Mother of Mercy, is this the end of Rico?

I never can say goodbye - but sooner or later, one has to. The Hospice thinks I don't have very much time left. I'm going to fight it every inch, but still: I have to get ready to go.

I won't blog about the past few weeks in the Churchill, and then the Sobell. It's just medical stuff, and pretty dull. Let me focus on what I need to say.

I am at home tonight, and in theory am staying here until I absolutely must go back - but I don't know how well that's going to work. I may have to take this as overnight leave, and go back into the Sobell tomorrow. They're holding the bed for me for 24 hours, so that should be okay. I would much rather be at home, of course, but I am afraid of being out of contact of medical care.

Things would be easier if I had a Dongle and could take my netbook in with me. I miss my imaginary friends like you wouldn't believe.

Which leads me to the point of this post: to say that I love you all. I hope I shall not miss you, as I am no believer in any sort of conscious afterlife, but I hope that you will, as Christina Rossetti said, remember me - but without being too sad. I have had a blessed and lucky life, and this last year - the Year of the Crab - has (for all my whining about being bored) been wonderful. This is very greatly due to Judy. I couldn't ask for a better friend. Please take very good care of her for me.

I know I have not always been the best person I could be, and I'm sorry for that. I apologise for all the many times I have been whiny, needy, selfish, two-faced, ungrateful, hypocritical ... the list goes on. I haven't always been honest; I haven't always been truthful. I hope I have not hurt anybody too badly; if I have, I hope they can find it in their hearts to forgive me

This will be the last of these blogs, and I shall probably not see any comments, but if I can get any sort of internet access I shall keep in contact by Facebook for as long as possible.

I hope to see you there.

Land of hope and dreams

Ten is a bird you must not miss

Crikey. More magpies than I think I have ever seen in the car park as we left the Churchill this afternoon. Enough for a wish, at least, if not a letter. Maybe even something better.

All of which I deserve, if you ask me.

Two weeks ago - almost exactly - I was watching Merlin when I started to be violently sick. Do not be like that: I like Merlin. It quickly became clear that this couldn't be left until the morning, so I had to drag poor Judy out and beg her to get me (and the bear, and the go bag) to the Churchill. It only took two hours - or was it four? - to get this organised with the Churchill, who finally found a bed for me on the Lower GI ward. Sounds nasty, but it wasn't as bad as it might have been - I managed to get a first-class bed in a side room, with its own telly and all, so I had privacy, and didn't even have to miss Downton. And the staff there were very good. Way better than on Oncology!

Of course, it couldn't last, and they dragged me back to an Oncology bay by the end of the week. Ah, well. While it lasted, it was good. I was there for the weekend: then they moved me to the Sobell House Hospice, where I have another side room. The Hospice is very pleasant - rather like a cottage hospital in a children's book from the 1950s - although, obviously, I would rather be home - safely - and well. But, for now, I shall be grateful for how lucky I am.

I have had something of a problem with isolation, being in hospital for so long with no access to the outside world. Apparently there is WiFi in the Day Treatment Centre though, so I may take the netbook with me when I go back.

Currently I am on what they call "weekend leave" - which makes me feel as though I should have an ankle tag. Well, I do, pretty much: I have a hospital name band on each wrist, my PICC line, and a morphine pump with a subcutaneous attachment. The pump is a wee bit large and bulky, and has (of course) been dropped several times, but it gives me some relief, so again it is something to be grateful for.

The problem remains the same and shows no sign of getting better. I am expecting/hoping for a permanent ascitic drain to be installed at some point, which I hope may give some relief. Other than that - well, let that remain behind the veil.

Speaking of being behind the veil, I damn' near was myself, or so I thought for a bit, when an exceptionally clumsy doctor informed me that I had only a few weeks to live. Ulp. What?! But then he caught me in the corridor shortly after and said no, he had read my charts wrong and things were not that desperate.

Um. Better that way round than t'other ...? I don't really know what to say. Other than, of course: twat.

So, here I am back home, if only for a short time. It's lovely, although I'm still a bit panicky. But, as Judy pointed out, the Hospice can't keep me forever. If only there were some way to have a nurse on call constantly when you're at home!

