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.
Sunday, July 28, 2013
Cancer
Yes I know it's been a while, but I'm still here and doing fine as far as anyone can tell right now. And yes I did say I would post on here regularly and maybe even promised to do so on a daily basis but things got in the way and it was hard to sit down and write again. But it's time to stop making excuses now and get on with it. Thank you to those who have been checking out my blog recently but finding nothing to read. Will do better in future.
This post will be by way of an update on my cancer (still unnamed) and my treatment so far. My five day stay in hospital turned into two weeks and they sent me home with a colostomy, which was nice of them. They said it was necessary in order to give my other treatment the best chance of success.
I will require five weeks of daily radiotherapy treatment which began two weeks ago on 15th July and will end on Friday 16th August. This is supplemented by a daily dose of chemotherapy in tablet form. I had to stop taking the chemotherapy for two days last week because my white blood cell count dropped to an unacceptable level. I'm now back on it but a lower dose and more frequent blood tests to keep an eye on it. This combination of treatment leaves me feeling extremely tired and all I am promised is that by weeks four and five I will feel tired. So that's something to look forward to. I will need to find another word for the tiredness condition I suppose. Any suggestions?
It's raining here in Edinburgh today after five weeks of the most unexpected but hugely welcome sunshine. I guess five weeks is as much as we have any right to expect. Must break off now as I need to go to Waitrose to do my week's shopping, which they will deliver for me at 2 pm so long as I've been through their till by 1 pm. Home delivery is required as I'm not allowed to carry anything heavier than a bag of sugar, which I never buy anyway, so what's the use of that. Waitrose deliver for a very small charge and they give me a free Observer to boot so I feel it would be churlish of me not to take advantage of the service.
I'm also not allowed to use a hoover or do anything much that requires too much effort, so if you're passing by and are useful with a hoover, perhaps you could come on up. Otherwise I shall have to employ a cleaner I suppose.
That's me back from shopping and awaiting my pal John B to visit. I think he wants to go look for some books to read. Well yes of course to read, what else would one buy books for?
My life has changed utterly in the past few months and I'm still coming to terms with it all. My plans for this year and next have had to be put aside for now. No more travelling to South America for at least a year. I'm aiming to be on the road again by autumn 2014. The doctors at the hospital have told me to plan for a year of treatment and recuperation. I will have a CT scan six weeks after the end of my radiotherapy and the team will then discuss my case on 3rd October and if all has gone according to plan and the radiotherapy has done it's business I will have an operation, hopefully in October to remove the tumour.
This is not exactly what I would like to be writing about and certainly not what I expected to be doing in 2013. I will write some more about how it's affecting me but that's all for now. This was only meant as an update on my situation for people who don't see me so often. Hope it's not too boring. Will write some more tomorrow. I've not been to the cinema for six weeks and I'm getting withdrawal symptoms. I hope to sort that out soon......
This post will be by way of an update on my cancer (still unnamed) and my treatment so far. My five day stay in hospital turned into two weeks and they sent me home with a colostomy, which was nice of them. They said it was necessary in order to give my other treatment the best chance of success.
I will require five weeks of daily radiotherapy treatment which began two weeks ago on 15th July and will end on Friday 16th August. This is supplemented by a daily dose of chemotherapy in tablet form. I had to stop taking the chemotherapy for two days last week because my white blood cell count dropped to an unacceptable level. I'm now back on it but a lower dose and more frequent blood tests to keep an eye on it. This combination of treatment leaves me feeling extremely tired and all I am promised is that by weeks four and five I will feel tired. So that's something to look forward to. I will need to find another word for the tiredness condition I suppose. Any suggestions?
It's raining here in Edinburgh today after five weeks of the most unexpected but hugely welcome sunshine. I guess five weeks is as much as we have any right to expect. Must break off now as I need to go to Waitrose to do my week's shopping, which they will deliver for me at 2 pm so long as I've been through their till by 1 pm. Home delivery is required as I'm not allowed to carry anything heavier than a bag of sugar, which I never buy anyway, so what's the use of that. Waitrose deliver for a very small charge and they give me a free Observer to boot so I feel it would be churlish of me not to take advantage of the service.
I'm also not allowed to use a hoover or do anything much that requires too much effort, so if you're passing by and are useful with a hoover, perhaps you could come on up. Otherwise I shall have to employ a cleaner I suppose.
That's me back from shopping and awaiting my pal John B to visit. I think he wants to go look for some books to read. Well yes of course to read, what else would one buy books for?
My life has changed utterly in the past few months and I'm still coming to terms with it all. My plans for this year and next have had to be put aside for now. No more travelling to South America for at least a year. I'm aiming to be on the road again by autumn 2014. The doctors at the hospital have told me to plan for a year of treatment and recuperation. I will have a CT scan six weeks after the end of my radiotherapy and the team will then discuss my case on 3rd October and if all has gone according to plan and the radiotherapy has done it's business I will have an operation, hopefully in October to remove the tumour.
This is not exactly what I would like to be writing about and certainly not what I expected to be doing in 2013. I will write some more about how it's affecting me but that's all for now. This was only meant as an update on my situation for people who don't see me so often. Hope it's not too boring. Will write some more tomorrow. I've not been to the cinema for six weeks and I'm getting withdrawal symptoms. I hope to sort that out soon......
