Seamus Heaney died yesterday. Thankfully he has left us enough poetry to keep us going for a few years or more. I saw him once in Edinburgh, I think when he delivered the Sorley Maclean lecture in 2002. A lovely man and great story teller to boot. He was very fond of Sorley and translated from Gaelic, Maclean's masterpiece, Hallaig. He reckoned that Sorley should have been awarded the Nobel prize for literature and who could argue with that. I met Sorley a couple of times and had the good fortune of hearing him in Edinburgh and other places doing his readings. I took many non Gaelic speaking friends to hear him, male and female, and they were invariably entranced by the man and his poetry. I visited his house up in Braes in Skye one time and saw him walking about outside but I was too shy to go up to say hello, even though I had spoken to him in Edinburgh. I think I was afraid he would not have remembered me!!! Which undoubtedly he wouldn't have.
My mother didn't of course know Seamus Heaney, just in case any of you thought she was a secret lover of his. She probably never heard of him. But reading his poems often brings her to mind. He seems to have known her without ever having met her. For that I will always be grateful to him and continue to read his poems. I'm not sure whether it's correct to use my when referring to my mother, it's not as if I was an only child, far from it, and maybe the rest of them feel I'm being too possessive, but it's just that saying our mother just does not feel right. Don't know exactly why. Or maybe it's because our seems too competitve as if I'm comparing her to other mothers, of which I'm sure there are many fine examples, but none quite like her. Yes I know I'm rambling, no need to go on about it. I think it's chemo fog.
She used to do her washing every Monday, starting early. In the old days all by hand so it was a full days work, but later when she was persuaded to get a twin tub it took just half a day. There used to be a washing line grand prix in the village to see who got the clothes out on the line first, so she was always on the look out to see if next door had the washing out early. Something to do with the Calvinistic work ethic maybe, hard work being good for one etc. She usually won the race, until a younger woman came and built a house next door and was up even earlier. We did suspect a certain sloppiness in her washing technique which gave her an edge.
Sometimes we used to help her hang the clothes out, if we were off school and more often help her bring them in once they were dry. I remember the winds howling round the gable end and being blown off my feet by the blasts. I'm reminded of this by Seamus' poem Clearances:
The cool that came off sheets just off the line
Made me think the damp must still be in them
But when I took my corners of the linen
And pulled against her, first straight down the hem
And then diagonally, then flapped and shook
The fabric like a sail in a cross-wind,
They made a dried-out undulating thwack.
So we'd stretch and fold and end up hand to hand
For a split second as if nothing had happened
For nothing had that had not always happened
Beforehand, day by day, just touch and go,
Coming close again by holding back
In moves where I was x and she was o
Inscribed in sheets she'd sewn from ripped-out flour sacks.
I couldn't have said it better myself. So beautiful, so many memories, makes me cry. I could have chosen other verses from this longish poem, but this will do for now. So many other poems, the man was a genius, way and beyond the call of duty.
I rhyme to see myself, to set the darkness echoing, from the end of Personal Helicon. I love that phrase to set the darkness echoing....
O charioteers, above your dormant guns,
It stands here still, stands vibrant as you pass,
The invisible, untoppled, omphalos.
From The Toome Road. That last word you will probably need to look up, but it's worth the effort. If I rememeber I will tell you about my own personal 1973,Toome Road episode.
I also like Postscript, reminds me of Isle of Lewis and driving all round it many times, and also The Harvest Bow, which he wrote for his father and reminds me of mine.
Thats all for today, all these poems and more can be found online in poemhunter or poetryarchive or other places. Go read....
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Dark Side of the Moon, Yeah Yeah Yeahs and a rector
BBC R4 reminded me this morning that it is now forty years since the release of Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd. Obviously, I hear you say, but there is a slight possibility that there is someone somewhere who has never heard it. Unlikely I know but we cater to all types on this blog.