Thank you to everyone who has been so kind and supportive, with gifts and their time. I'm too tired and wobbly to reciprocate fully or in kind, as I would like, but I am very thankful.

Most of all, as you might imagine, for Judy. I can't even begin to tell you how wonderful she's been, or how grateful I am, or how much I owe her - for these two weeks, and for all the time since I've had cancer, and for all the years before. I never said it enough, and I'm sorry for that; I wish there were some way to make it up now.

I suppose everyone wishes that. I am sure there were eight magpies in the car park. That should be plenty - ?

I can still hear you saying we must never block the drain

We saw a very fine robin at the garden centre yesterday - I believe I have commented before on the significance of garden centres to the middle-aged lifestyle. "I don't believe he's real," said Judy. "Fuck off," said the robin, and flew away. Well, how would you like it if people went around saying you were too perfect to be real?

I get irritated enough with people who tell me how well I'm looking and/or doing. "You want to give it a shot?" I want to ask them, but, of course, never do. I am Nice Like That.

But grumpy. Oooh, tell me it doesn't show? I had to have another drain the week before last. It seemed to go quite well: we started out by checking into Triage, which we have never done before, on the Thursday. Triage ran much like a dream hospital would, with prompt checking-in to a nice, quiet three-bed bay, constant personal attention from the nurse on duty, and a thorough, in-depth examination from the doctor. Perhaps a little too in-depth, he did go to places where no man has gone before (or not for a good long while, and we won't be discussing that, thank you very much) - and not so much as a bunch of flowers to soften the blow! - but, given the usual rather perfunctory treatment you get at the Churchill, I wasn't about to complain. Lots of X-rays and CT scans and all sorts of tests and things - I don't know whether I passed, I didn't ask - and then I got moved on to the ward, after which things went downhill a bit. I am pretty sure that they choose the wards they put me in specifically as an Awful Warning. This time I ended up with two old ladies - probably actually no more than my age - who were barely able to fend for themselves and who spoke mostly in moans and whispers, and one younger one, who seemed quite cheerful and normal and I do not know how she managed it as she was having her stomach drained through her nose!!! It is undoubtedly a mark of what a nasty person I am that I was less disturbed by all this morbidity than I was by nose-drain lady's two grandchildren, who were making the sort of noise that you would expect two bored young children to make. Still, they didn't stay long - nose-drain lady was finding them a bit of a strain too, I think - and we settled down for a lovely evening on the ward. You know, the sort where someone's IV machine is bleeping every five minutes, and someone else is snoring, and someone else has to call the nurse every time she goes to the loo - and one day all these people will be me, and I must try to be nicer, or god will smite me.

Like he hasn't done already, and I'm sure I don't know what I ever did to him.

The drain was Monday morning - so early that I only just managed to scramble through the shower (enthusiastic, but cold) before the porters came to wheel me down. I wouldn't have known about it at all if I hadn't happened to hear the nurse yelling my name in the corridor outside. I was dreading the drain itself, because the procedure really bloody hurts - only this time it didn't. I was planning to ask for that doctor next time, but in view of subsequent events ... maybe not.

So, a little chat with the hand-holdy nurse about his and his family's heart attacks - there is nothing quite like being all comforting and sympathetic to your nurse while you're flat on your back with a hole in your side - then back to the ward for a rather dull day alleviated only by Sudoku and Caitlin Moran. I was edgy because I wasn't sure whether I'd be able to go home that night, but, once it became clear that the answer was 'no', I calmed down somewhat. (The Lorezapam that I'd smuggled in might have helped a bit too.) The ward nurse who was looking after me during the day was very good, and checked on my bag every half-hour or so. Once she went off, though, the evening nurse was kept very busy, and I didn't manage to get the drain removed until nearly 11.00 at night, by which time it had more than passed the 'really bloody hurts' threshold. This may account for the trouble I've had since. Or not.