Friday, June 14, 2013
8,097,982
Apparently my blog is ranked the 8,097,982 most viewed in the old US of A, which is nice, but come on you Americans, surely you can do better than that? So get clicking and reading. Oh and I'm worth $782.61. I think that's if I allow Google to put ads on here, which I have no intention of doing, unless times become really hard of course.
Thanks to my good friend John B for this piece of information. John has recently retired and is keeping very busy.
I've had another call from the hospital today and they have now decided that the MRI scan can be done on Monday, once they've checked me into my ward. This could have something to do with me questioning whether or not they could really claim that the original date of 3rd July could be classified as urgent, in any normal sense of that word. I'm very pleased with that. All I need now is a good result from the scan.
This weekend I shall be busy preparing for hospital. They tell me I should be home by next weekend if all goes to plan.
Thanks to my good friend John B for this piece of information. John has recently retired and is keeping very busy.
I've had another call from the hospital today and they have now decided that the MRI scan can be done on Monday, once they've checked me into my ward. This could have something to do with me questioning whether or not they could really claim that the original date of 3rd July could be classified as urgent, in any normal sense of that word. I'm very pleased with that. All I need now is a good result from the scan.
This weekend I shall be busy preparing for hospital. They tell me I should be home by next weekend if all goes to plan.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
A Flower and Another Phone Call
There I was sitting in Costa Coffee at Holy Corner, drinking my coffee, minding my business and reading J.M. Coetzee's Diary of a Bad Year, not an easy read but worth the effort, slowly of course, its impossible to read him quickly, when Gisela came over and handed me a flower, a lily, and a get well card.
I was so pleased, not to say surprised, to receive that flower, especially as it was the day I'd seen the surgeon and he'd hit me with all his plans for my upkeep. I put it in a vase and it survived for a week, till yesterday in fact.
I've got to know Gisela a little bit over the past few months. She is one of the servers working in the cafe. She is Portuguese, from the Algarve, where her father has a small inshore fishing boat which keeps the family going in these hard times in Portugal. I don't know what he fishes for, must remember to ask her. He has one crew man, his son in law. Must be a nice life being a fisherman in the Algarve.
Gisela has been here for a few months now and lives with her four cousins who have also had to leave Portugal to find work. Thank goodness for Europe I hear you say, we can look after each other, which is so much better than fighting each other. And you're right of course.
So thank you Gisela for helping me forget myself for a bit. You are very kind and thoughtful, Portugal should be proud of you, even though I do say so myself. You brought a tear to my eye.
I've just had a phone call from my nurse at the hospital. Apparently I've to go in on Monday, for an operation to get me ready for radiotherapy and she gave me date for MRI scan of 3rd July. Doesn't seem to me as all that urgent, so she's going to check to see if it can be brought forward. So happy days...
I was so pleased, not to say surprised, to receive that flower, especially as it was the day I'd seen the surgeon and he'd hit me with all his plans for my upkeep. I put it in a vase and it survived for a week, till yesterday in fact.
I've got to know Gisela a little bit over the past few months. She is one of the servers working in the cafe. She is Portuguese, from the Algarve, where her father has a small inshore fishing boat which keeps the family going in these hard times in Portugal. I don't know what he fishes for, must remember to ask her. He has one crew man, his son in law. Must be a nice life being a fisherman in the Algarve.
Gisela has been here for a few months now and lives with her four cousins who have also had to leave Portugal to find work. Thank goodness for Europe I hear you say, we can look after each other, which is so much better than fighting each other. And you're right of course.
So thank you Gisela for helping me forget myself for a bit. You are very kind and thoughtful, Portugal should be proud of you, even though I do say so myself. You brought a tear to my eye.
I've just had a phone call from my nurse at the hospital. Apparently I've to go in on Monday, for an operation to get me ready for radiotherapy and she gave me date for MRI scan of 3rd July. Doesn't seem to me as all that urgent, so she's going to check to see if it can be brought forward. So happy days...
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Things have changed
Things have changed in the past few days and I now face a more indefinite and complicated few months, probably more like a year than a few months, but with a few hurdles thrown in just to keep me on my toes.
The next step will be an MRI scan on my liver, which hopefully will show no spread to there. They have spotted a couple of lesions which require investigation but I'm hopeful that they will prove to be non cancerous.
Once they give me the all clear on that I will start five or six weeks of radiotherapy, followed by another six weeks of waiting for the radiotherapy to do it's business and reduce the tumour to a size that will allow Douglas to operate safely and successfully.
Unfortunately the tumour is larger and deeper than they first thought, prior to them viewing the MRI scan, although he did warn me that this could be the case. He phoned me the day after their meeting to talk me through all this. Not really talking it through, as I'm left having to go along with whatever he suggests and recommends.
He tells me that the tumour is in a difficult spot and hard to get at. He hopes that the radiotherapy will reduce it sufficiently to give him enough of a margin to remove it successfully and not leave anything behind. He will not be able to give me a prognosis on my cancer until he has operated. He is doing everything to give him the best possible chance of success. I will have to trust him. There was a moment after his call on Friday when I doubted him, but I guess that's normal. I'm back to full trust in him now, in fact I was soon after his call.