It was 1973, I was living in Cheltenham, and my pal Mike took me for a drive in his Jaguar XJ6, or was it an XJ12; he was showing off as he often did, and probably still does, in the nicest of ways of course, and he was playing this cassette tape which turned out to be Dark Side. It was before the days of surround sound but Mike seemed to have the world's finest music system installed in his car. He was a bit like that, a tech kind of guy. I was more impressed with his tape than his car, or maybe not, I don't really remember, but the music I've always remembered and still play, on CD of course, though I've also got the vinyl version and probably the tape that Mike undoubtedly copied for me. Happy days. One of the great albums, which will be played long after none of us are around and Lady Gaga is long forgotten.
Furthermore and incredible as it may seem it is now fifty years since the release of She Loves You by a little band called the Beatles, on Friday August 23, 1963, if memory serves. The greatest band of all time of course, I'm sure we can all agree. The boys wrote the song in Paul's home in Liverpool, his father suggesting they drop the yeah yeah yeahs as it was too crude and American, and just sing yes yes yes instead! The pillock.
I first heard this song in the most beautiful village in the world, Aird Tong, on the beautiful Island of Lewis, as I did most Beatles songs until 1966. I don't remember exactly what I was doing at the time or where it was that I first heard it. Maybe lying in bed listening to the radio or maybe someplace else. Maybe someone reading this can remind me. The songs remain fresh to this day and I still listen fondly to them. Happy memories indeed. Sadly I never got to see the band in concert, though I have seen just about everybody else from those days, Stones, Kinks, Animals, Bob (many times), Georgie Fame, Chuck Berry, Van Morrison, Geno Washington and the rest, but never the boys. A pity.
I've recently finished reading Leaving Alexandria by Richard Holloway, ex Episcopalian Bishop of Edinburgh, one of the few bishops I would give the time of day to. He gave up the bishopric because he no longer believes in all the stuff he spent his life preaching to the world. I enjoyed the book in parts but did not find it helpful in understanding what his position is/.was. He certainly did some strange things in his life, but his book is worth reading.
He tells about an old rector, called Albert Laurie, at Old Saint Paul's church in Edinburgh, where Holloway himself preached for many years. Laurie was a great social benefactor and did lots of good work amongst Edinburgh's poor in the early twentieth century. The streets of the Old Town had to be closed on the day of his funeral as so many of the city's poor came out to bid him farewell.
As he got older his sermons began to ramble somewhat. One of his regulars was Professor A.E. Taylor, prof of moral philosophy at Edinburgh University who used to sit at the back of the congregation and could be heard groaning audibly, "No, No, Stop, dear man, stop, please stop. Oh no no no!"
Any of you who have had the dubious pleasure of hearing a Free Church man preaching loudly and never endingly, will, I'm sure, understand exactly how the good professor felt.
It was 1973, I was living in Cheltenham, and my pal Mike took me for a drive in his Jaguar XJ6, or was it an XJ12; he was showing off as he often did, and probably still does, in the nicest of ways of course, and he was playing this cassette tape which turned out to be Dark Side. It was before the days of surround sound but Mike seemed to have the world's finest music system installed in his car. He was a bit like that, a tech kind of guy. I was more impressed with his tape than his car, or maybe not, I don't really remember, but the music I've always remembered and still play, on CD of course, though I've also got the vinyl version and probably the tape that Mike undoubtedly copied for me. Happy days. One of the great albums, which will be played long after none of us are around and Lady Gaga is long forgotten.
Furthermore and incredible as it may seem it is now fifty years since the release of She Loves You by a little band called the Beatles, on Friday August 23, 1963, if memory serves. The greatest band of all time of course, I'm sure we can all agree. The boys wrote the song in Paul's home in Liverpool, his father suggesting they drop the yeah yeah yeahs as it was too crude and American, and just sing yes yes yes instead! The pillock.
I first heard this song in the most beautiful village in the world, Aird Tong, on the beautiful Island of Lewis, as I did most Beatles songs until 1966. I don't remember exactly what I was doing at the time or where it was that I first heard it. Maybe lying in bed listening to the radio or maybe someplace else. Maybe someone reading this can remind me. The songs remain fresh to this day and I still listen fondly to them. Happy memories indeed. Sadly I never got to see the band in concert, though I have seen just about everybody else from those days, Stones, Kinks, Animals, Bob (many times), Georgie Fame, Chuck Berry, Van Morrison, Geno Washington and the rest, but never the boys. A pity.