I almost forgot, my CT scan was in the afternoon, and it took so long for the ward nurses to get a cannula in my arm - the scan involves a contrast dye that can't go through the PICC line - that the porter wandered off in disgust. In the end, Judy designated herself Acting Porter and took me down herself. She had to dump me in a corridor at one point and run back for my notes, but otherwise she was at least as good as the real thing. Better, indeed, since at least she was there. And it may not come as much of a surprise that the hospital porters are a wee bit lackadaisical and that the food is not exactly Cordon Bleu, as it was on this visit that we realised that all the Churchill's ancillary services - porters, food, cleaning - are tendered out to G4S, of all people. That's just a disaster a-waiting to happen.

So, anyway: eventually out came the drain, and I had a peaceful night's sleep, for values of 'peaceful' that = the above bleeping/snoring/yelling/etc. I was still a little worried on Saturday morning that they might not discharge me, but hurrah! they did, and so, as soon as Judy managed to get to me, we were out of there.

And, as a general rule, that would have meant plain sailing for at least a couple of weeks. But, as you may have gathered ... this time, not so much. My innards have literally not stopped hurting since. It's not always the same sort of pain, but there's always something. There are digestion problems, too *draws veil* *draws another veil in case that one's not thick enough*, and so I've bitten the bullet and left a message with the Macmillan nurses at the Churchill to tell them so. Which, I suppose, will entail another round of visits.

Poor Judy. There are weeks when she has to drive to the Churchill so often that the car can practically find its own way. That week was one of them. She had to make an emergency dash on Monday, because the district nurse came so late that she missed the blood pick-up; again on Tuesday for chemo; Thursday to take me in; Friday to visit me (thank you, Judy! She's the only hospital visitor I get); and Saturday to bring me home.

The district nurse was late again last Monday, but it didn't matter so much this time as I didn't have chemo that week. This was due to the ward doctor, who told me I shouldn't have chemo, and that I should try to see the oncologist sooner than scheduled (11 November). So on Monday I phoned the DTU to tell them I wouldn't be having chemo, since I knew it wouldn't have occurred to the ward to have done so; and then I got a phone call back from one of the oncology doctors to say no, in fact I was fine for chemo, and 11 November was quite soon enough.

I do wish they would get their stories straight. I didn't have the chemo anyway, since all doctors' opinions notwithstanding, I didn't feel well enough. That didn't stop the DTU phoning to ask where I was ...

Tim Nice-But-Dim from Sobell House rang last week, as he does from time to time, and I expressed my concern about the upcoming 'treatment break'. He was about as much use as you would expect (see 'chocolate teapot' for another example), but I like to get my opinions out to as wide an audience as possible. As you will have gathered.

On Friday we went to the Maggie's Centre for my second counselling session. I've booked for one more, but don't really think I'll benefit from more than that. I don't want my hand held, I want major surgery! They do, however, have a yoga group and some relaxation sessions, both of which I would like to attend. We went through a relaxation exercise while I was there, which I found more beneficial than all the talking in the world.

Stuff has happened amongst all this - chiefly, Judy's desktop PC has died, which is exactly as inconvenient as you would expect it to be. She's using mine to keep up with her Facebook games, so I suppose I picked as good a time as any to be ill! (On the other hand ...) My brother came for a nice long visit last Monday, but couldn't hug as he had a cold, which I understand he has now given to Michelle, which is very bad of him. And my sister sent me some Lush stuff, and the GC, whose hospital woes give my own a substantial run for their money, is now home, and can walk to the corner shop - just so you know I'm not all about the negative.

In fact, we've managed a couple of major(ish) things in the past couple of days. My bedroom, after we've lived here for eight years, is finally finished now that we've hung the last of the framed Kay Nielsen prints (we had to paint the frame first, that's what took the time), and yesterday I finally got my wardrobe into some sort of order, and even managed to clear out some items for the charity bag. And I have, I hope, sorted out my current account, having found out to my horror that it was costing me £150+ a year. I don't remember how or when or why I upgraded to Advantage Gold (none of whose advantages are actually useful to me), but whoever sold me on it clearly saw me coming from a long, long way away. There used to be a little man on the TV who would follow people about and show them where they were wasting money. I could do with him. Only in retrospect. Don't join that gym! Don't sign up for that course! Eh, well: too late now.

