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.

The last thing on my mind

No, Churchill Hospital, please pay attention. This is your arse. This is your elbow. Do you think you can remember that for five minutes together?

What have they done this time, do I hear you ask? What they did this time was send me a pre-chemo consultant appointment for 2.50 pm next Tuesday (one of those appointment times that may as well be called 'or any time we can manage to fit you in'), when I have chemo booked for midday on the same day. I know that time is meaningless, but the whole going backwards business is terribly complicated and I have never fully mastered it.

I think I have managed to get everything sorted. I phoned Dr Nicum's secretary on the Friday before the Bank Holiday - who knew there was a Bank Holiday last weekend? Took me by surprise, I can tell you - and she finally got back to me on Wednesday with a new appointment at 12.30 pm on Monday. Which rather begs the question: if they had a free appointment for 12.30 on Monday, why didn't they give it to me in the first place, especially after Judy yelled at them last time? Anyway: I also spoke to the Day Treatment Unit, who said they'd see what they could sort out so, what with one thing and another, we should be okay. Oh, and I have also remembered to phone the District Nurse and ask her to try to come before we have to set out for the hospital ...

All well and good, then, except - I am so tired; I really don't need all this running around trying to rearrange things, and all the telephone calls, and all the hassle. Can't they bloody well just get it right first time?

The whole business of chemo might be academic; my finger ends are now hurting really badly, and I do mean really badly, which is almost undoubtedly Taxol-related neuropathy (my feet aren't too good, either, although they do currently have pretty turquoise toenails), and I think it's time for a change of regimen. Regimen, regimen, REGIMEN. I thank you. I just hope the consultant agrees.

Come to think of it, it's about time I saw Shabani again; last time I saw her was July. The rest of the time it's any old random consultant who happens to have picked up my file, and I'm never completely convinced they've actually checked it before they start talking to me. But there's nothing I can do about that.

Oh, I had a random thought the other night, and managed to catch it before it died. When I was ickle, and I do mean very, very ickle, 16 or so, I used to volunteer at my local hospital - taking round cups of tea and then doing the washing up, thrilling stuff like that. In all the times I've been in the Churchill, I've never seen a volunteer. Does that not happen any more? Why? If anyone says 'health and safety', I shall look at them unless they can produce concrete evidence. Poor health and safety. They got blamed for Springsteen's Hyde Park gig getting cut off mid-song, you know, and one person there was so upset that he published an online rebuttal - for which he probably got into terrible trouble. But about 90% of stupid health and safety stories are made up, mostly by the redtops. I uterly diskard them.

What have I done since the last time I posted? I actually did manage a few measurable achievements: I've shelved my 'books read and reviewed' pile, and managed to sort out a dozen or so for Oxfam while I was about it, and I also now have the tidiest chest of drawers, pants drawer included, that you can imagine. This last was mostly courtesy of the most dreadful fit of insomnia that hit on Sunday night and, so far as I can tell, affected everyone in the house. Well, everyone apart from the cats.

'Everyone' included Lynn, who came up to stay for the above-mentioned surprise!Bank Holiday. I believe she's coming to babysit next week, too, as Judy is off to tidy up Penny's house. If anyone would like to come and tidy mine, please don't be shy. The carpets are all filthy, just for a kick-off, and there is enough junk in the garage for a trip to the local tip every day for a month.

I have also LibraryThinged the last few books remaining that needed doing - of mine, that is, there are plenty of Judy's still to do - and made a banananana cake. Not both at once.

Wednesday was a very busy day, with one set of visitors in (my line manager and the HR lady from work bearing a scary Official Form), one visit out (to Caro's, to see her current kittens - Aurora's current kittens, technically, I suppose - who are named after Judy and me, and a trip to the garden centre to buy a housewarming pressie in between the two. I paid for it on Thursday; I was so ill yesterday that I seriously considered phoning the hospital - but I will always try not to do that unless I'm practically dying. Having said which, when I went to bed last night I did wonder rather whether I'd be waking up again. But I suppose I was just over-tired; I've been pretty much okay today. For certain stated values of 'okay' which = 'crappy, but it could be worse'.

Anyway, the kittens were lovely, and I may or may not have made girlie squeeing noises. You be the judge. And also, someone sent me a surprise!Bodhisattva from my wishlist today, which is not the sort of thing that happens every day. Thank you v much, SG!

Somewhere in amongst all that we went out for a drive in the country and accidentally found Claydon Hall. That is, I knew it was there, I just wasn't entirely sure where 'there' was. One day, when I think I can do so without spending the next day wondering if I'm about to breathe my last, we must go and do the tourist thing there.

Which led me to find this: Parthenope's Owl Book, written by Florence Nightingale's sister, Lady Verney. I believe she is the Lady Verney after whom the Lady Verney High School in High Wycombe, popularly known as the Lazy Virgins' Home for Scrubbers, was named. That was the High School I didn't go to. Who knows, maybe I would've been better off if I had done. God knows Wycombe High School did me no favours.

(This has been much on my mind of late because of the A-level results coming out. Apparently Bs and Cs don't count at all any more - and I heard a Paralympic athlete on the radio this morning being quite miserable about his bronze medal - which makes me wonder, why even bother any more? Why not just have pass and fail grades and have done with it, since it seems to be going that way anyway? Mercifully - for all concerned - I have no children, and shall, god willing, never myself have to take another exam, so it's all moot.)

Did you know I have no A-levels and never went to University? Does it show very much? One day I will explain How Things Were in Them Thar Days, but I don't have the strength at the moment.

I've been ill for well over a year now, and it occurred to me to wonder today what things were like this time last year. Thanks to the miracle of the internet, I was able to find out. They were like this: super-tired, unable to eat properly, panicky and prone to insomnia. What a long way we have come. Wait, no - we have made practically no progress at all. Will you get on with it, please, Churchill? Just go ahead and bloody well fix me, already!

I mean, how hard can it be?!

Pants

If I should die unexpectedly - which isn't entirely out of the question, which, I suppose, means it wouldn't really be unexpected, but wotthehell - then please do not judge me too harshly on the evidence of my underwear drawer. I do sometimes fold my pants neatly, but other times I just think "Why?" and "Wherefore?" and "Inasmuch as which?" and then it all goes to hell.

My wardrobe's in a bit of a state, too, I never did sort out winter and summer clothes this year. And then there are all the books I've read that're waiting to be reviewed, and all the books I've reviewed that're waiting - ever so patiently - to be shelved, or Oxfamed, or whatever. All in all it's a bit of a mess, and I really do hope I don't die for a while yet so that I have a chance to sort it out.