I've recently finished reading Leaving Alexandria by Richard Holloway, ex Episcopalian Bishop of Edinburgh, one of the few bishops I would give the time of day to. He gave up the bishopric because he no longer believes in all the stuff he spent his life preaching to the world. I enjoyed the book in parts but did not find it helpful in understanding what his position is/.was. He certainly did some strange things in his life, but his book is worth reading.
He tells about an old rector, called Albert Laurie, at Old Saint Paul's church in Edinburgh, where Holloway himself preached for many years. Laurie was a great social benefactor and did lots of good work amongst Edinburgh's poor in the early twentieth century. The streets of the Old Town had to be closed on the day of his funeral as so many of the city's poor came out to bid him farewell.
As he got older his sermons began to ramble somewhat. One of his regulars was Professor A.E. Taylor, prof of moral philosophy at Edinburgh University who used to sit at the back of the congregation and could be heard groaning audibly, "No, No, Stop, dear man, stop, please stop. Oh no no no!"
Any of you who have had the dubious pleasure of hearing a Free Church man preaching loudly and never endingly, will, I'm sure, understand exactly how the good professor felt.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Ode 1,5
I think I promised you all a Horatian ode recently so here it is:
Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa
perfusus liquidis urget odoribus
grato, Pyrrha, sub antro?
cui flavam religas comam
Simplex munditiis? heu quotiens fidem
mutatosque deos flebit et aspera
nigris auquora ventis
emirabutir insolens
qui nunca te fruitar credulus aurea
qui semper vacuam, semper amabilem
sperat nescius aurae
fallacis! miseri quibus
Intemptata nites, me tabula sacer
votive paries indicat uvida
suspendisse potenti
vestimenta maris deo.
My good friend George chose this ode, so you will need to ask him why. Translation will be made available if there is a big enough demand. Apparently John Milton did a translation but I've not been able to find it, just yet. If I do will let you know.
I wasn't allowed to study Latin at school because I took Gaelic and one could not do both. So my classics education is somewhat lacking. George is now teaching me and in exchange I give him some assistance with his Gaelic. A good deal I reckon.
"simplex munditiis" according to George's translation, means "artfully arranged, but meant to look casual", which effect you cannot get in English.
But best of all George reckons that "credulus aurea" means something like "dumb enough to trust a blonde"! Not sure if this is politically correct these days, but if not blame Horace (or George).
So that's your ode for today. My spellcheck does not like Latin.
Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa
perfusus liquidis urget odoribus
grato, Pyrrha, sub antro?
cui flavam religas comam
Simplex munditiis? heu quotiens fidem
mutatosque deos flebit et aspera
nigris auquora ventis
emirabutir insolens
qui nunca te fruitar credulus aurea
qui semper vacuam, semper amabilem
sperat nescius aurae
fallacis! miseri quibus
Intemptata nites, me tabula sacer
votive paries indicat uvida
suspendisse potenti
vestimenta maris deo.
My good friend George chose this ode, so you will need to ask him why. Translation will be made available if there is a big enough demand. Apparently John Milton did a translation but I've not been able to find it, just yet. If I do will let you know.
I wasn't allowed to study Latin at school because I took Gaelic and one could not do both. So my classics education is somewhat lacking. George is now teaching me and in exchange I give him some assistance with his Gaelic. A good deal I reckon.
"simplex munditiis" according to George's translation, means "artfully arranged, but meant to look casual", which effect you cannot get in English.
But best of all George reckons that "credulus aurea" means something like "dumb enough to trust a blonde"! Not sure if this is politically correct these days, but if not blame Horace (or George).
So that's your ode for today. My spellcheck does not like Latin.
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Moving On
Cara, Lydia, Niamh, Hester, Kelsey, Orla, Susan, Smaira, Amanda and Alison. Thank you again for taking care of me at the cancer centre for the past five weeks. Just thought I should mention you all by name on here. You are the best.