Oh, and last time I blogged, I was wittering about my need for a new coat. I now have a new coat: a perfect length and cut, a perfect fit, and only £20 in the Tesco sale. Can't argue with that. It may not be warm enough if we have a very cold winter, which looks a distinct possibility, but hey. That's what shawls are for.

And we have been trying to get out and about, if only to Tesco, or just for a drive, so that our brains do not calcify. Hence the garden centre yesterday. Where I bought my first Christmas present of the year ...

Yes, indeed. How distressing a thought is that? At least I should be here to see it. Last year I seriously wondered whether I would be. We should at least give the Churchill credit for that.

If grudgingly.

Overly interesting times

We've been shopping today, or trying to shop. I want a new winter coat. I've been approved for disability living allowance, and even got a back payment, so I can afford to buy myself a pressie. If I can find anything I like. What I would really choose to do, if I could, is send my old coat through a time machine and have it new again. It's excellent - lovely and warm, and so big it wraps around me twice - but I've had it for at least ten years, more like fifteen, the corduroy's all worn flat and the cuffs are frayed to shreds. Nothing lasts forever, try as you may.

But before we went shopping ... well, where do I even start?

I might as well pick up where I left off last Monday, when I said I did not have a good feeling about the week. How very right I was ...

Monday, in all fairness, was not too bad. Okay, it began with cat wee and a tax demand, but it continued with a call from a nice district nurse - one from another area, who made no fuss at all about the dressing change, I would've liked to have kept her - and a lovely long visit from my brother, who I hadn't seen for ages what with one thing and another, and ended up with a trip to Caro's (Judy's car still terrifyingly leaking coolant), for yummy food and cuddles with kittens. Cuddles with kittens, like Time, is a great healer. Are a great healer. Whatever. That sentence isn't going to work whatever I do to it.

Tuesday: our neighbour knocked on the door to ask if he could prune our tree a bit where it hangs over his wall. (It's a greengage tree, and the fruit is absolutely delicious - when it has fruit, and when we can reach it.) Yes, of course, I said, we'd been thinking about getting someone in to cut it back, but we couldn't really afford it. Oh, by the way, he said, did we know that our fence posts had rotted through, and the fence was very likely to blow over if we had a strong wind, taking Judy's greenhouse with it ...?

No, I did not know that. Huh. New fence. Wotthehell, it's only money. It grows, after all, on trees.

On the plus side, Mr Next Door is a builder, and Judy went round later, came to some arcane arrangement with him whereby he would handle the fence replacement, and came back waving a hairdressing flyer and with an appointment for me with Mrs Next Door. It turns out that the extension that Mr built a few months ago is not, as I'd assumed, a playroom for the kids, it's a teeny-tiny hairdressing salon for Mrs. And jolly lovely it is, too. Lucky Mrs.

The rest of Tuesday was chemo, which was singularly un-noteworthy, other than that there were a couple of different nurses on duty. One of them a man. Gasp! I've been going to chemo so long, I know all the nurses there, so that came as a bit of a shock. Not much of one. Just a bit. So: chemo; sleep. It's the way of the world.

I had meant to ask Judy to take me into Bicester on Wednesday to see if I could get my hair cut there - I had to get rid of the granny curls, they were driving me mad - but it was one of those post-chemo days when I could barely drag myself out of bed, so I was very glad that I only had to pop next door instead. Mrs did a lovely job and sent me home with a very fetching elfin cut. Alas that I do not have an elfin body to go with it, but such is life. Alas also that, without a professional's tender care, it becomes more reminiscent of TinTin. But we care not. Our mind is on Higher Matters. Well, no, our mind was mostly on going back to bed.

Later on, Judy phoned Lynn to find out whether she was still good to come and catsit over the weekend, since we were supposed to be going down to Bristol for my sister-in-law's surprise birthday party - only to discover that poor Lynn had food poisoning, which is nasty enough in its own right (don't I know it), and also screwed up her diabetes. So the whole catsitting question had to remain up in the air.

I don't think anything particularly disastrous happened on Thursday. Judy got up spectacularly early, took the car up to Aylesbury for servicing, came back with the world's ugliest courtesy car, and then we went and had lunch with Sabine at the garden centre (it is funny how heavily garden centres feature in middle-aged life). The saddest thing about that was all the yummy-looking cakes they had - the sort of cakes one could only dream of as a kid, when our mother's idea of a treat was a rock bun - which I couldn't even fancy. The sandwich I ate took its best shot at killing me as it was. Back to bed for me. This happens a lot.