From which you will gather that I'm feeling a bit under the weather and sorry for myself. I am indeed, but it's probably nothing more than post-chemo wossname. This was my third week of poxytaxel, so the side-effects have had time to build up. I hope they'll build down again, or whatever the term is, over the course of next week, which is my week off from treatment. At the moment I'm suffering from a triple whammy: the chemo is making my skin smell, I'm extra-sensitive to smells anyway, and a rat appears to have crawled into my mouth and died. My finger ends are very sore - I just bit off all my fingernails this morning, as they seemed to be adding to the sensitivity, and it actually does appear to have helped a bit - and I'm very tired, headachy, and shaky.

It's Not Nice. And I really do hope it's bloody well worth it. I expect a full accounting from the consultant next time I see her - something, btw, for which I don't yet have an appointment - and if the tumours haven't shrunk this time, then I shall want to know the reason why.

I shall want to know, but you can bet your boots I'll be too polite to ask.

It has been a busy, busy time since last I updated, a time of many visitors. You will recall that I whine bitterly when left alone for too long and not entertained 24/7, but, on the other hand, having to stay conscious and interact with humanity is very exhausting. But worth it! Please keep coming! Sunday before last it was Nairne (lemon cupcakes); Monday was the district nurse, who doesn't count, but in the afternoon we went out to see Rebecca and her husband, and their lovely kittens (caramel cupcakes). Tuesday was an uneventful, aside from an unplanned and unexpected fit of weeping, chemo session (no cupcakes at all, but free coffee and biscuits, and a sandwich that appeared to have escaped from the 1960s: two slices of white bread with margarine and one slice of filling. Still: free, so it's all good). On Wednesday Penny came down from Brigg (Hotel Chocolat tasting box!! We have a winner!!!), and on Thursday she and Judy went off to the quilt show at the NEC in Birmingham (no food was involved here, but Judy brought me back a pair of enamel earrings. Not quilted).

What I am very much hoping is my final birthday pressie for this year (because it's getting embarrassing; I'm really not that nice) popped through my letterbox sometime during the course of that week: a tummy chakra Trollbead from LM. Thank you, my dear! It was most timely; I put it on a chain and wore it to hospital on Friday, that being the high point of last week: my ascitic drain!

Ascitic drain #5, was this, or only #4? I have lost count, and it really doesn't matter, however many it is it would be too many. Drains are so nasty. They say they give you lots of local anaesthetic, but you can feel them poking around at your tummy and then, all of a sudden, BARBED WIRE THROUGH YOUR INNARDS, and even a big, grown-up lady such as I has a hard time not to snivel like a great weedy wet. Other than the treatment, the Churchill didn't do too badly; not perfect - lots of hanging around, lots of miscommunication - but everything turned out all right, and I even got to go home the same evening, which is a first. Just as well too, probably, as Judy and I had left poor Penny languishing on her own at home. Fine hosts we are.

On Saturday it was my turn to be left Home Alone, as Penny and Judy drove down to Gloucestershire to see Penny's mum. That's a lie, actually, I wasn't Home Alone at all, Lynn came up especially to babysit. It is a bit embarrassing to need a babysitter at my age, but, it's true, I'm not comfortable being in the house on my own any more. If I were taken ill, I'm sure I could get myself taken care of - but the bad cats are another matter. As I understand it, you actually can't leave them to fend for themselves, it isn't legal - and I wouldn't anyway. Of course. So, Lynn is really mostly there to babysit the cats, who actually quite like her (this, with our cats, is saying something). That makes me feel better ...

Lynn went home early on Sunday afternoon, Judy and Penny came back a few hours later, and there was Indian food. Hurrah! Never mind that I can only manage a starter and a Naan bread, hurrah! notwithstanding.

On Monday it was like a very small-scale version of Piccadilly Circus in our sitting room, as the district nurse came and went, Penny prepared to depart and my brother and his wife and bear arrived. (The bear had come to pay court to my own bear, Theodosia, as it appears they are of a like age, and who is to say that bears do not need love like the rest of us?) Michelle had booked a local hotel so that she and Tim could stay overnight and spend some extra time with us, which was a lovely thought. So, having more time than usual, we set out to see the sights of Bicester. One problem here: there really aren't any. The best we could manage was Bicester Village, and the best thing about that is the gelato stand ...

... food does seem to feature prominently in these blogs, doesn't it? No wonder I have never faded into a wide-eyed cancer waif.

And so to Tuesday, and another uneventful chemo session, only notable for my brother rather than Judy being with me. It was actually his birthday, and I don't know whether taking your sister to chemo is really something most people would aspire to by way of celebration, but hey. He got to witness me flaking out on Piriton, which, I believe, is very amusing. It makes the nurses laugh, anyway. And it was nice to have him around for longer, even if I was only semi-conscious for some of it.

Just about the only one of the usual suspects we haven't seen around here of late is the Gentleman Caller, and there is a very good - or maybe a very bad - reason for that: the poor old GC has been in hospital himself, in Cheltenham General, suffering from pneumonia. Judy and I drove down there to visit him yesterday. I am pretty sure that the universe occasionally sends me to other hospitals to remind me not to bitch about the Churchill so much. Cheltenham General is built on a Victorian core, and is an absolute maze inside - we walked miles to find the GC's ward, and then again on the way back, and I am pretty sure all we really had to do was abseil out his window - and ... well: a bit depressing, to be quite honest. And it has no facilities. The Churchill has a posh coffee shop - okay, it's a Costa; it has a coffee shop - and a rather nice boutique, and a wig shop, and a decentish W H Smiths in the lobby, plus a Friends' Cafe upstairs, and a restaurant somewhere so far away I have never bothered to go looking for it. CG didn't have anything like that. There was a WRVS shop, but even that was closed. I had originally had the tactful intention of just saying hello to the GC and then leaving him and Judy to talk, but I ended up staying. It is a little bit odd having a conversation with someone else's Gentleman Caller in their pyjamas. (He was wearing the pyjamas, I mean. Obviously.) I am glad to report that he seemed very much better than he'd sounded when Judy last spoke to him and, in fact, we heard today that he's being sent home tomorrow. Which is excellent, and I hope he takes better care of himself in future. He is a very nice Gentleman Caller, as Gentlemen Callers go.

It's possible that a long drive the day after chemo might account for how rotten I feel today. Never mind. We didn't do much today except go and do a Tesco shop in Brackley. And tomorrow we are expecting Lynn again, to come and stay for the weekend. There is never a dull moment.

Actually, there are plenty of dull moments. And plenty of scary, or at least worrisome moments. But why focus on those? Life is poo enough without fussing about the bad bits.