I now have a six week wait to find out if the radiotherapy was successful in reducing the size of my tumour, to make it operable, which seems like forever, but is probably not. It will be a nervous few weeks I'm sure, so must keep myself busily occupied, see some festival shows, a film or two and maybe take a trip, up north or down south, or possibly to Portobello, where I'm told there are many pleasures to be enjoyed.
I don't expect to have anything more to report on my health situation until early October. I have a couple of appointments with Dr McLean, my oncologist and some scans late in September and then an appointment with my surgeon, Mr Speake on 9th October, when, all being well, I hope to be told it's all systems go for an operation to remove the little bugger. My tumour I mean and not Mr Speake, who's not little and certainly not a bugger. Though he did stick his finger up my bum, but purely in a professional capacity, so we forgive him for that.
A new David Walliam's comedy called Big School began on BBC on Friday night. One of the funniest shows I've seen on tele for a long time, excepting Family Tree with the brilliant Chris O. Dowd, it had me laughing out loud. I don't know where Walliams went to school, but his teachers reminded me of the madmen and women who taught us up there in The Nicolson Institute, maybe he was there in the sixties. Is he that old? Catherine Tate plays a mad French teacher and Frances de la Tour is the drunken headteacher.They are both superb.
There's one scene where Walliams addresses the school assembly on the thorny subject of graffiti and is egged on by another teacher to describe the graffiti in question, so that the kids know exactly what he's on about. Of course it's a drawing of one of the craziest of the teachers having a good time with a sheep. The whole assembly of kids start chanting BAAAA BAAAAAAAAAAA with the teacher in question hanging his head in utter embarrassment. Hilarious, and yes I know, quite childish, but you have to see it and just be childish with them.
I promise a higher tone in my next post, maybe an ode from Horace. So get your Latin dictionaries out.
I now have a six week wait to find out if the radiotherapy was successful in reducing the size of my tumour, to make it operable, which seems like forever, but is probably not. It will be a nervous few weeks I'm sure, so must keep myself busily occupied, see some festival shows, a film or two and maybe take a trip, up north or down south, or possibly to Portobello, where I'm told there are many pleasures to be enjoyed.
I don't expect to have anything more to report on my health situation until early October. I have a couple of appointments with Dr McLean, my oncologist and some scans late in September and then an appointment with my surgeon, Mr Speake on 9th October, when, all being well, I hope to be told it's all systems go for an operation to remove the little bugger. My tumour I mean and not Mr Speake, who's not little and certainly not a bugger. Though he did stick his finger up my bum, but purely in a professional capacity, so we forgive him for that.
A new David Walliam's comedy called Big School began on BBC on Friday night. One of the funniest shows I've seen on tele for a long time, excepting Family Tree with the brilliant Chris O. Dowd, it had me laughing out loud. I don't know where Walliams went to school, but his teachers reminded me of the madmen and women who taught us up there in The Nicolson Institute, maybe he was there in the sixties. Is he that old? Catherine Tate plays a mad French teacher and Frances de la Tour is the drunken headteacher.They are both superb.
There's one scene where Walliams addresses the school assembly on the thorny subject of graffiti and is egged on by another teacher to describe the graffiti in question, so that the kids know exactly what he's on about. Of course it's a drawing of one of the craziest of the teachers having a good time with a sheep. The whole assembly of kids start chanting BAAAA BAAAAAAAAAAA with the teacher in question hanging his head in utter embarrassment. Hilarious, and yes I know, quite childish, but you have to see it and just be childish with them.
I promise a higher tone in my next post, maybe an ode from Horace. So get your Latin dictionaries out.
Friday, August 16, 2013
Last day at LA5
That's it then. Today I will have my last session of radiotherapy, five weeks and twenty five doses later and it seems like yesterday it all began for me. My last day brings very mixed feelings. I will probably get up on Monday and start getting ready to go to the cancer centre again. It's become such a part of my life that I will miss going there. This seems very strange to feel this way, but that's the way it is.
I'm very pleased that I've got through this stage of my treatment without any major setbacks. It's been exhausting but I won't bore you with the details of that, just take it from me that it wears you out totally. I was going to say that it literally brought me to a standstill a few times, but that would be an incorrect usage, despite what some dictionaries now claim the word to mean. Literally. But it did send me to bed at strange times. The tiredness I mean and not literally.
