Chemo No 25. I’m 50 this month

1969. I was born when them Americans were on their way back from the moon. They small stepped for (a) man 3 days before and splashed in the ocean the day after. Or they were in a studio making it all up. I’ll go with the former. It has always stuck with me that I was born when this massive event was going on. The bairn went to Orlando with her mother a few years ago and brought me an Apollo 11 badge back. One of them sew’ey on ones. She knows.

The summer of 69. That Canadian chap sings a song about it. It’s still on the tellybox now as an advert. Woodstock. The best known of the big early festivals. Concorde and the Jumbo Jet made their debuts. The Beatles released their last album and jammed on a roof til the poliss turned up and they fucked off across a zebra crossing.

And as I learned recently the start of the Pride movement after the Stonewall nightclub thing. Monty Python had their first Flying Circus aired. The ‘troubles’ began in Northern Ireland. Troubles ffs. I have trouble going for a shit. What a fucking daft thing to call it.

All in all there were a few big changes and events around the time I was born. And that was 50 whole years ago.

I didn’t think I’d see 50. At one point I didn’t think I’d see last year’s World Cup. But I’m still here waffling on while sat in the chemo ward for number 25.

In better news after the episode of a month ago and the emergency trip to A&E I find myself feeling much better. I don’t eat beef or chicken now but fish and even a bacon sandwich are manageable. Small meals often. My pain levels have gone down to a point I forget to take painkillers. My oncologist even said the chemotherapy may be working. I’ve mentioned before she is Dr Doom. ‘You realise this isn’t a cure’ was my introduction to the latest chemo brew. Now all of a sudden she has had an optimism implant. It unnerves me.

The nausea lasted 6 days after the last chemo. On top of the usual fatigue. Fatigue is different to tiredness. There is no comfort in rest. It’s like someone turned up the gravity and zapped my energy cells. Nausea is different to vomiting too. I can’t just puke and feel better. My whole body feels dizzyqueasy made worse by moving.

I also felt a hopelessness I’d never felt before. Everything seemed pointless. I couldn’t feel any joy no matter what I thought about. 6 days stuck at home where making a cup of tea seemed like a mountain climb. For the first time I understood why some people don’t do chemo. I have a friend, bit younger than me, diagnosed long time after but with the dreaded spread, who isn’t having chemo. She’s currently doing bucket list stuff. I get it. However I feel a duty to nearest and dearest to hang around as long as possible. I think the best way to describe it is gruelling. So I’ll gruel away.

On day 7 I got to Roker beach with our lass and the pooch followed by fish and chips in Grannie Annies. No doubt it is not an in place but it was open and it felt like the Ritz looking out over Monaco to me given the week before it.

The bairn is off down in Cornwall with the University Airforce. And having a ball by the look of it. All things being well I’m off to collect her from Bristol on 10 July and we have a week together. I’m hoping to get up to the Lakes in a Wi-fi/cellular black spot. Walking, conversation and just a good time. Then our lass is taking me somewhere posh on my birthday. Overnight and everything. With a spa thing chucked in. Wait til they see my skin zip. From sternum to pube top. I wince when I see me in a mirror so fuck knows how it looks to others. The weight is falling off too. This is a bad thing in chemoland. So a few hard days ahead. I must get on top of the psychological side. That was new one but hopefully I’m better prepared. There’s no time for moping and self pity.

Or maybe. Ain’t no use in complainin. When you’ve got a job to do.
From the summer of 69 to the summer of 19.

All the best.
 

Keawyeds

Striker
1969. I was born when them Americans were on their way back from the moon. They small stepped for (a) man 3 days before and splashed in the ocean the day after. Or they were in a studio making it all up. I’ll go with the former. It has always stuck with me that I was born when this massive event was going on. The bairn went to Orlando with her mother a few years ago and brought me an Apollo 11 badge back. One of them sew’ey on ones. She knows.

The summer of 69. That Canadian chap sings a song about it. It’s still on the tellybox now as an advert. Woodstock. The best known of the big early festivals. Concorde and the Jumbo Jet made their debuts. The Beatles released their last album and jammed on a roof til the poliss turned up and they fucked off across a zebra crossing.

And as I learned recently the start of the Pride movement after the Stonewall nightclub thing. Monty Python had their first Flying Circus aired. The ‘troubles’ began in Northern Ireland. Troubles ffs. I have trouble going for a shit. What a fucking daft thing to call it.

All in all there were a few big changes and events around the time I was born. And that was 50 whole years ago.

I didn’t think I’d see 50. At one point I didn’t think I’d see last year’s World Cup. But I’m still here waffling on while sat in the chemo ward for number 25.

In better news after the episode of a month ago and the emergency trip to A&E I find myself feeling much better. I don’t eat beef or chicken now but fish and even a bacon sandwich are manageable. Small meals often. My pain levels have gone down to a point I forget to take painkillers. My oncologist even said the chemotherapy may be working. I’ve mentioned before she is Dr Doom. ‘You realise this isn’t a cure’ was my introduction to the latest chemo brew. Now all of a sudden she has had an optimism implant. It unnerves me.

The nausea lasted 6 days after the last chemo. On top of the usual fatigue. Fatigue is different to tiredness. There is no comfort in rest. It’s like someone turned up the gravity and zapped my energy cells. Nausea is different to vomiting too. I can’t just puke and feel better. My whole body feels dizzyqueasy made worse by moving.