So as you can imagine I've not had an easy few days. I've over the initial shock of his call now and getting on with life. I'm back to waiting for news of scans and therapy starting. My life in their hands.
Meantime I feel quite strong and determined, knowing that the next year is going to be the hardest of my life, and there have been a few difficult ones I can tell you. Peru is out now before Xmas but still on for next year.
Part of my therapy will be writing this blog. It's not quite what I had in mind for my blog when I started it back in August 2006. Hard to believe that was seven years ago. But I'm glad of it now as it helps me focus, and maybe helps people I know and love keep up with my progress. I aim to put a post up every day, even if it may only be a few lines some days. I hope I don't bore you all. I will try to keep it interesting and even make it my work of art. Hmmmmmmm............. don't think so Donald.....
The next step will be an MRI scan on my liver, which hopefully will show no spread to there. They have spotted a couple of lesions which require investigation but I'm hopeful that they will prove to be non cancerous.
Once they give me the all clear on that I will start five or six weeks of radiotherapy, followed by another six weeks of waiting for the radiotherapy to do it's business and reduce the tumour to a size that will allow Douglas to operate safely and successfully.
Unfortunately the tumour is larger and deeper than they first thought, prior to them viewing the MRI scan, although he did warn me that this could be the case. He phoned me the day after their meeting to talk me through all this. Not really talking it through, as I'm left having to go along with whatever he suggests and recommends.
He tells me that the tumour is in a difficult spot and hard to get at. He hopes that the radiotherapy will reduce it sufficiently to give him enough of a margin to remove it successfully and not leave anything behind. He will not be able to give me a prognosis on my cancer until he has operated. He is doing everything to give him the best possible chance of success. I will have to trust him. There was a moment after his call on Friday when I doubted him, but I guess that's normal. I'm back to full trust in him now, in fact I was soon after his call.
So as you can imagine I've not had an easy few days. I've over the initial shock of his call now and getting on with life. I'm back to waiting for news of scans and therapy starting. My life in their hands.
Meantime I feel quite strong and determined, knowing that the next year is going to be the hardest of my life, and there have been a few difficult ones I can tell you. Peru is out now before Xmas but still on for next year.
Part of my therapy will be writing this blog. It's not quite what I had in mind for my blog when I started it back in August 2006. Hard to believe that was seven years ago. But I'm glad of it now as it helps me focus, and maybe helps people I know and love keep up with my progress. I aim to put a post up every day, even if it may only be a few lines some days. I hope I don't bore you all. I will try to keep it interesting and even make it my work of art. Hmmmmmmm............. don't think so Donald.....
Saturday, June 08, 2013
Calum's Road
To the Traverse Theatre last night to see Calum's Road, a play based on the book of the same name by Roger Hutchinson, which is the story of one man's twenty year road building effort. It's a brilliant piece of theatre. Heartbreakingly beautiful. Is that a permissible word? If not you know what I mean.
Calum Macleod lived on the Isle of Raasay, between Skye and the Scottish mainland, also famous as the birthplace of Sorley Maclean, great Gaelic poet, whom I had the pleasure of meeting one time many tears ago. Calum lived on the north of the Island and along with his neighbours fought with the local authority to build them a road, but to no avail. Calum decided that he could no longer wait for a road to be built by the authorities and in the 1960s begun to build the road himself, all on his own. I say the 1960s as the exact year is in doubt as Calum gave three different start dates, ranging from 1963 to 1969.
When he began to build the road there were one hundred people living on the north of the Island; by the time he finished twenty years later there were two, Calum and his wife Lexie. These are the basic details as I remember them from the play and reading the book some years ago. But of course the play is so much more. It's about land, clearances, love, survival against the odds, leaving and returning, determination, bravery, defiance, hard work, beautiful scenery, art, music and all that's best about man. An absolute delight, one of the best plays I've seen for some time. Go see it if it comes near you.
It was maybe not the best of times for me to see it. There was some bits of Gaelic songs and lots of great music. The whole cast at one stage sang a Gaelic psalm and it was just heartstopping. I don't know if you have ever had the pleasure of hearing Gaelic psalm singing? I was moved to tears. Very embarrassing but I think I got away with it. I just sat there and was back in Tong Free Church listening to Angus Bhragair and my mother and the rest of them belting out whatever psalm it was. I was so caught up and moved by it that I forgot to remember which one it was.
Probably more tearful because I'd had another phone call from Douglas Speake, now calling himself Doug, and telling me things are more complicated than they first thought and the whole process is going to be longer and the operation more difficult and no promises or prognosis until after the operation. More on this in later post.
Calum Macleod lived on the Isle of Raasay, between Skye and the Scottish mainland, also famous as the birthplace of Sorley Maclean, great Gaelic poet, whom I had the pleasure of meeting one time many tears ago. Calum lived on the north of the Island and along with his neighbours fought with the local authority to build them a road, but to no avail. Calum decided that he could no longer wait for a road to be built by the authorities and in the 1960s begun to build the road himself, all on his own. I say the 1960s as the exact year is in doubt as Calum gave three different start dates, ranging from 1963 to 1969.