Which is why I've not been able to write my blog for past week or so. My concentration is not too great. Not been able to read much either. Except the newspapers which bring grim news from around the world, from Egypt to Syria. And of course our own wee Scottish girl stuck there in Peru. Silly girls. I once worked with a wee boy in Lima whose mother got arrested for carrying drugs, while she was on her way back to UK with her wee boy. He ended up in an orphanage in Lima until an uncle was able to come and pick him up. I often wonder what happened to that wee fellow. He was beginning to learn Spanish by the time he left, but I think appreciated being able to talk to me in his own language.
I think the reason I feel confused about finishing my treatment is because I will miss the support and encouragement I had from the girls in LA5, and the nurses and Dr McLean and also being able to chat to other cancer patients and share experiences. Yes I will definitely miss my trips there, but now looking to the next part of my treatment. Which for now means a six to eight week wait to see if the radiotherapy did it's business.
That's all for now, hope to write more regularly next week, catch up with festival and a movie or two. Just wanted to do this update today, to show I'm still here and doing well.
I'm very pleased that I've got through this stage of my treatment without any major setbacks. It's been exhausting but I won't bore you with the details of that, just take it from me that it wears you out totally. I was going to say that it literally brought me to a standstill a few times, but that would be an incorrect usage, despite what some dictionaries now claim the word to mean. Literally. But it did send me to bed at strange times. The tiredness I mean and not literally.
Which is why I've not been able to write my blog for past week or so. My concentration is not too great. Not been able to read much either. Except the newspapers which bring grim news from around the world, from Egypt to Syria. And of course our own wee Scottish girl stuck there in Peru. Silly girls. I once worked with a wee boy in Lima whose mother got arrested for carrying drugs, while she was on her way back to UK with her wee boy. He ended up in an orphanage in Lima until an uncle was able to come and pick him up. I often wonder what happened to that wee fellow. He was beginning to learn Spanish by the time he left, but I think appreciated being able to talk to me in his own language.
I think the reason I feel confused about finishing my treatment is because I will miss the support and encouragement I had from the girls in LA5, and the nurses and Dr McLean and also being able to chat to other cancer patients and share experiences. Yes I will definitely miss my trips there, but now looking to the next part of my treatment. Which for now means a six to eight week wait to see if the radiotherapy did it's business.
That's all for now, hope to write more regularly next week, catch up with festival and a movie or two. Just wanted to do this update today, to show I'm still here and doing well.
Friday, August 09, 2013
Cancer Car Park and a silly joke
Twenty four of my friends in Peru have read or at least looked at my blog in the past week. I'm very sad not to be seeing you all this year, but next year I will be there. I'm working on a blog posting in Spanish in next few days, so look out for that. If the tiredness doesn't get to me too much.
We oncology patients have our own free car park at Western General Hospital, and we're always guaranteed a space. I call it the cancer car park. After a while one gets to know some of the patients coming and going, all with their own weight to carry. I sit in my car for a while and watch them coming and going, reflecting how strange it is that I'm now another cancer patient just like all of them. We need to stick together.
There's a solidarity amongst cancer patients, I reckon, we all know what we are going through but find it hard to express and explain it, but fellow patients intuitively know and understand. I sometimes talk to other patients in the cafe at the Cancer Centre and in the LA5 waiting room.
James is a young guy, maybe late twenties or early thirties, whom I've been chatting to and got to know a little bit.. I first spoke to his wife while she was in LA5 waiting room, while he was getting his daily dose of radiotherapy. They are a lovely young couple with two children at home in Fife. It turns out that he has exactly the same cancer of the colon as I have, and more or less in the same location. Our treatments are very similar and he is running a week behind me. Such a young guy to be going through this. I really feel for them. Shit happens.
He has a different surgeon but the same oncologist as I have. His surgeon didn't do a colostomy before the radiotherapy, though he's been told he will have to have one after the surgery. I'm so glad now that my surgeon persuaded me of the wisdom of having it done pre op rather than post op. It's hard coping with it but getting easier by the day. I won't bore you with the details, but I suspect life would have been very difficult without it, and probably my therapy would have had to be suspended while they operated to fit one. So well done Mr Speake, you knew best of course.