I also felt a hopelessness I’d never felt before. Everything seemed pointless. I couldn’t feel any joy no matter what I thought about. 6 days stuck at home where making a cup of tea seemed like a mountain climb. For the first time I understood why some people don’t do chemo. I have a friend, bit younger than me, diagnosed long time after but with the dreaded spread, who isn’t having chemo. She’s currently doing bucket list stuff. I get it. However I feel a duty to nearest and dearest to hang around as long as possible. I think the best way to describe it is gruelling. So I’ll gruel away.

On day 7 I got to Roker beach with our lass and the pooch followed by fish and chips in Grannie Annies. No doubt it is not an in place but it was open and it felt like the Ritz looking out over Monaco to me given the week before it.

The bairn is off down in Cornwall with the University Airforce. And having a ball by the look of it. All things being well I’m off to collect her from Bristol on 10 July and we have a week together. I’m hoping to get up to the Lakes in a Wi-fi/cellular black spot. Walking, conversation and just a good time. Then our lass is taking me somewhere posh on my birthday. Overnight and everything. With a spa thing chucked in. Wait til they see my skin zip. From sternum to pube top. I wince when I see me in a mirror so fuck knows how it looks to others. The weight is falling off too. This is a bad thing in chemoland. So a few hard days ahead. I must get on top of the psychological side. That was new one but hopefully I’m better prepared. There’s no time for moping and self pity.

Or maybe. Ain’t no use in complainin. When you’ve got a job to do.
From the summer of 69 to the summer of 19.

All the best.
Always heartening to get a foggy update!

Small means and often, but bacon sarnie are ok? That's a relief.
Tapas might be a good shout. Lots of little bits of all sorts - nee gruel mind!

Get the match on tonight and cheer on the Lionesses. With hope we'll all see another England team in a World Cup final by the end of tonight!
 
1969. I was born when them Americans were on their way back from the moon. They small stepped for (a) man 3 days before and splashed in the ocean the day after. Or they were in a studio making it all up. I’ll go with the former. It has always stuck with me that I was born when this massive event was going on. The bairn went to Orlando with her mother a few years ago and brought me an Apollo 11 badge back. One of them sew’ey on ones. She knows.

The summer of 69. That Canadian chap sings a song about it. It’s still on the tellybox now as an advert. Woodstock. The best known of the big early festivals. Concorde and the Jumbo Jet made their debuts. The Beatles released their last album and jammed on a roof til the poliss turned up and they fucked off across a zebra crossing.

And as I learned recently the start of the Pride movement after the Stonewall nightclub thing. Monty Python had their first Flying Circus aired. The ‘troubles’ began in Northern Ireland. Troubles ffs. I have trouble going for a shit. What a fucking daft thing to call it.

All in all there were a few big changes and events around the time I was born. And that was 50 whole years ago.

I didn’t think I’d see 50. At one point I didn’t think I’d see last year’s World Cup. But I’m still here waffling on while sat in the chemo ward for number 25.

In better news after the episode of a month ago and the emergency trip to A&E I find myself feeling much better. I don’t eat beef or chicken now but fish and even a bacon sandwich are manageable. Small meals often. My pain levels have gone down to a point I forget to take painkillers. My oncologist even said the chemotherapy may be working. I’ve mentioned before she is Dr Doom. ‘You realise this isn’t a cure’ was my introduction to the latest chemo brew. Now all of a sudden she has had an optimism implant. It unnerves me.

The nausea lasted 6 days after the last chemo. On top of the usual fatigue. Fatigue is different to tiredness. There is no comfort in rest. It’s like someone turned up the gravity and zapped my energy cells. Nausea is different to vomiting too. I can’t just puke and feel better. My whole body feels dizzyqueasy made worse by moving.

I also felt a hopelessness I’d never felt before. Everything seemed pointless. I couldn’t feel any joy no matter what I thought about. 6 days stuck at home where making a cup of tea seemed like a mountain climb. For the first time I understood why some people don’t do chemo. I have a friend, bit younger than me, diagnosed long time after but with the dreaded spread, who isn’t having chemo. She’s currently doing bucket list stuff. I get it. However I feel a duty to nearest and dearest to hang around as long as possible. I think the best way to describe it is gruelling. So I’ll gruel away.

On day 7 I got to Roker beach with our lass and the pooch followed by fish and chips in Grannie Annies. No doubt it is not an in place but it was open and it felt like the Ritz looking out over Monaco to me given the week before it.

The bairn is off down in Cornwall with the University Airforce. And having a ball by the look of it. All things being well I’m off to collect her from Bristol on 10 July and we have a week together. I’m hoping to get up to the Lakes in a Wi-fi/cellular black spot. Walking, conversation and just a good time. Then our lass is taking me somewhere posh on my birthday. Overnight and everything. With a spa thing chucked in. Wait til they see my skin zip. From sternum to pube top. I wince when I see me in a mirror so fuck knows how it looks to others. The weight is falling off too. This is a bad thing in chemoland. So a few hard days ahead. I must get on top of the psychological side. That was new one but hopefully I’m better prepared. There’s no time for moping and self pity.

Or maybe. Ain’t no use in complainin. When you’ve got a job to do.
From the summer of 69 to the summer of 19.

All the best.
Keep on keeping on lovely man, enjoy your summer days with the missus and pooch..
Take it easy though, I'm willing some beautiful days ahead for you all xxx
 
Keep it going mate and when your birthday comes around don’t get too near the cake cos it’ll be really hot with all those candles burning ;)
 

dom

Striker
Enjoy your birthday month Foggy, I’m still not convinced that the Yanks landed men on the moon though.
 

Marcosplace

Striker
Me and another lad were talking about you in the pub last week. Tremendous writing on your thoughts. Keep it coming please.
 

Top