When he began to build the road there were one hundred people living on the north of the Island; by the time he finished twenty years later there were two, Calum and his wife Lexie. These are the basic details as I remember them from the play and reading the book some years ago. But of course the play is so much more. It's about land, clearances, love, survival against the odds, leaving and returning, determination, bravery, defiance, hard work, beautiful scenery, art, music and all that's best about man. An absolute delight, one of the best plays I've seen for some time. Go see it if it comes near you.
It was maybe not the best of times for me to see it. There was some bits of Gaelic songs and lots of great music. The whole cast at one stage sang a Gaelic psalm and it was just heartstopping. I don't know if you have ever had the pleasure of hearing Gaelic psalm singing? I was moved to tears. Very embarrassing but I think I got away with it. I just sat there and was back in Tong Free Church listening to Angus Bhragair and my mother and the rest of them belting out whatever psalm it was. I was so caught up and moved by it that I forgot to remember which one it was.
Probably more tearful because I'd had another phone call from Douglas Speake, now calling himself Doug, and telling me things are more complicated than they first thought and the whole process is going to be longer and the operation more difficult and no promises or prognosis until after the operation. More on this in later post.
Thursday, June 06, 2013
A Consultation and a Phone Call
My consultant, Douglas Speake, seems like a fine young doctor. And I mean young, maybe early to mid thirties, long uncombed hair and fashionable unshaven look. A bit like my nephew Iain, for those of you who know that youngish man, except darker.
By the time I got to my appointment I had convinced myself that I was just one mass of cancer and the end approaching fast. I was seen on time which was just as well as I had run out of miseries to heap on myself. Douglas, and I'm sure he won't mind me calling him Douglas, as we were on first name terms by the time we parted, after an hour, put me at me ease very quickly. And as soon as I realised that he was not telling me of cancer in my lungs and everywhere else I was so relieved I could have kissed him.
The good news is that the cancer is confined to my bowel, though the CT scan has shown up a couple of lesions on my liver which will require further investigation by way of another MRI scan. But the tumour in my colon is just as Dr Sami said it was when I saw him four weeks ago. So good for him.
Douglas will go ahead and operate but I may require some radiotherapy before the operation to reduce the size of the tumour and make it easier to extirpate the nasty little so and so. I was planning to give it a name but I think that would be tempting fate, especially as I expect to be rid of it soon, and hope to have no further dealings with it or any mates it may have. So sorry little tumour but your life is going to be too short to warrant a name.
As I write I await a call from the hospital to let me know exactly what they decide is the best way forward. Apparently the team are getting together this morning to discuss my case. Though not, of course just my case. The team being made up of surgeons, oncologists, radiologists, specialist nurses and anyone else who feels the need to be present. It's weird thinking of them looking at my scans and photos of my intimate parts. Let's hope they like what they see.
I've just had the phone call from the hospital and things are not quite what we thought yesterday. It's now been decided that I will need the MRI scan on my liver first so that they can clarify what these spots are. Hopefully not cancerous, but if they are we are in a whole new game.
If I get the all clear on the liver front they reckon I will need five weeks of daily radiotherapy on the tumour in my colon before they operate. Douglas will call me tomorrow morning to talk to me about it all. So if you have any questions, now's the time to speak up.
This morning I felt relieved and confident that all will be well, but now I seem to be back where I began, waiting for scans and another appointment. I think my plans for South America by year end will have to go on hold. But lets keep it open.
By the time I got to my appointment I had convinced myself that I was just one mass of cancer and the end approaching fast. I was seen on time which was just as well as I had run out of miseries to heap on myself. Douglas, and I'm sure he won't mind me calling him Douglas, as we were on first name terms by the time we parted, after an hour, put me at me ease very quickly. And as soon as I realised that he was not telling me of cancer in my lungs and everywhere else I was so relieved I could have kissed him.
The good news is that the cancer is confined to my bowel, though the CT scan has shown up a couple of lesions on my liver which will require further investigation by way of another MRI scan. But the tumour in my colon is just as Dr Sami said it was when I saw him four weeks ago. So good for him.
Douglas will go ahead and operate but I may require some radiotherapy before the operation to reduce the size of the tumour and make it easier to extirpate the nasty little so and so. I was planning to give it a name but I think that would be tempting fate, especially as I expect to be rid of it soon, and hope to have no further dealings with it or any mates it may have. So sorry little tumour but your life is going to be too short to warrant a name.
As I write I await a call from the hospital to let me know exactly what they decide is the best way forward. Apparently the team are getting together this morning to discuss my case. Though not, of course just my case. The team being made up of surgeons, oncologists, radiologists, specialist nurses and anyone else who feels the need to be present. It's weird thinking of them looking at my scans and photos of my intimate parts. Let's hope they like what they see.
I've just had the phone call from the hospital and things are not quite what we thought yesterday. It's now been decided that I will need the MRI scan on my liver first so that they can clarify what these spots are. Hopefully not cancerous, but if they are we are in a whole new game.