I hope James gets sorted and lives a long life with his young family. Which I'm sure he will. Folk share the most intimate details of their lives as they sit there in the Cancer Centre. One woman was telling me about her son moving to USA just before she got diagnosed. So proud of him and his important new job. She just wanted to share it with someone, get her mind of things and look forward to visiting him, a trip she has had to postpone.
A few days later she came back and sat down beside me, I didn't recognise her, but she had obviously decided that we were now good friends. She seemed distant and needing to talk. We chatted again about our treatments and then I remembered who she was. She has spoken to her son on the phone. I told her about Skype but not sure if she took it on board. She left to go down town to meet friends even though she was exhausted. She was going by bus, so don't know where her husband is and didn't like to ask. Would hate to be told he had died of cancer or something.
Very Silly Joke: " the jockstrap was invented by Alfred Hitchcock" according to Barry Cryer.
We oncology patients have our own free car park at Western General Hospital, and we're always guaranteed a space. I call it the cancer car park. After a while one gets to know some of the patients coming and going, all with their own weight to carry. I sit in my car for a while and watch them coming and going, reflecting how strange it is that I'm now another cancer patient just like all of them. We need to stick together.
There's a solidarity amongst cancer patients, I reckon, we all know what we are going through but find it hard to express and explain it, but fellow patients intuitively know and understand. I sometimes talk to other patients in the cafe at the Cancer Centre and in the LA5 waiting room.
James is a young guy, maybe late twenties or early thirties, whom I've been chatting to and got to know a little bit.. I first spoke to his wife while she was in LA5 waiting room, while he was getting his daily dose of radiotherapy. They are a lovely young couple with two children at home in Fife. It turns out that he has exactly the same cancer of the colon as I have, and more or less in the same location. Our treatments are very similar and he is running a week behind me. Such a young guy to be going through this. I really feel for them. Shit happens.
He has a different surgeon but the same oncologist as I have. His surgeon didn't do a colostomy before the radiotherapy, though he's been told he will have to have one after the surgery. I'm so glad now that my surgeon persuaded me of the wisdom of having it done pre op rather than post op. It's hard coping with it but getting easier by the day. I won't bore you with the details, but I suspect life would have been very difficult without it, and probably my therapy would have had to be suspended while they operated to fit one. So well done Mr Speake, you knew best of course.
I hope James gets sorted and lives a long life with his young family. Which I'm sure he will. Folk share the most intimate details of their lives as they sit there in the Cancer Centre. One woman was telling me about her son moving to USA just before she got diagnosed. So proud of him and his important new job. She just wanted to share it with someone, get her mind of things and look forward to visiting him, a trip she has had to postpone.
A few days later she came back and sat down beside me, I didn't recognise her, but she had obviously decided that we were now good friends. She seemed distant and needing to talk. We chatted again about our treatments and then I remembered who she was. She has spoken to her son on the phone. I told her about Skype but not sure if she took it on board. She left to go down town to meet friends even though she was exhausted. She was going by bus, so don't know where her husband is and didn't like to ask. Would hate to be told he had died of cancer or something.
Very Silly Joke: " the jockstrap was invented by Alfred Hitchcock" according to Barry Cryer.
Tuesday, August 06, 2013
Accelerating to the speed of light
They tell me that the chemotherapy could cause some memory and concentration changes during the treatment, which the doctors call mild cognitive impairment (MCI) or "chemo brain" , but that all will be back to normal after my treatment ends. Not noticed anything yet but if I start repeating myself on here you will know it's the drugs talking and nothing to do with me.
Sometimes when I'm lying there on the treatment couch, which is hard and very metal, I feel euphoric, on a bit of a high even, thinking, hoping the machine is making me well again. Other times I think what the fuck has happened to me, what am I doing here in this strange room? This was never supposed to happen to me. But it did so get on with it.