Pants, in fact. Hurrah for visitors and friends and cupcakes and anything else that will take my mind off it all even for a little while. Hurrah, and thank you! I may be a snarky old bat, but I really do appreciate it.

Today was gonna be the day

It's Monday, it's the 13th, the Olympics are over, and it's raining. Today never stood a chance, really.

Still, it might have been improved if the district nurse had managed to come and do my bloods and dressing change ("Which part of 'weekly' do you not understand?"). We managed to persuade them to come out just in time to get the blood samples up to the Churchill in time for chemo tomorrow, but it was all rather stressful, and it took hours afterward for my jaw to become unclamped. What with this, and with all the arguments between them and the chemo nurses as to what equipment who should supply, it would really be simpler just to keep going up to the Churchill to get it done. Simpler, but time- and petrol-consuming, so the district nurse it is. For our sins.

I have also still heard nothing about my ascitic drain. I was going to phone the Macmillan nurses today, but their number's on my mobile, and my mobile was out of charge, and the charger was in my go bag, and the go bag was in the boot of Judy's car ...

The blood transfusion went off without a hitch, though. It was quite pleasant, actually, getting to lie down on a nice, cosy bed and doze without guilt with the Olympic show jumping talking away to itself in the background (I was much taken with the jumps, especially Stonehenge and the Uffington White Horse - although, as I said at the time, the Cerne Abbas Giant would have been more of a challenge. And funnier). Whether it's had any effect at all, I'm sure I couldn't tell you. We went out this afternoon to see Rebecca and her kittens, stayed about an hour, and, when I got home, I went to bed and crashed out for almost four hours, so draw your own conclusions.

We put the blood transfusion to the test last Thursday and made a small Expotition to the Uffington White Horse - the real one, I mean - which is about an hour's drive away. I wasn't able to manage the hill that leads up to it, walking across the field before the hill wore me out, but we were close enough to see it, and that's the main thing. And it's so high up that you get lovely views all around. Well, almost all around. If you look out over Dragon Hill, you can see Didcot Power Station in the distance, which rather takes the magic out of it all.

We stopped in Wantage on the way back, mostly for a wee. I have never been to Wantage before, let alone weed in it, and I do say you should try to do something new every year. (Last year I got cancer. That doesn't count.) On my 30th birthday I flew to America for the first time, but these days I have to be less ambitious. There is very little to say about Wantage, which looks as if it used to be pretty but is now the poster child for zero economic growth. It always makes me think of Georgette Heyer (because of Hero Wantage in Friday's Child), and is, apparently, the birthplace of Alfred the Great. He has a statue in the High Street, with a plaque on it that says Alfred found learning dead and he restored it/education neglected and he revived it/the laws powerless and he gave them force. He sounds like a useful type, and would get my vote. I bet he could beat the crap out of any shiny-faced Tory you may care to name.

That was quite enough in the way of Expotitions for the time being, after that I mostly stayed home and flumped. Nairne came and visited on Sunday afternoon, so it has been quite a social sort of week.

It has also been an excellent week for pressies, as no fewer than three people separately decided that I needed a book off my wishlist, and Prince Charles sent me choklit. Okay, it wasn't really Prince Charles, it was my sister, but Prince Charles made it. With his own hands. He may or may not have been wearing one of those little white hats while he did it ... I don't know why this all happened, but I am very grateful. I have recently been determinedly dragging out the started-and-never-finished books from my bedside table and finishing them, no matter what, and now I am down to only five. That's not only five unread books, obviously, there's a whole bunch all out of place on one of the children's bookcases, and three stacks in my study, and also, I suspect, an awful lot that got sorted into the shelves and forgotten about ... but still, I might run out of books one day. It shall not be this day. Thank you, everyone!

More good news: our friend Caro's Maine Coon Aurora went missing, whilst heavily pregnant, last week, and was gone for at least two days. But she came home again, hurrah! and last night she had her babies - two of them - which Caro has named after us. I am most flattered and honoured. The kitten is undoubtedly prettier and quite certainly cuter than I shall ever be, and probably has better hair, too (post-chemo frizz: grey post-chemo frizz; it's not a good look), but hey.

More chemo tomorrow, quite earlyish this week. That's #2 out of the current three sessions. After #3 I expect to find out what the consultants have planned in the way of further treatment. Or, knowing the Churchill as I do: possibly not.

The drugs don't work

We saw the consultant (or a consultant, at least, I don't think I'd ever seen her before) today. Eventually. There was an hour's wait first. Of course there was.

Was it worth the wait? Well, she told me that last week's CT scan showed no improvement in the abdominal growths and, in fact, it showed up a new one (or an established one that'd grown; Judy and I heard different things) on the pelvis, from which I think we can take it that the current course of chemo isn't working. I'm going to have another three-week course of one dose of poxytaxel per week, starting today, and then I presume they'll try something else. At least, I hope they will. There isn't really a lot of point, but I suppose they have to at least look as if they're trying.

The consultant also wanted me to have a blood transfusion; that's scheduled for tomorrow. I also have to have yet another ascitic drain, which should be in the next couple of weeks, assuming the Churchill doesn't fk it up. About as welcome as a cup of cold sick, that one, it is hurty hurty HURTY, but it has to be done before I go POP and die fast and messily instead of slowly and drearily.

So no. Not really worth the wait at all. Next time I am going to demand to see the alternate universe consultant, the one who sings her diagnoses in Disney songs ("The pharmaceutical industry thanks her/Its profit margins depend on cancer") and scatters pixie dust far and wide.

That will be far more satisfactory.

Bite me

The past week has somehow managed to be tedious beyond belief and also more-than-verging-on-the-shambolic, in more or less equal measures. I'm sure it ought not to be this difficult to arrange basic, routine medical maintenance; and I'm also certain it shouldn't be up to the patient to do so. However ...

Monday morning we were up bright and early, or at least early, in order to get to the Churchill for a CT scan by 8.30. Erring on the side of caution, as we do tend to do - for we are very old ladies, and old ladies do tend to be cautious - we actually got there closer to 7.30. Which made no difference, I hardly need say, we still had to wait for our appointment. It was a different scanner, this time; the nurse said it was a little bigger than the other one. Fine by me, so long as it's not smaller. I have to close my eyes when I go through the Stargate as it is. I got cannulated, and I got scanned, and then I had the contrast dye inserted and got scanned again, and then we went home. With the rest of the day ahead of us, wide-open and full of promise, we ... well, I went to back to bed, and then faffed about on the computer a bit. I don't know what Judy did. That's pretty much all I ever do, and I'm heartily sick of it, I can tell you.