If I get the all clear on the liver front they reckon I will need five weeks of daily radiotherapy on the tumour in my colon before they operate. Douglas will call me tomorrow morning to talk to me about it all. So if you have any questions, now's the time to speak up.
This morning I felt relieved and confident that all will be well, but now I seem to be back where I began, waiting for scans and another appointment. I think my plans for South America by year end will have to go on hold. But lets keep it open.
Tuesday, June 04, 2013
Tomorrow is a long time
It will be four weeks tomorrow since Dr Sami at the Western General Hospital told me that my colon was misbehaving and had grown some cancerous cells just for the hell of it. It's been a long four weeks and I'm glad it's behind me now, though I would be lying if I were to say that I was not a little apprehensive about my trip to see the expert tomorrow. Been hard keeping positive and optimistic and I can't say that I've not been a little bit worried at times, but got through with a few dodgy moments and here we are at last.
I'm back at the Western General Hospital tomorrow to see the (my) consultant, Douglas Speake. I've resisted looking him up on the old interweb thing, so I'm picturing what he looks like and how he speaks. I hope he realises that he's been on my mind these past few days and hoping that he has a good night's sleep, followed by a good day tomorrow and that he delivers me some good news, that the cancer is confined to my colon. I'm quietly confident but prepared for difficulties.
Meantime I've kept myself entertained with lots of trips to Edinburgh cafes, going to see a few plays, some cinema, reading good books, and talking to friends. I've finished reading the second Cromwell book from Hilary Mantel, Bring up the Bodies, which was a terrific read, better even than Wolf Hall. Looking forward to final volume, even though we all know what becomes of him. Also read Colm Toibin's book The Master, which is a novel/portrait of Henry James, and a splendid read, which gives me the urge to read some James. I read The Untouchable, by John Banville, a novel loosely based on the lives of some of the Cambridge spy ring, but definitely a novel and not a history, and worth reading. Banville is one of my favourite authors, for now anyway, but this is not his best piece of work. Read a few other things too, and a few poems.
Had lunch with Keiran in new cafe down Fountainbridge, called Loudons. Keiran is being very supportive, as I knew he would. Thanks K. I stopped of in Costa Coffee on my way home and young guy behind the counter said good luck and I'll be thinking of you tomorrow, which was kind of unexpected and all the better for that.
That's all for now, I'm going for a drive, seeing as I can't walk very far.
I'm back at the Western General Hospital tomorrow to see the (my) consultant, Douglas Speake. I've resisted looking him up on the old interweb thing, so I'm picturing what he looks like and how he speaks. I hope he realises that he's been on my mind these past few days and hoping that he has a good night's sleep, followed by a good day tomorrow and that he delivers me some good news, that the cancer is confined to my colon. I'm quietly confident but prepared for difficulties.
Meantime I've kept myself entertained with lots of trips to Edinburgh cafes, going to see a few plays, some cinema, reading good books, and talking to friends. I've finished reading the second Cromwell book from Hilary Mantel, Bring up the Bodies, which was a terrific read, better even than Wolf Hall. Looking forward to final volume, even though we all know what becomes of him. Also read Colm Toibin's book The Master, which is a novel/portrait of Henry James, and a splendid read, which gives me the urge to read some James. I read The Untouchable, by John Banville, a novel loosely based on the lives of some of the Cambridge spy ring, but definitely a novel and not a history, and worth reading. Banville is one of my favourite authors, for now anyway, but this is not his best piece of work. Read a few other things too, and a few poems.
Had lunch with Keiran in new cafe down Fountainbridge, called Loudons. Keiran is being very supportive, as I knew he would. Thanks K. I stopped of in Costa Coffee on my way home and young guy behind the counter said good luck and I'll be thinking of you tomorrow, which was kind of unexpected and all the better for that.
That's all for now, I'm going for a drive, seeing as I can't walk very far.
Monday, June 03, 2013
Dorian Gray, St Peter's, Fr Gray and MRI
Just in case anybody is anxious to know, I can now confirm that the story about St Peter's Church and the priest, as per my last post is quite true. The only small mistake was in the priest's name, he is John Gray and not Edward. Thank you to John L. who gave me a copy of the authorised history of St Peter's by a chap called Michael TRB Turnbull, published in 2007, the centenary of the church, and thank you to George, who knows Michael Turnbull, for the same information online. Small world.
John Gray was working as a civil servant in the Foreign Office in London in 1888, and writing poetry in his spare time. According to Turnbull he "began to associate with so-called decadent writers and painters, many of them with links to Paris and the French symbolist poets." Among these were Oscar Wilde and a millionaire Jewish convert to Roman Catholicism called Andre Sebastian Raffalovich, himself a published French poet and novelist. His own story is equally fascinating but for another time.
It was this fellow Raffalovich who would become Gray's benefactor. Gray went to Scots College in Rome and was ordained as a priest in 1901, when he came to Edinburgh and started work as a priest in the Cowgate area, one of the most impoverished and notorious districts in the city. Mostly made up of migrant Irish, about 10,000 folk. Now next door to our lovely parliament where King Salmond reigns over us. Unfortunately Gray could not cope with the sheer poverty and misery of the place and suffered a breakdown and developed pneumonia. He was told by his doctor that he should go to London, where he moved in with his friend Raffalovich, and from thence the pair moved together to Rome, Gray to go back to the Scots College and Raffalovich to stay in the Hotel d'Italie, across the street.