Friday. Lynn was feeling well enough to come up, which meant we were all set for Bristol, so hurrah! on both counts. Foolishly, we relaxed for a few minutes ...

... just long enough for JennyCat to come home at eleven o'clock at night, slink upstairs without eating, which is most unlike her, and, when checked, turn out to have blood all over her mouth and be in a state of shock ...

As were we. Fortunately autopilot kicked in, and we phoned the out-of-hours vet (a £103 surcharge? Sure, that's no problem!) and rushed her round for a checkup. The vet looked her over and came to the conclusion that she'd hit her face somehow, had possibly fallen or been hit by something, and that she had a broken tooth that would have to come out. It'd be fine for the weekend though, she said, they'd have her in for surgery on Monday; could we just make sure she got a painkiller in the meantime ...?

Um, Lynn? You know how all you usually have to do is open and shut the back door and make sure there's food down ...

I am abusing ellipses like nobody's business. This must stop.

At this point I came to the conclusion that the Bristol trip was Cursed. First the car, then Lynn's tummy, now this. But Lynn assured us that she would be fine. And, as it turned out, she was. But I worried every moment that we were away.

I was stressing hugely about the Bristol thing as it was. My brother had put a lot of time and effort and expense into organising it, and I am very, very fond of my brother, and I was scared to death that something would go wrong. But nothing did. Judy and I had a hassle-free drive down, checked into a Premier Inn that was much nicer than the horrid Premier Inn in horrid Manchester a few months back (except that their rather strange idea of a twin room was a big double bed and what I think was a stripped-down sofa, or daybed, or a truckle bed or something. It was quite cosy, actually), got tarted up, insofar as that is possible, located assorted friends, found our way to Tim's house, and joined the throng. Tim had invited something like forty people - I didn't count them, but there were a lot - to the house, and then hired a bus to take everyone to a restaurant in Chipping Sodbury (there was no reason for that piece of detail, I just wanted to say 'Chipping Sodbury', because I am twelve) for a meal and entertainment by ZHL Strings, who are a collective of musicians that you have probably encountered if you've been to Covent Garden at any time; they usually play in the downstairs bit. Anyway, Michelle likes them, that's the point. So you see why I was stressed about things going wrong. But, as I said, they didn't. Judy and I stuck to the people we know: my sister and brother-in-law, who it was lovely to see, if people must live in Penzance what can you do? - and Sabine and her family (Simon, who is five, was vastly underimpressed by the band), and Gary and Linda, who were kind enough to give us a lift there and back so that I didn't have to wait for the bus to leave. And this is as good a place as any to plug The Poisonous Seed, which Linda wrote, which is a Victorian mystery that actually is Victorian (I have read so many historical novels that feature 20th century people in corsets), and which is excellent. There.

It was a very pleasant evening. I wasn't able to eat much - I didn't dare touch any of the canapes, delightful as they all looked (well, apart from the things that looked like poached eggs in a pastry tart, I didn't fancy those at all), and, once again, was left lamenting over CAKE, but what I did have was v good indeed. A+, would eat again.

All too soon I was flagging like a big wussy wet girl, so back to the hotel we went (thank you again, Gary and Linda), fell into bed, got up early-ish on Sunday and raced back home to find out how our poor JennyCat was doing, to say nothing of how Lynn was coping.

Lynn was coping capably, naturally, but the poor JennyCat was very quiet and sad and sorry for herself, and was mostly huddling in a corner behind the futon. I know just how she felt, I often feel like doing the same myself. The other two cats were none too happy either, being well aware that Something Was Not Right.

And so to Monday, when Jenny got taken into the vets to have her tooth taken out and a general check-up for anything else that might be lurking (nothing was), and I got to have my monthly chat with the consultant.

Who told me that my CA125 levels were up again, and that I might as well not bother with the sixth and final round of chemo (I'm going to have it anyway, though). And that, other than that and a scan at the end of it, they were going to give me a 'treatment break'.