Incidentally, and apropos of nothing at all, there is a house en route to the hospital that has a chicken on the wall. It always has a chicken on the wall, and we have come to the conclusion that it must be a fake chicken. Why would anyone have a fake chicken on their wall? Beats the hell out of me, but live and let live, I say. They're not the only people to have odd ornaments; in Woodstock Road, just before you get into Oxford, there are three, count 'em, three houses with gargoyles (Stephen Fry would tell you they are 'grotesques', not gargoyles, since they don't drain away water, but, really, who cares?) on their roofs, and another with a pollarded tree that has a pottery chicken perched on top of it. Last year they must have decided that the old pottery chicken was getting a bit scruffy, so they replaced it with a new one - or maybe repainted the old one, I didn't ask. It's things like this that have gradually reconciled me to Oxford, although it's still not a patch on London. The Botanical Gardens, just for a kick-off, cannot hold a candle to Kew, even with their Will/Lyra associations. I really miss Kew. I once almost wrote a children's book set in Kew, but abandoned it after a few chapters - which, people who keep telling me I ought to write a book, is why I don't write a book. I don't because I can't, and I can't because I don't. Impasse.

Back to life: back to reality. Back to the here and now ...

Tuesday I was up early, although not quite so early as Monday, to be ready for the district nurse, who was due to come and change my PICC dressing. Up she turned, as promised, flushed the line, cleaned the area - I'm afraid that patch of my arm is likely to turn albino and grow mushrooms from never seeing the light of day - and re-dressed it in a rather unconventional manner, putting the clear dressing on over the whole bloody lot. This suits me fine, it makes it much more discreet and keeps it from getting caught on things, but how in the world are you supposed to use it if it's dressed like that? Not that it was due to be used, but nevertheless. So that happened. And, once again, with the whole day ahead of us (see above).

Wednesday! Up early! Off to the GP this time, to get pre-clinic bloods taken. "Why didn't the district nurse do that while she was there?" you ask, and the answer is, because the chemo clinic didn't give us a blood pack. They also didn't give us a dressings pack for next week, but more on that later. So my poor little elbow, which hadn't had a chance to recover from Monday's cannula, got punctured once again. Not unnaturally, it tried to show its displeasure by refusing to stop bleeding, but we came to a civil agreement in the end. And home. And ... nada. That was the excitement for the day.

My poor arm is a total mess, btw. Some nasty something in my bedroom keeps biting me, so as well as bruises and lumps from having needles stuck into it twice in one week, it's also covered in bug bites and, because my first instinct was to blame the cats, claw marks from Frontlining Molly. (Jenny is more amenable, and I sneaked up on Shadow when he wasn't paying attention.) The whole thing is a disaster area. And I'm still getting bitten. I think it's a flying thing rather than a hoppy thing, and I wish it would just sod off and die. I can't be that tasty, surely?

On Thursday nothing happened at all. I was so bored and miserable I almost started screaming. One of these days I probably shall do,and then the problem will be stopping me again.

Friday was better. We went into Bicester to do some basic wandering-round-the-shops - not that the shops in Bicester are especially thrilling, and not that I can afford to buy anything - and in the evening we went out for a meal with a bunch of people I used to work with. Which was lovely on every possible level, except that afterwards Mr Crab tried to kill me in the night (in the course of which the loo seat in the Comedy Bathroom - don't ask - broke - don't ask about that, either - and now the lid smacks me on the back every time I sit down). That made for a very subdued sort of Saturday, although I did find myself getting quite excited about the Olympics, such is the insidious power of the zeitgeist, what with all the medals and things. And people on Twitter taking the piss out of the Daily Mail (what else is one to do with the Daily Mail? It would be nice, but probably dangerous, to ignore it. It was quite depressing, sitting in the waiting room on Monday, to see not just one but two people reading the thing and, apparently, soaking up every racist, reactionary word).

I do hope that people who are politically opposed to the Olympics are at least letting their kids enjoy it. My mother hated sports, and wouldn't have them in the house. If not for her, who knows, maybe I would have run faster, jumped higher, not flung myself to the ground, arms over my head, and yelled "Incoming!" any time someone lobbed a ball in my direction - and, who knows, I might have been happier, healthier, saner; I might even not have got cancer. We shall never know. Mens sana in corpore sano, that's all I can say. Of course, it also didn't help that the generation of teachers I was lumbered with were not yet the tweedy, be-sandalled "Let me be your friend!" type, but a bunch of old harridans who had 'domina' mixed up with 'dominatrix', and our PE teacher was an absolute horror. Even the sporty girls thought so, and were the first to raise a cheer on the wonderful occasion when she got hit on the head by a hockey ball, poetic justice if ever there was. (She wasn't killed, it's okay, we weren't entirely heartless - although I don't say we would have cared if she had been. Nor, sadly, did she go through a personality change as a result.)

I managed to do a little bit of housework yesterday, in the form of taking down the curtains in my bedroom and study and washing them. And dusting the rings and poles and things, and then hanging the curtains back up again. They're a little bit wrinkly, and would probably have benefited from being ironed, but I think we all know that's never gonna happen. All of this usually gets done in March, but I figure I have a pretty good excuse for being a little late this year. The net - and I love net curtains as much as any sane person, but it's a necessity, otherwise half the street could see straight into my bedroom (possibly not, given lines of vision and light diffraction, or do I mean refraction, and other science-y sorts of things, but I'm not taking the chance) - didn't get done, but (don't I say 'but' a lot?) I think I'm going to get a new one, this one's eight years old, because that's how long we've been here now, and getting pretty grunky. So: housework. Go,me! And also, someone sent me a book - a P G Wodehouse 'Psmith' collection - from my Amazon wishlist, which cheered me up. I don't know who it was, there wasn't anything to say, but thank you, whoever you may be!

Sunday now, and Mr Crab is still a bit bitey. That's nothing to the bitey thing in my room, which, I discovered yesterday morning, had got me twice on my face. It didn't bite last night - I washed such of my pillows that can be washed, and maybe I've drownded it, I do hope so - but I don't want to speak too soon. I really ought to vacuum, but, again, I think that's not going to happen, not today, anyway. Possibly tomorrow. Possibly not.

Tomorrow, by all rights, I should have been going to see the consultant, but I had a letter midweek to tell me they were changing it to Tuesday. It's at 2.30 or, to put it another way, 'whenever we can get to you', and I'm supposed to be having chemo at 3.30, so that should be entertaining. It has also screwed up my nice, tidy plans to get bloods and dressing change done by the chemo nurses while I was there. Instead, I'm going to have to go back to the GP's for bloods tomorrow morning - and another needle jabbed into the same old poor, abused vein - and get the dressing changed on Tuesday. Yes, it would have been easier if I could have got the district nurse in to do both, but, as previously noted, the clinic didn't give us a second dressings pack, and no blood pack at all. Hence frantic running around and rearranging on my part. Which is where I came in.