From here things moved on quickly and Raffalovich proposed his plan to finance the building of a church especially for Gray, to be located in the Morningside area of Edinburgh. According to Turnbull he himself wanted away from the "increasingly xenophobic and incestuous life of literary London". He wrote to Archbishop Smith of Edinburgh making his proposal and offering colossal sums of money to pay for the building of the church and a house for Gray and to pay for the upkeep of the church and of Gray, so to speak. Turnbull reproduces the letter in his book and it's shall we say quite interesting if not astonishing.
Raffalovich explains his motivation for his generosity in the conclusion of his letter: " It has been evolved because of my deep and lasting interest in Fr Gray and from a wish to do something for Edinburgh and at the same time my high regard for Your Grace's person." So that was nice of him.
Morningside got it's church, and John Gray his parish, which he served from 1905 until his death on 16th June 1934, just a few months after his friend Raffalovich who had died in his home at 9 Whitehouse Terrace, Edinburgh on 13th February 1934. Just a stone's throw from St Peter's.
On a more controversial note Turnbull tells how the first broadcast by the BBC from St Peter's in January 1934, was sabotaged, when the cables for the broadcast were cut, almost certainly by Protestant Action, who were very active in these parts in the 30s, and later of course.
On a more personal note, today I had my MRI scan, so that's me fully scanned now and will know the result when I see the consultant on Wednesday.......
John Gray was working as a civil servant in the Foreign Office in London in 1888, and writing poetry in his spare time. According to Turnbull he "began to associate with so-called decadent writers and painters, many of them with links to Paris and the French symbolist poets." Among these were Oscar Wilde and a millionaire Jewish convert to Roman Catholicism called Andre Sebastian Raffalovich, himself a published French poet and novelist. His own story is equally fascinating but for another time.
It was this fellow Raffalovich who would become Gray's benefactor. Gray went to Scots College in Rome and was ordained as a priest in 1901, when he came to Edinburgh and started work as a priest in the Cowgate area, one of the most impoverished and notorious districts in the city. Mostly made up of migrant Irish, about 10,000 folk. Now next door to our lovely parliament where King Salmond reigns over us. Unfortunately Gray could not cope with the sheer poverty and misery of the place and suffered a breakdown and developed pneumonia. He was told by his doctor that he should go to London, where he moved in with his friend Raffalovich, and from thence the pair moved together to Rome, Gray to go back to the Scots College and Raffalovich to stay in the Hotel d'Italie, across the street.
From here things moved on quickly and Raffalovich proposed his plan to finance the building of a church especially for Gray, to be located in the Morningside area of Edinburgh. According to Turnbull he himself wanted away from the "increasingly xenophobic and incestuous life of literary London". He wrote to Archbishop Smith of Edinburgh making his proposal and offering colossal sums of money to pay for the building of the church and a house for Gray and to pay for the upkeep of the church and of Gray, so to speak. Turnbull reproduces the letter in his book and it's shall we say quite interesting if not astonishing.
Raffalovich explains his motivation for his generosity in the conclusion of his letter: " It has been evolved because of my deep and lasting interest in Fr Gray and from a wish to do something for Edinburgh and at the same time my high regard for Your Grace's person." So that was nice of him.
Morningside got it's church, and John Gray his parish, which he served from 1905 until his death on 16th June 1934, just a few months after his friend Raffalovich who had died in his home at 9 Whitehouse Terrace, Edinburgh on 13th February 1934. Just a stone's throw from St Peter's.
On a more controversial note Turnbull tells how the first broadcast by the BBC from St Peter's in January 1934, was sabotaged, when the cables for the broadcast were cut, almost certainly by Protestant Action, who were very active in these parts in the 30s, and later of course.
On a more personal note, today I had my MRI scan, so that's me fully scanned now and will know the result when I see the consultant on Wednesday.......
Sunday, May 26, 2013
Sausage Sandwich Game
I had lunch with my friend George yesterday and he said that he had met "a meretricious sesquipedalianist inebriated by the exuberance of his own verbosity" which our late father often said to me and I think was also said by Disraeli in the Commons, referring to Gladstone. I think, but if you know different perhaps you could tell me. My spellchecker has never heard of the word. Knew I would beat him/her someday.
George also told me a story about a link between Oscar Wilde and St Peter's Church just along the road from here in Morningside. Apparently, according to George's source, Wilde based the character Dorian Gray on a chap called Edward Gray, who was a friend of his in London. What kind of friendship is not clear. After Wilde's trial Gray trained for the priesthood but was, apparently unable to find a parish prepared to take him, but he had a rich acquaintance who decided to build a church where Gray could be installed as the priest. So he built St Peter's for him and there he served the good people of Edinburgh very happily.
George's sources are impeccable if not implacable, but I have my doubts about the story. I mentioned it to my friend John L when we were having a coffee later yesterday, but he had not heard the story. He tells me that he has a book on the history of the church and will bring it along to the cafe next time. So hopefully light will be cast. I will post a picture of the church sometime soon.