I'd like my second opinion now, please. Otherwise my new coat, when I get it, may last another fifteen years, but I won't be around to see it.

And that would be sad. Would it not?

Like I said, nothing lasts forever. If you want me, I'll be behind the futon.

I can turn you inside out

Last week started out promisingly enough, with a relatively uncomplicated call from the district nurse, a lovely visit to see Caro and her Maine Coons, including teeny-tiny mega-cute kittens, and a (again, relatively) pleasant trip to chemo - many chatty ladies in attendance this week; I don't get the full benefit of the chat, since I lapse into a coma as soon as they show me the Piriton, but I can hear it going on around me, and it's better than sitting in stony silence. And I was awake while nurse Debbie was holding forth on how the Fifty Shades trilogy ("I'd started, so I had to finish," she said) would make one decent, reasonable-length book if they cut out all the sex scenes. Although even so, I think she was being too kind.

Then I was sick on Tuesday evening. Violently sick. How sick? See title. Other stuff too, but I'm not going into that. It was all most unpleasant, to the point that I wondered whether we should contact the triage team at the Churchill - but Judy said they'd probably just tell us to call the out-of-hours doctor, and you know how well that works, so we didn't.

And that was pretty much it for the rest of the week. I did manage to drag myself out of bed on Friday, to keep my counselling appointment at the Maggie's Centre and talk to a very helpful and efficient lady about applying for Disability Living Allowance, but even so they had to do most of the talking.

I really have trouble considering myself disabled, by the way. Okay, I can barely walk as far as the corner shop, and I'm asleep something like 18 hours a day, but nevertheless ... But if that's the label I have to wear to get the benefits I need, then I suppose wear it I must.

I'm never that sick after chemo, either. I'm never sick at all after chemo. The Carboplatin used to upset my stomach occasionally, thereby necessitating emergency stops at Sainsbury's in Kidlington (they have customer toilets, I didn't just poo in the car park), but all the Taxel usually does is make me tired. Tireder. This was more like food poisoning; but, on the other hand, it's the second time it's happened - the first was when Judy was away and I ended up sending out pleas for help to the internet, pleas that went unanswered as the internet, unlike Faron Young, is asleep at four in the morning - so I don't know.

Nothing new there. I don't know anything much. Certainly nothing useful.

This week? Well, so far this morning my sister-in-law's birthday present has failed to arrive, there was a wet patch on the doormat under the front door (the cats? But the cats are usually so good), and I had a letter from the Inland Revenue telling me I owe them £150. Also the car is leaking coolant as though there were no tomorrow, and we have to go down to Bristol at the weekend.

I do not think I like the look of this week.

Mamma mia!

My mother died two years ago today.

Before I say anything else, I should explain that she was 93 years old, in reasonably good health, still lived in her own house, had relatively recently, thanks entirely to my sister's tireless efforts, agreed to have both a cleaner and a carer, and, so far as anyone can tell, died peacefully in her sleep. We should all only have it so good.

Do I miss her? I wish I could say yes, but I really don't. I don't miss the monthly duty visits, two agonising hours of sitting in her living room trying desperately to spark a conversation or find any point of mutual interest - or, in my case, trying to get her to hear me at all; she either couldn't, or pretended she couldn't. I don't miss the constant worry, even after she'd agreed to have help about the house, that she might fall, or someone might break in, or ... I don't know; all the things you do worry about with very old ladies. I certainly don't miss the mess and the smell - yes, again, even after she'd agreed to have help. I used to clean as best I could while I was there, but it was never enough. And we couldn't, in sheer self-preservation, have visited her any more often than we did.

It is a little odd to think that her house, as it was, is gone - either demolished or renovated, I don't know which, but you certainly couldn't have moved straight in there the way that it was. But, in a way, that hardly matters: it still exists in my head, unchanging as it was over the 30-some years my parents, then just my mother, lived there. The paperback books, shelved in no particular order, all tilted to one side or the other and, apparently, never touched; the shelf of ornaments they'd had ever since my childhood - the Scandinavian painted horse, the ginormous purple brandy balloon, the horrid Aborigine head that used to frighten me when I was a kid; the hugely expensive Bang & Olufsen stereo unit that, again, had been untouched in all the time they lived there; my father's wretched collection of ornamental bells; the windowsill with its proud display of dead flies and photos of every one of my parents' children and grandchildren except me ... It's all still there, and I don't think it will ever go away.