And that was the week. That was.

Being boring

Here's a mystery. I'm never hungry when I wake up in the morning - that whole "breakfast is the most important meal of the day" thing is quite wasted on me. So why am I always starving when I wake up in the middle of the night?

Luckily it turns out that night starvation can be cured by eating a dream burrito. Don't ask. (I suppose it was a burrito. I've never actually eaten a real one. I believe they include ground beef, and even Mr Crab doesn't fancy that.)

So. Last week. The weather, just for one thing. Weeks and weeks and weeks of nothing but torrential rain until I wanted to scream, then, from nowhere, sun. Hurrah! And more sun. Not so hurrah. Even more and hotter sun. *woe* and scuttle indoors to hide in the shade. Some form of moderation. Is that so much to ask?

Monday morning heralded the first visit of the district nurse, who arrived at 10.00 and caught me in my nightie. Still, I daresay she's seen people in their nighties before, and mine is fairly respectable, as nighties go. She changed my PICC dressing and took bloods for chemo, and all went swimmingly. Of course, it then all promptly fell apart, because we had to be at the Churchill on the following two Mondays, and, no matter how I explained what needed to be done, nobody was able to grasp it, or to give us the equipment we'd need. So now, in theory, district nurse is coming tomorrow for the next dressing change, and I'm getting pre-consultant bloods taken at my GP's on Wednesday; and next week, when we'll be at the hospital anyway, I'll ask the DTU to do the dressing change and pre-chemo bloods. And we shall see if all goes according to plan. But, really: it wasn't that complicated!

My brother came to visit later on Monday morning. Judy had gone to have lunch with a friend, so he and I sat out in the garden to talk, and admire the gliders (of which there were about six zooming around). Tuesday was chemo, the third cycle of the third round, and that went unusually smoothly - I actually got seen almost at once, and we were only there for three hours or so. As usual, I was asleep for most of it - I got a bed this week, which is always nice - so I don't know if anything exciting happened. Probably not. If it did, I've forgotten it.

Judy was away again on Wednesday, on an overnight trip to Leicester this time. A thrill a minute, it is. I managed not to get sick this time, so hurrah for me! Macmillan was doing a web chat on benefits, so I joined in that. It wasn't much use (no use at all, to be brutally truthful), but it gave me something to do, and gave me the illusion of company. And the rest of last week ...? Um ... I dunno. I don't think we did anything. And it is entirely possible that that is quite literally true.

Oh, what a world, what a world.

No, I lie. Tsk, I'll be going to hell, then. I suppose that's news to exactly nobody. We both went out Friday lunchtime, to have lunch with our friends Sabine and Nigel and their daughter Karen, and say 'happy birthday' to Sabine. It was still too bloody hot, but otherwise generally pleasant, and almost like having a real social life. I felt awful afterwards, though, probably due to unwisely having a (one; 1) cider. I never do know what to drink in a pub if you can't drink. Fizzy water is the sensible option, I suppose, but I do rather resent paying over the odds for water just because it's in a bottle.

Did I mention that Sabine ran the Race for Life the other week, with my name on her card? I thought perhaps I hadn't. Well, she did. ♥ is all I can say.

Speaking of all things sporty, we sat down and watched the Olympics opening ceremony on Friday night, all prepared to be jaded and cynical. It took about five seconds to win us over, and would have been even faster than that if we'd tuned in in time to see Mr Cumberbunny's intro (it's okay, I found it on YouTube later). Bless Danny Boyle: anyone who wants to celebrate children's literature, and the NHS, and Britrock, and - what was it that mad Tory Tweeted? "Leftie multiculturism"? - is all right by me.

Yes, I expect the money could have been better spent elsewhere. But it wouldn't have been, you know. It never is.

Weekend? I don't believe anything happened then, either, except that when we went shopping in Brackley we drove out of the sun into the rain both ways, which seems a trifle unfair.

This morning we had what I think of as a hideously early start, although actually it's no earlier than most people - including me, when I'm working - start for work, so as to get to the Churchill for 8.30 for a CT scan. We actually got there just after 7.30, because there wasn't any traffic, but such is the way of the world. It didn't mean I got seen any earlier, that would be too much to hope for. There were no problems with the scan, but it's a long way back to Bicester after you've had to drink five cups of water ... And I feel a bit crummy now, either from a bad night last night and a six o'clock wake-up call, or from the resolution dye, or from both. Who knows? I expect it will pass. The water already did ... oh, sorry. Too much information?

Two more earlyish starts tomorrow and Wednesday, for the district nurse and the GP respectively; then nothing until next Monday, when I see the consultant and find out how Mr Crab is coming along. I would like to think he's shrinking and fading away, but he has been a bit bitey of late. Which is always something of a worry.

Also bitey: something in my bedroom. The cats have been Frontlined - not without incident and injury - but I suspect a flying thing rather than a hoppy thing. Maybe the Frontline will work on everything, regardless. I hope so. Life's tough enough without having to go through it itchy.

I am so bored. Does it show? My mother always told me that only boring people were bored. I fear the old bat was perfectly correct. Luckily she's dead, so I don't have to tell her so.

Okay, now I'm going to hell.

Brighten my Northern sky

Well, internets, what a long, strange week it's been. Last Saturday morning I woke up in hospital, post-ascitic drain; yesterday I woke up in a hotel room in Manchester, post-Springsteen. What a difference a day makes. Or seven. Whatever.

In between these two things, I had a birthday. A big number, but not an important one. I'd asked people not to make too much fuss about it since, without wanting to sound like a self-righteous Facebook meme, all I really want is to not have cancer, and you can't gift-wrap that. But I got lots of books just the same, and several pairs of pyjamas (pyjama bottoms v useful for hospital, you can wear them under the hospital gown if you need to, and they're the best thing when you're having a drain, it looks stupid having a tube poking out the bottom of your nightie), and Lush stuff, and things; things including a Moomintroll tote bag (from lovely friend Joan) and a Troll bead and two rosebushes (from Judy, who is lovely by default). Equally lovely friend Nairne dropped by in the afternoon, fresh from a holiday in the Dominican Republic and, oh, yes, getting engaged, and showed off her absolutely-perfect amethyst ring; she brought some Gü choklit cake bars, too, so I even had birthday cake in manageable-sized chunks. And so everything in the garden was wonderful. (Everything in the garden actually is wonderful, as a matter of fact, and I would upload photos to prove it, only one of the side-effects of being ill, or possibly just of taking so many DRUGZ, is that I'm permanently shaky, so any photographs I take are seriously Dopplered.)