My Saturday morning radio was recently disturbed when Radio Scotland took Janice Forsyth off air. This meant I had to find some new accompaniment for my ironing etc. Saturday mornings on Radio 4 have never been the same since John Peel went and died on us in Cusco. But what a place to go? So R4 was out. I started listening to Danny Baker on Five Live and what a fine broadcaster he turns out to be. Very funny and inventive. He has a weekly feature called the sausage sandwich game which is one of the greatest of all radio games. Not quite as brilliant as Mornington Crescent but in that league. Incidentally does anyone have a copy of the rules for Mornington Crescent? I seem to have mislaid mine, and it's not the kind of game to play without a book of rules.
I've now had my CT scan and await MRI scan on 3rd of June. I've been given a date for my appointment with the consultant, Mr Douglas Speake, on 5th June, a week on Wednesday. So things are progressing, if somewhat slowly, but progressing.
George also told me a story about a link between Oscar Wilde and St Peter's Church just along the road from here in Morningside. Apparently, according to George's source, Wilde based the character Dorian Gray on a chap called Edward Gray, who was a friend of his in London. What kind of friendship is not clear. After Wilde's trial Gray trained for the priesthood but was, apparently unable to find a parish prepared to take him, but he had a rich acquaintance who decided to build a church where Gray could be installed as the priest. So he built St Peter's for him and there he served the good people of Edinburgh very happily.
George's sources are impeccable if not implacable, but I have my doubts about the story. I mentioned it to my friend John L when we were having a coffee later yesterday, but he had not heard the story. He tells me that he has a book on the history of the church and will bring it along to the cafe next time. So hopefully light will be cast. I will post a picture of the church sometime soon.
My Saturday morning radio was recently disturbed when Radio Scotland took Janice Forsyth off air. This meant I had to find some new accompaniment for my ironing etc. Saturday mornings on Radio 4 have never been the same since John Peel went and died on us in Cusco. But what a place to go? So R4 was out. I started listening to Danny Baker on Five Live and what a fine broadcaster he turns out to be. Very funny and inventive. He has a weekly feature called the sausage sandwich game which is one of the greatest of all radio games. Not quite as brilliant as Mornington Crescent but in that league. Incidentally does anyone have a copy of the rules for Mornington Crescent? I seem to have mislaid mine, and it's not the kind of game to play without a book of rules.
I've now had my CT scan and await MRI scan on 3rd of June. I've been given a date for my appointment with the consultant, Mr Douglas Speake, on 5th June, a week on Wednesday. So things are progressing, if somewhat slowly, but progressing.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Waiting with Daft Punk
So much time we spend waiting for something to happen. Waiting for planes or trains or buses, waiting for the film or play to start, waiting for that person to arrive, the plumber or the repairman, or your friend who is always late, just generally waiting around for the weather to improve or the good times to start or the bad times to go away. I seem to be doing a lot of waiting these past couple of weeks. Can't say I like it too much. I can think of better things to be doing. I try to keep my mind busy with things but it keeps letting me down. I shall have to give myself a good talking to.
There are some things, of course, which are pleasurable to wait for, and enhance the whole experience. Its all part of the nowness of things. Like the man said. Waiting can be a pleasure. Even waiting for a CT scan? Don't be stupid. But will have to try.
As I wait to head off for my CT scan I'm listening to the new Daft Punk album Random Access Memory. Do we call them albums anymore? Thanks to Iain for telling me about the iTunes streaming of it last week, after which I went and bought it from HMV. It's a beautiful piece of work. I seem to remember you buying me a Daft Punk cd many years ago Iain and not really being able to appreciate it. This new one is in another league altogether. Fully deserves all the praise it's been getting. One of the best albums I've bought for a while, very relaxing. Thanks Iain, it has helped me forget about things for a while. Which is the whole point sometimes. Good for the concentration too.
My friend John L tells me that CT stands for computerised tomography, tomos being Greek for slice or cut. So I'm away to get digitally sliced and cut today. I will have to wait for the results until after the MRI scan on third of June. More waiting. Well best be off now. Just as well we have the NHS.
There are some things, of course, which are pleasurable to wait for, and enhance the whole experience. Its all part of the nowness of things. Like the man said. Waiting can be a pleasure. Even waiting for a CT scan? Don't be stupid. But will have to try.
As I wait to head off for my CT scan I'm listening to the new Daft Punk album Random Access Memory. Do we call them albums anymore? Thanks to Iain for telling me about the iTunes streaming of it last week, after which I went and bought it from HMV. It's a beautiful piece of work. I seem to remember you buying me a Daft Punk cd many years ago Iain and not really being able to appreciate it. This new one is in another league altogether. Fully deserves all the praise it's been getting. One of the best albums I've bought for a while, very relaxing. Thanks Iain, it has helped me forget about things for a while. Which is the whole point sometimes. Good for the concentration too.
My friend John L tells me that CT stands for computerised tomography, tomos being Greek for slice or cut. So I'm away to get digitally sliced and cut today. I will have to wait for the results until after the MRI scan on third of June. More waiting. Well best be off now. Just as well we have the NHS.