What I do miss is somebody who would give love unconditionally: who would always be there with a hug, an understanding word, a cup of tea, a shoulder to cry on. But I never had that - none of us did. That wasn't who my mother was. It was probably very good for us, and extremely character-building. Still, sometimes I think I could have done with a little less character and a lot more sympathy. Who knows? Either way, ain't never gonna happen.

I wonder how my mother would have dealt with cancer? I suspect she would have treated it much as she dealt with Hitler: with the utmost contempt. She'd've had anything cut off and/or out that needed to be cut, gone through treatment with dogged stoicism, and probably beaten the crap out of the thing. I don't need to wonder how she would have dealt with me having cancer. She would have found a way to make it my fault.

So, there you are. She was a difficult and not a very likeable woman, but she was an individual, and she took very little nonsense from anyone. You could, I suppose, do worse. And she's the only mother I'm ever going to have.

I myself am at present being far less stoic. I had two weeks in between the end of my fourth and the beginning of my fifth cycle of Taxel, because of the neuropathy in my fingers. I was almost starting to feel human by the beginning of this week, although still so tired that a walk down the main street in Bicester was enough to wipe me out, but one dose of Taxel and I'm back to a state of general uselessness, unless anyone knows of a good use for sleep. Judy and I have just been to Brackley to shop, and I was too wobbly to drag myself around Tesco. I've been lying out on the bench in the garden, but it's starting to get too cold for that. Winter is going to be a drag ...

I had a bit of a scare on Monday morning, when I woke with a temperature of 102 (Fahrenheit, that is, of course; else I wouldn't be typing this now). I don't know what caused it; I was together enough to do all the things I needed to do - phone the triage team for advice, get an emergency appointment with my GP, call my brother and ask him not to visit (woe!), contact the district nurses - and, by the time I got to the GP's, things were back to normal. But something definitely happened. I just don't know what, and I suppose we never shall find out.

The main thing is, I was well enough for chemo on Tuesday. I had to throw a bit of a tantrum in there; because I'd had to put off the district nurse the day before, my PICC line dressing hadn't been changed, and the DTU nurse tried to tell us we'd have to get the district nurse in to do it the next day because they (the DTU) were too busy. Cue tantrum. She changed the dressing. I win!

The moral of this story is, save your tantrums for when you need them. Most of the time I am very good and quiet, and just let them get on with it.

It didn't help that I was tired before we went into the DTU, having spent the previous hour talking to a woman from the Maggie's Centre. I don't say this wasn't useful; just that I can only do one thing per day, and we really do need to remember this. The upshot is that I have an appointment with a counsellor next Friday, so we shall see how that goes.

My mother would have been disgusted. She would have had no truck with what she would have called 'trick-cyclists'. However, she's not here. I am. So, STFU, Mother!

Bless you, dear, wherever you may be. How I hope there is not a hereafter.

This is not the news I'm looking for

So, this is what happened at the hospital yesterday:

I'm currently on a regimen of three weeks of Paclitaxel, followed by a week off. One side-effect of Taxel is neuropathy - numbness/pins and needles/pain in the fingers and toes. I've had very bad pains in my fingers for the past couple of weeks. I assumed that the consultant would accordingly change my drug to one that wouldn't have this side-effect. However, she didn't. From what she said, there aren't that many drugs options available. I was on Carboplatin before, but she says we can't go back on that. The only other possibility she mentioned is an oral chemo, and she didn't sound very certain that would be effective. So I'm having an extra week off chemo, and she's prescribed some vitamin B complex pills that might help with the neuropathy.

In other words, if I want to continue cancer treatment, which - being neither suicidal nor an idiot - I do, I'll have to put up with the side-effects of Taxel. Which might involve permanent damage to my fingers and/or toes.

None of which I find very reassuring.

Kind of sick of all this, to be honest. As who, I am sure, is not.