Because I am a girl who knows how to have fun, on Monday we were back at the Churchill again to get a PICC line inserted in my arm. That took an unconscionably long time; we were booked in for 10 in the morning, but it turns out they book everyone in for 10, and then take them one at a time. I was last, that probably goes without saying. It went okay, although I had some last-minute qualms about whether I really wanted it done just before I went miles and miles away for two nights - but the line nurse assured me it would be fine, which it was. The only slight hitch was that she inserted slightly too much line, and they had to pull it back 4 cm or so. I'm told this is not unusual. Maybe it's just me, but I feel it should be. Anyway, PICC line: sorted, and they even christened it by taking my pre-chemo bloods through it.

Tuesday - surprise, surprise - back to the Churchill again, this time for an afternoon chemo session, and I have to say that the PICC line really did save a lot of time, and a lot of painful jabbing. Other than that, the whole thing was pretty much unremarkable. The pre-chemo Piriton sent me to sleep, which it always does and which, on the whole, I think is a good thing, else I'd have to stay awake and read the hospital magazines, some of which date back to 2005 and all of which are still to this day obsessed by Princess Di.

Wednesday we wandered into Bicester; Judy got her nails done, and I pottered around and did a few useful bits and pieces. I didn't get my hair cut off, there was a huge, long wait, but I established that the walk-in salon will do it without making "Eww, icky cancer!" noises. So one would hope, but you never know. 

Lynn arrived on Wednesday evening, to house- and cat-sit for us while we were away, and we set out for Manchester late Thursday morning. I was vaguely worried/annoyed to find that, for the second week in a row, my ankles had swollen up - which I suppose must be a chemo side-effect - but since they had un-swollen again the previous week without too much bother I decided not to stress about it.

The drive went smoothly and without undue incident, and we got to the hotel mid-afternoon. Checked in. Discovered, to my distinct lack of amusement, that, whilst Premier Inn are happy to advertise hotel rooms "from £27 per night", ours was going to cost us £50 for the Thursday and £100 for the Friday. We could've booked a proper hotel for that, or near enough. It was a horrid room, too; small enough that I was afraid it would trigger my claustrophobia, and absolutely boiling hot. It was 23 degrees when we checked in, and only got hotter. That meant having to leave the window open - as much as it would open - all night, which meant constant traffic noise, which meant goodbye to the hotel's "good night's sleep" guarantee.

Friday morning I pretty much insisted we go out, because I couldn't stay in that room all day. I'm afraid that I shall never love Manchester (I've just noticed that I've typed 'Birmingham' for 'Manchester' throughout this blog, and have just had to go back and change it. All these places are alike to me) - as I was saying, never love Manchester as perhaps its natives love it. It was absolutely pissing down with rain, and didn't stop all the time we were there, and nothing looks its best under those circumstances, but I'm not entirely certain Manchester has a best to look. No doubt I'm wrong. We didn't do much except stagger round the Arndale Centre and pick up a few bits and pieces, but that was more than enough for me, I had to keep finding excuses to sit down as it was. Then we got a taxi back to the hotel, and got lost. We got found again pretty fast, but still. Unimpressed.

There were rather a lot of taxis involved in our flying visit. It's not my usual mode of transport, but when you're in a completely strange town, not very well, and it is, as I said before, pissing down, you don't really want to be standing around waiting for a bus to who-knows-where.

So, back to the hotel, to doss about in the nasty, hot, stuffy room until such time as we could reasonably get changed and make a move stadium-wards. On the whole, it's as well we didn't leave it too late, since the reception staff had made a total hash of ordering cabs for people going to the concert, and the lobby was in chaos. We just grabbed the first taxi we saw, on the grounds that if it wasn't ours then it ought to be, and took another stray couple along with us as a proffering to the taxi-gazumping gods, if there are any. Horribly congested roads all the way to the stadium, but we got there in the end; avoided getting our bags searched, not that there was really anything in there that could be objected to - I had, for once, remembered to take out my Swiss Army knife; climbed up, and up, and up, and up to level 3, which is about 20 miles in the air (I may, perhaps, exaggerate just ever so slightly); found our seats, and settled in for the duration.

BRUCE!!!

There is no point my trying to talk about the concert; you've either been there and get it, or you don't. There's a setlist and some linkies here. It's enough to say that for three and a half hours I almost completely forgot about being ill, and jumped around and danced (okay, jiggled from foot to foot) and waved my arms about - it is v annoying my PICC line having to be in my right arm, that's my air-punching arm - like an idiot. The woman next to me was doing the same, but rather more so, so I didn't dare sit down too much for fear I might lose an eye. (The woman next to Judy clearly hated the whole thing. There's no pleasing some people.)

And then it was all over, and there was nothing left but to pick up and go back to the hotel. Or try to. I'll draw a veil over the sheer awfulness of that experience. The authorities had decided that the best way to get rid of however many thousand people was to round up all the city centre buses they could and ferry them out that way. Which meant a bus queue ... I don't know, it must've been about a mile long, it took us a good 40 minutes to get to the end of it. And then the slow shuffle forward, eventually squeezing onto a bus with no seats left (that's when I really wished I'd had my head shaved so that I'd look properly cancery and someone would give me their seat). The bus itself only moved at a crawl, even once it got away from the stadium. And then it dropped us somewhere in Manchester - allegedly close to Piccadilly Station, but we never saw it. It was 1.00 in the morning, we were lost, and the nightlife of Manchester was just picking up steam ...

It could have been quite nasty, but, for once, the guardian angel was on duty and doing his job; a cab dropped off a fare just where we were standing, and we grabbed him before he could get away, although this involved having to crawl through a pavement barrier. Back to the hotel room, now hotter and stuffier than ever; undress, attempt to unwind, and crash.

At least we got some sleep that night.

Saturday morning we waved a thankful goodbye to all points north and headed back down the motorway again. I would never have thought I would be so grateful to see the county sign for Oxfordshire ...

So, basically - everything pretty much sucked except for Bruce; but Bruce made up for everything else sucking. I have decided that I shall give up conventional cancer treatment and instead buy a camper van and some garments fashioned of patchwork and untreated leather and just follow Bruce around the country for the rest of my life, since he clearly has miraculous healing powers that have hitherto been untapped.

Not really. I can't drive, for a kick-off. Or sew, so so much for the patchwork. Eh, well; it was a lovely thought.