Monday, May 20, 2013
A Camera up your Bum
Spending Saturday morning having a colonoscopy procedure is different, but not to be recommended, unless that's your thing, which I'm told it is for some folk. Less traumatic than I had anticipated but I'm glad it's behind me, so to speak.
It is not exactly the most dignified position to be in, eight am Saturday morning flat on your back with some guy poking a camera where no camera has any right to be. And he's accompanied by two nurses, one of whom thought it was a great time to strike up a conversation, and the other is keeping an eye on things, my blood pressure, I think.
Dr Manning seemed like a nice young man, glasses, intense, concentrated look, reassuring, so I let him get on with things as he knew best. Said I could watch things on the screen if I wished. Meantime nusrsie is asking me about the weather, and what my plans are for the rest of the day. I'm thinking to myself this guy has just had his finger up my bum and now he's pushing his camera up there and you expect me to chat away, as if it's just another day, and not forgetting that I've also got an oxygen mask on. But one does not like to be rude so one does one's best to keep her happy; maybe she's bored. She is very pleasant really and keeps me nice and relaxed.
I decided that I should have a look at what's happening on screen. By this time I'm lying on my back and doctor says progress is good and we're getting there, taking some photos and videos, soon to be on YouTube he says. I can see the view the camera has and it's like going up some bloody, throbbing tunnel. I couldn't believe the size of it. I didn't really take to it, so only watched for a few minutes. It reminded my of some of these documentaries that are sometimes on tele, of operations being carried out, where you can see everything going on, which I can only watch through my fingers and then turn over to something less stressful.
Doctor says he will be stopping on his way down with the camera to have another good look at the tumour and he will let me know when he gets to it. Which he does so we are looking at it together. It doesn't look good. He says its about 4 cm in size, which is not too big but neither is it very small.
And then it's all over. He wishes me good luck, shakes my hand and away I go to get my tea and toast, my first food for two days. Tastiest toast I've had for some years. I have a memory of Sunday morning back in Aird Tong, and our father allowing us to make toast, holding the slice of bread on a toasting fork up against the old peat fire. Don't know where the old lady would have been, maybe she was unwell that morning. Anyway that was memorable toast too. The best of toast.
A woman I know who works in Morningside library told me that some people pay good money for that kind of procedure. Don't know what kind of friends she has, but I think I can guess. I always had my doubts about her. She wear a cycling helmet at work. What kind of person is that, I ask myself.
Dennis Potter called his tumour, Rupert, after you know who, but I'm not at that stage yet. But open to suggestions.
Meantime things move on at snails pace. My next stop is a CT scan on Thursday and then an MRI scan on Monday third of June. After all that they will tell me how good or bad things are. So maybe two and a bit more weeks to wait.
It is not exactly the most dignified position to be in, eight am Saturday morning flat on your back with some guy poking a camera where no camera has any right to be. And he's accompanied by two nurses, one of whom thought it was a great time to strike up a conversation, and the other is keeping an eye on things, my blood pressure, I think.
Dr Manning seemed like a nice young man, glasses, intense, concentrated look, reassuring, so I let him get on with things as he knew best. Said I could watch things on the screen if I wished. Meantime nusrsie is asking me about the weather, and what my plans are for the rest of the day. I'm thinking to myself this guy has just had his finger up my bum and now he's pushing his camera up there and you expect me to chat away, as if it's just another day, and not forgetting that I've also got an oxygen mask on. But one does not like to be rude so one does one's best to keep her happy; maybe she's bored. She is very pleasant really and keeps me nice and relaxed.
I decided that I should have a look at what's happening on screen. By this time I'm lying on my back and doctor says progress is good and we're getting there, taking some photos and videos, soon to be on YouTube he says. I can see the view the camera has and it's like going up some bloody, throbbing tunnel. I couldn't believe the size of it. I didn't really take to it, so only watched for a few minutes. It reminded my of some of these documentaries that are sometimes on tele, of operations being carried out, where you can see everything going on, which I can only watch through my fingers and then turn over to something less stressful.
Doctor says he will be stopping on his way down with the camera to have another good look at the tumour and he will let me know when he gets to it. Which he does so we are looking at it together. It doesn't look good. He says its about 4 cm in size, which is not too big but neither is it very small.
And then it's all over. He wishes me good luck, shakes my hand and away I go to get my tea and toast, my first food for two days. Tastiest toast I've had for some years. I have a memory of Sunday morning back in Aird Tong, and our father allowing us to make toast, holding the slice of bread on a toasting fork up against the old peat fire. Don't know where the old lady would have been, maybe she was unwell that morning. Anyway that was memorable toast too. The best of toast.
A woman I know who works in Morningside library told me that some people pay good money for that kind of procedure. Don't know what kind of friends she has, but I think I can guess. I always had my doubts about her. She wear a cycling helmet at work. What kind of person is that, I ask myself.
Dennis Potter called his tumour, Rupert, after you know who, but I'm not at that stage yet. But open to suggestions.
Meantime things move on at snails pace. My next stop is a CT scan on Thursday and then an MRI scan on Monday third of June. After all that they will tell me how good or bad things are. So maybe two and a bit more weeks to wait.
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