work. Despite me asking for this to be corrected on numerous occasions, my file still contained sheets of pre printed labels with my old address on them.

The suddenness of my planned admission to hospital meant that I had to re-schedule a number of hospital dates that now clashed with lung surgery or recovery. I had to squeeze in two on the same day, 2 hours apart and different sides of Manchester. I’ll deal with the latter one first, liver surgeon North Manchester. “The scar looks nice, very big, healed well, I’m very proud”. That would have been about it had I not had a few questions for Mr L. In short everything was well, liver working “as would be expected” healing was fine and recovery good. See you in six months ! Hardly worth it considering the effort I had made. I learned more from Dr S, the oncologist, at my breakfast appointment. The wonderful nursing staff at The Christie were more than helpful in getting me seen first in clinic so I could make a quick getaway. We talked cancer. Looked at scans. Colon – still clear. Liver-clear. Pathology good, good margins. Liver function tests were good, within the range to be expected after major liver surgery. That means so far so good ! Lungs – the two tumours on my lungs are getting bigger ! We’re still talking millimetres, but they are still growing. The larger of the two is now 17mm in diameter, 4mm larger than the previous scan, I think ! There comes a point where they become inoperable. The plan is to get in there quick before we get to that stage. Dr S thinks that any aggressive chemotherapy from now on would not be appropriate. In his words “You’ve had just about as much as anyone could be expected to tolerate, and any benefit of chemo now or post surgery would be far outweighed by increased side effects”. So we’re looking at baby chemo, in oral form in the post op period. That’s looking good for the summer Ha Ha listen to me, belittling oral chemo, I might regret that when I’m half way through a course of capecitabine and feeling rough as a dog. We moved onto music. Discussed what was going on in the Manchester scene. His wife had casually mentioned Glastonbury to him. “We’re not too old”. I think she’s planted the seed, and I’ll be only too pleased to shake his hand when we meet at sometime in future in the sacred fields of Worthy Farm. I felt guilty taking up his time talking music, but he wouldn’t leave it, despite my wish to get away. What a nice guy, and I’d trust him with my life…….oh, I already do !

So that’s it then, not much happening eh? Oh, one more thing, my op date has been put back 5 days. Now going into hospital on Monday 18^th for op the following day. Now if you didn’t read to the end, then you won’t know that will you. And you’ll still be wondering what the hell the title is about. I’m still not sure about that myself. You might want to check out their music, then again you might not.