To cheer me up, now that BruceDay has been and gone and I have nothing else to look forward to until The Hobbit comes out in December, I had an excellent stack of mail waiting for me: my discount voucher from work, which apparently I can still use, despite having been off sick for over a year; two £2 vouchers from the Co-op (hey, it all helps!); a bank statement that showed that the JobCentre's paid the back payment they reckoned they owed me, which is worth having; and confirmation from my hospital insurance company that they'll pay me for all my recent stays in the Churchill, which is also worth having. (I know it's not polite to talk about money, but it is such a worry.)

And Lynn was well, and had even cut the lawn for us, and the cats had been good, and everything in the garden ... oh, I already said that. Well, it was. And it is.

And today the sun has come out.

View from the bedside chair

[Judy wrote this. She had lots of time for observation and contemplation yesterday. I, at least, had the occasional break. Judy pretty much got to sit for ten hours.]

“Arrive early, 9ish, so we can do bloods,” said Dr Khan on the phone.  “The radiologist doesn’t work on Friday, but we can probably do the drain on the ward.”  It all started well – we got there at 8 (no traffic!). they were actually expecting us this time, Hilary was admitted fairly quickly and there was a bed, which was even ready for her.  Amazing.  “I’ll come back and take bloods,” said the nurse.  We waited.  We waited some more.  “The doctors are in their meeting right now,” said the nurse.  More waiting.  A doctor eventually shows up, prods Hilary’s stomach, agrees it needs draining (because, I can only assume, they thought the Head Oncologist who said it needed doing might have been wrong).  “The drain will probably be done around lunchtime,” they said.  We waited.  Lunch arrived (for Hilary; they don’t feed – or even provide coffee – for visitors on this ward).  Around 2 I went to get coffee and remarked to Stuart, the helpful male nurse, that nothing had happened yet.  “I’ll chase it,” he said, and five minutes later stuck his head round the day room door, “the doctor’s on her way.”  I returned to Hilary and informed her, and sure enough a doctor did turn up to install the drain.  “I’ll go for a walk,” I said.

I went down to the lobby, browsed through the nice clothes shop and bought three T-shirts (cheap, honest) and asked after a post box.  “There’s one by the pharmacy,” I was told.  Ah, right, that’d be the pharmacy that’s right the other side of the hospital.  So I did an entire circuit, one way there, a different route back, and eventually arrived back at the ward to find the curtains still ominously drawn around Hilary’s bed.  Inserting a drain usually takes, oh, 5-10 minutes.  I had been gone a LOT longer than that.  The doctor reappeared and said, “There’s a problem,” and disappeared.  “She’s gone to check the scan,” said one of the nurses helpfully.  “There is no recent scan,” I sighed.  Doctor reappears. “Don’t worry, I checked earlier with radiology and they assured me if we couldn’t get the drain in, they would fit her in.  I’ve just rung them and they think they can do it.  They shut at 5.30.”  This was about 2.45 (so we had already been at the hospital for nearly 7 hours).  Oh, and hadn’t Dr Khan told us the radiologist didn’t work on Friday?  We called him some names, I can tell you.

We waited.  And waited.  At 3.20 I wandered out and the nurse said, “Oh!  They’re just coming for her!” and vanished, so that when the two porters did arrive 10 minutes later they had to hang around for another 10 minutes before she showed up to agree there was no need for medication.  And off Hilary went on her bed, leaving me (and Java) with a vast area of empty floor to contemplate.

I read.  I read some more.  4.30 came and went, still no Hilary.  I began to get concerned.  4.45, I mentioned my concern to the nurse, who basically shrugged, but did agree if she hadn’t showed up by 5:15 she’d ring them.  4:55, Hilary finally reappeared, with drain inserted, but no bag attached.  The nurse looked worried and vanished.  She came and took blood pressure, vanished again.  Eventually – about 5:30 – she reappeared with a senior nurse who talked her through putting the bag on the end of the drain, all the while assuring us that she was just ‘reminding’ the nurse ‘who did know how to do it’.  Right.

The drain takes about 6 hours normally, so it was obvious at this point that Hilary was going to have to spend the night.  She had a bed on the corridor side of the bay, so no window this time.  The other three ladies in the ward were all elderly, one who had been admitted because of repeated bouts of sickness, but who was determined she was going home and would be fine.  She was seen by two different lots of physiotherapists, who wanted to establish if she could walk unaided and manage steps, but when two porters arrived to take her for a scan she was surprised – no doctor had visited her or told her this was going to happen.  In fact, all three of the other women in the ward were, during the course of the day, taken for scans they hadn’t been told they would be having – although in fairness to the ward doctor who was trying to explain what was going on to one of them, he was interrupted twice by his beeper, so I’m not surprised he couldn’t keep track of what he’d told her and what he hadn’t.  The other two ladies had issues with breathing due to ascitic build-up; of course – as we have good reason to know – breathing difficulties are dealt with right over the other side of the hospital (quite near the post box, indeed) and although a chest doctor did show up and talk to one of them, it wasn’t the lovely Dr Naj and all he told her was they might be able to drain it on Monday, which basically left her on oxygen for three days ...

A gold star to the catering team, who greeted Hilary even before she had a bed and checked what she wanted for lunch and dinner, and came by to make sure she’d had it, too.  Nil out of ten for the ward organisation.  As far as I can make out, the doctors spend more time in meetings and chasing around trying to find the one person who’s allowed to make particular sorts of bookings or do particular tasks than they do actually dealing with patients ...

[The ward doctor did actually manage to get the drain in. It just ... didn't drain. So now I have two punctures. Ow. Radiology took so long because the doctor was with another patient when I got there, which took about half an hour, and then afterwards there weren't any porters for a good 20 minutes. I was a bit worried, when I got left on my bed in the corridor, that I would end up as one of those horror stories you read about in the Daily Mail, if you read the Daily Mail, which I hope you don't.  The drain is supposed to come out after six hours - it gets more painful the longer it's in. Mine got removed around midnight, but at least it did get removed. And another gold star goes to Stuart who, when I told him this morning I'd had my drain, said, "About bloody time," which I am sure nurses are not supposed to do. I re-read nearly the whole of Flora Segunda over the course of the day - a YA title vastly superior to any of the ones that get all the publicity. And also, mysteriously, my MP3 player lost Radio 2, leaving me with only Radios 1 and 3 to choose from, neither of them much use to me. On the upside: no faffing about letting me go this morning. I had breakfast, had a shower, then just went and sat in the day room until Judy turned up. That was the grimmest ward I've been on yet, other than the poo ward where I ran away.]

Arse, meet elbow

And another Churchill!fail. Yesterday, you will remember, I didn't get the tummy drain I was promised because I had a radiographer appointment but no bed. And they promised faithfully that they would fit me in tomorrow.