I wrote a post on here on Saturday but I deleted it by mistake. I have no idea how or where it went to, a complete mystery. I tried everything to recover it but there's no sign of it anywhere. I wonder where these things go to when they disappear like that? If you see it send it back to me please. And that's why there's been no news for a few days. I must be careful where I put my fingers in future, so to speak. I think I must have been showing off, typing without looking at the keyboard, or maybe it's the chemo playing tricks on me.
I'm now in my fourth of five weeks of treatment, which seems incredible to me, but there you are, I'm down to single figures of sessions to go, nine in fact. All seems to be going to plan and no more hiccups along the way. I'm quietly confident.
There are nine young women in the team on LA5 and I think they've all had a turn treating me. I don't know where the NHS finds them but each and everyone of them is pure dead brilliant. They are obviously highly trained and skilled, but what impresses me most is their ability to make me feel at ease, relaxed, as if I'm the most important patient in the whole wide world. Not to mention their ability to help me cope with the loss of dignity involved in the whole process. It's got to the stage now where I'm looking forward to seeing them every day and wondering how I'm going to cope when I no longer see them.
There are always two radiographers with me and they have the task of getting me into position for the treatment to hit the spot. There are three laser beams aimed at my bum; one from each wall and one from the ceiling, which have to be aligned exactly with the crosses which were tattooed on me by the oncologist a few weeks ago. Once I'm face down on the couch I'm not allowed to move anymore. I'm allowed to breathe but that's all.
The girls then have to jiggle about with my bum, one on each side, until all the lasers are in alignment with my tattoos. So I have two young women fighting over my bottom. Their hands are nice and warm, and somehow or other they make it all feel quite normal, so that I don't feel any loss of dignity. Thank you one and all. You are a credit to the NHS and I shall never forget you, no matter what happens afterwards.
Then they leave me on my lonesome in the room, which has very thick lead and concrete walls to keep any radiation inside and to keep them safe outside. The accelerator delivers it's doses of proton particles to my tumour at just under the speed of light, which is about 187,000 miles per second, or was last time I checked. This is all quite astonishing to me. Of course there's nothing to be seen, but I still check to see if I can spot any of these protons flying through the air, but to no avail.
One needs faith in these situations. A bit like belief in God, nothing to be seen but he's up there somewhere. Or so I'm told. The accelerator works it's way around to each site and does the deed. It has a kind whining sound it makes as it works away. Meantime the radiographers are watching from the room next door to make sure I'm OK. And then it's all over for another day.
Sometimes when I'm lying there on the treatment couch, which is hard and very metal, I feel euphoric, on a bit of a high even, thinking, hoping the machine is making me well again. Other times I think what the fuck has happened to me, what am I doing here in this strange room? This was never supposed to happen to me. But it did so get on with it.
I wrote a post on here on Saturday but I deleted it by mistake. I have no idea how or where it went to, a complete mystery. I tried everything to recover it but there's no sign of it anywhere. I wonder where these things go to when they disappear like that? If you see it send it back to me please. And that's why there's been no news for a few days. I must be careful where I put my fingers in future, so to speak. I think I must have been showing off, typing without looking at the keyboard, or maybe it's the chemo playing tricks on me.
I'm now in my fourth of five weeks of treatment, which seems incredible to me, but there you are, I'm down to single figures of sessions to go, nine in fact. All seems to be going to plan and no more hiccups along the way. I'm quietly confident.
There are nine young women in the team on LA5 and I think they've all had a turn treating me. I don't know where the NHS finds them but each and everyone of them is pure dead brilliant. They are obviously highly trained and skilled, but what impresses me most is their ability to make me feel at ease, relaxed, as if I'm the most important patient in the whole wide world. Not to mention their ability to help me cope with the loss of dignity involved in the whole process. It's got to the stage now where I'm looking forward to seeing them every day and wondering how I'm going to cope when I no longer see them.
There are always two radiographers with me and they have the task of getting me into position for the treatment to hit the spot. There are three laser beams aimed at my bum; one from each wall and one from the ceiling, which have to be aligned exactly with the crosses which were tattooed on me by the oncologist a few weeks ago. Once I'm face down on the couch I'm not allowed to move anymore. I'm allowed to breathe but that's all.