Today I had a phone call from Omar, the doctor I spoke to on the chemo ward on Tuesday - the one who organised, or not, the drain in the first place. Tomorrow I have a bed. But the radiographer doesn't work on Fridays ...

Can I come in Monday? No, I can't come in Monday. I'm having a PICC line inserted on Monday,and I don't know how long that will take. I can't come in Tuesday, either; I have chemo on Tuesday. Oh, and by the way, I'm in pain right now.

So he went away for a bit, and then he came back and said okay, they'd insert the drain on the ward. (I've had this done before, and it seemed to work okay.) Can I come in first thing tomorrow?

Assuming we can get out of bed and through the traffic, sure. When's 'first thing'?

10.00? he suggests. Or no: make it 9.00 so they can do bloods first.

I only had bloods done on Monday, before chemo, but whatever. At this stage, I'll say yes to pretty much anything.

So, there won't be time for an update tomorrow morning. Judy and I, my bag and my bear, will once again be wending our way through the commuter traffic, in the faint but pursuing hopes of who-knows-what.

Stay tuned.

Normal service has, unfortunately, been resumed

Remember how yesterday I blogged in some excitement because the Churchill had managed to do a few things right?

Well, scratch that. The doctor who was intelligent enough to come down and find me in the Day Treatment Unit to let me know that he'd booked me a tummy drain rather than trying to phone me at home when I wasn't there, was, unfortunately, not intelligent enough to book me a bed on the ward at the same time. No bed, no drain. So we traipsed all the way over there for the third time this week, bag all packed and bear in hand ... then hung around in the day room for a couple of hours, and then traipsed back again. Undrained. I know I said I didn't want an overnight stay, but this was not what I meant!

A nice little nurse scurried around quite determinedly on our behalf and he swears, cross his heart, that he has rescheduled both drain and bed (well, just scheduled bed, I suppose) for Friday. I'll believe it when I see it. Also, that means that I won't get my visit from Tim this week, so major sulk about that. *grump* And also it means that we will have been to the Churchill four days out of five this week, and the petrol mounts up. Imagine if I were having to do it by public transport!

It is quite a pretty drive: I'll give it that. The horse chestnuts and the hawthorn are over now, so you may cast as many clouts as may gladden your heart, but the elderflower is in bloom, and there are wild roses, poppies, moon daisies, ragwort, and some rather straggly but grimly determined Queen Anne's Lace. And everything is very green. Everything that isn't under a foot of water, that is.

I may sound quite resigned and chirpy about the Churchill fking up, but I am actually so cross that my jaw has locked quite tight and I keep having to massage it to loosen it up again. Grrrrrr.

I have often felt inclined to get my treatment moved to the Horton, which is near Banbury. But (a) I have no guarantee that it would be any better - it's run by the same hospitals trust - and (b) I don't know how to go about it.

And no, LM, I don't really think that moving to Wales is a viable solution!

Never mind. Here is Java Bear, who comes to hospital with me and cheers me up.

He had his work cut out for him today, I can tell you.

Dies mirabilis

The Churchill was actually reasonably efficient today.

Yes, I'll give you a moment to recover before I go on.

Okay. You ready? Right:

1) Rose the Senior Chemo Nurse got the cannula in first time;

2) The chemo team had passed on my details to the line nurses, so I'm set (at least in theory) for a PICC line next week. Happy birthday to MEEEE;

3) A doctor from the oncology ward came down to find me in the Day Treatment Unit (where I was) to let me have the details of my next tummy drain instead of trying to phone me at home (where I was not);

4) We got through treatment in under four hours. Yay!

Let me rewind a wee bitty bit. Yesterday I saw the oncologist, which turned out to be Dr Nicum herself (I usually get a 

random registrar). She thinks I'm looking better - but then, I was practically at death's door last time I saw her, so I'm not sure that's saying much - and I certainly feel a lot better. Not physically so much, alas, but mentally; I've been in this awful mental fog for ages where I could barely speak or think or function and, by contrast, I'm now almost back to normal (not that that's saying much, and nor is it getting my book reports written; not that that matters, it's only for LibraryThing). I even came up with my very own intelligent question about what to do when we're in Manchester next week if I happen to be taken ill, which god forbid. (Answer: phone the usual triage number, but, if it's bad, go to Manchester A&E and shout "I'M ON CHEMO!" at them. I wonder if I could ask them about HIPEC at the same time ...?) However, my CA125 levels are still stupidly high, and, as you will have gathered, I need another tummy drain to get rid of a build-up of ascites. I was really hoping that the chemo would stop the ascites, but evidently not. Oh, well. It's a bugger, but never mind.

Oh - Shibani asked what we were going to Manchester for and, before we could answer, the student she had sitting in with her muttered "Bruce". That's my girl!

We also mentioned the problem the chemo nurses have been having with my veins, so she sent us off to the Day Unit to refer it to the line nurses and get the ball rolling. Which we did. While we were there, we got one of the chemo nurses to take my bloods, which saved waiting for the phlebotomist, who appeared to be on a go-slow; it was taking something like 15 minutes per person, and I reckon she was popping out for a cup of tea and a fag in between each patient. In which case, god help her.

So: consultant and bloods on Monday, chemo today, drain tomorrow, no jam ever. And my hair is falling out for the second time. FML, or not? 

Maybe not. As we all know, there are - all together now - plenty worse off. And hey, at least it means we get out of the house every day.

On a brighter note, my lovely sister Penny and her husband Mak came for a visit on Sunday - eventually; they got lost a couple of times en route. My nephew Ben had been going to come too, but I'm told he was too hungover. Tsk. Penny and Mak live in Penzance, so obviously I hardly ever see them, but they'd been on holiday to Bruges (churches and art galleries, apparently) and had stopped off in Bristol, where quite a lot of my family seems to have washed up, on the way home. It was wonderful to see them, even though Penny unerringly sat down next to the one bit of the sitting room I hadn't dusted properly! My unspeakable younger brother seems to be being an ass to Penny too now - it's nice to know it's not just me, that's all. Also, they brought cookies, and also also I thereby discovered that I can eat cookies, indeed, two cookies at a time, and I call that a win.

I'm hoping that Tim will be able to come and see me too, on Friday; that's always good, and will (maybe) cheer me up after all the medical stuff.

(Then the weekend, and then back to the Churchill for the PICC line and bloods, and then back to the Churchill again for next week's chemo, still no jam. Tea break over, back on your heads.)

Right. Drain tomorrow, and they might want to keep me overnight. It's scheduled for 1.30, and they leave the tube in for six hours, so ... we'll see. I hope not, but, if they do, I suppose I can stand it. Note to self: pack the bear!