The girls then have to jiggle about with my bum, one on each side, until all the lasers are in alignment with my tattoos. So I have two young women fighting over my bottom. Their hands are nice and warm, and somehow or other they make it all feel quite normal, so that I don't feel any loss of dignity. Thank you one and all. You are a credit to the NHS and I shall never forget you, no matter what happens afterwards.
Then they leave me on my lonesome in the room, which has very thick lead and concrete walls to keep any radiation inside and to keep them safe outside. The accelerator delivers it's doses of proton particles to my tumour at just under the speed of light, which is about 187,000 miles per second, or was last time I checked. This is all quite astonishing to me. Of course there's nothing to be seen, but I still check to see if I can spot any of these protons flying through the air, but to no avail.
One needs faith in these situations. A bit like belief in God, nothing to be seen but he's up there somewhere. Or so I'm told. The accelerator works it's way around to each site and does the deed. It has a kind whining sound it makes as it works away. Meantime the radiographers are watching from the room next door to make sure I'm OK. And then it's all over for another day.
Thursday, August 01, 2013
LA5
I am now half way through my radiotherapy treatment, thirteen down and twelve to go. So that's all good. But I'm incredibly tired. Just want to lie down all the time. Went to bed last night at seven and watched Robin Williams on my ipad till I fell asleep, a few minutes later. Not that Robin was boring, far from it. I wonder about semi colons sometimes, does anyone use them anymore?
I go to hospital every day for my radiotherapy. The machine that treats me is called LA5 and is a linear accelerator of which there are eight in the hospital, mine being number five. The science of it all is quite astonishing and beyond me, but I'm grateful that it's there and that some bright scientist somewhere had the inspiration to use the science for oncology purposes. Thank you whoever you are or were. I guess there was more than one of you. It beats making atom bombs don't you think?
There are a lot of people involved at the hospital making sure that I get the right dose and that it's targeted and delivered accurately. I wonder sometimes how they do it and how they know its all going to the right place. They've explained it to me, more than once, but I'm afraid it's beyond me to explain it all on here. I just trust them. My life in their hands for sure.
My oncologist is called Dr McLean and she is one of those people who immediately inspires confidence and makes you feel at ease and assured that she knows what it's all about. She starts of the process using the CT scans to plan my treatment and then lets the physicists know exactly what she wants done and they then design my treatment so that the accelerator can be programmed. She showed me the plan and how the linear accelerator has been set up and knows what is expected of it. It made sense at the time but I must admit it's a lot of faith to be putting into one machine. This thing is going to save my life so it better be on the ball. They don't hide anything from you, good news or not so good.
So far all is going well apart from my tiredness and some pain. That's all for now. Need to rest before I drive to hospital. More tomorrow on the actual treatment itself, which is a daily excitement.
I go to hospital every day for my radiotherapy. The machine that treats me is called LA5 and is a linear accelerator of which there are eight in the hospital, mine being number five. The science of it all is quite astonishing and beyond me, but I'm grateful that it's there and that some bright scientist somewhere had the inspiration to use the science for oncology purposes. Thank you whoever you are or were. I guess there was more than one of you. It beats making atom bombs don't you think?
There are a lot of people involved at the hospital making sure that I get the right dose and that it's targeted and delivered accurately. I wonder sometimes how they do it and how they know its all going to the right place. They've explained it to me, more than once, but I'm afraid it's beyond me to explain it all on here. I just trust them. My life in their hands for sure.
My oncologist is called Dr McLean and she is one of those people who immediately inspires confidence and makes you feel at ease and assured that she knows what it's all about. She starts of the process using the CT scans to plan my treatment and then lets the physicists know exactly what she wants done and they then design my treatment so that the accelerator can be programmed. She showed me the plan and how the linear accelerator has been set up and knows what is expected of it. It made sense at the time but I must admit it's a lot of faith to be putting into one machine. This thing is going to save my life so it better be on the ball. They don't hide anything from you, good news or not so good.
So far all is going well apart from my tiredness and some pain. That's all for now. Need to rest before I drive to hospital. More tomorrow on the actual treatment itself, which is a daily excitement.
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