Chemo no 9 - it’s time to talk The Bairn, tears, snot, shit but not actually dying for a bit if that

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So here we go again, the poison is going in soon, the magic potion. Go on chaps do your stuff, get into them, fuck them up. The oncologist has already said I’m incurable so it’s merely sparring with the tumours. She told me if I stopped chemo I would have 2-3 months left before the big sleep. I’m paraphrasing but the facts are there. My tumours, I need to take ownership, I made them. Now I need to control them. I’m so fucking happy in life and would appreciate a bit more of it, so tumours just behave yourselves and no growing or spreading your death sentence to my other working parts. Please.

On a much better note, those formerly mythical creatures at Basingstoke Hospital have invited me down to discuss my options. Well whoop de fucking do. My options are simple to me. Please fix me, even if it is a temporary fix or a life extension as they call it. Anyway just slice me open, do the Hipec, take out my gizzards like a Monty Python sketch, cut out the baddies plus the margin, slow cook my belly bits that are left in, with hot chemo, put the gizzards back and stitch me up. Another scar. My midriff is already a swear word in Mandarin as it is so, so fuck. I read recurrence is ‘very common’ but a life extension is far better than a house extension or a peni… well I’ll leave it there but it’s just the best extension ok.

I’ve been here for 4 hours now and they’ve had to take my bloods again. I haven’t even started the chemo. Something clotted up. Dinnar what that means, so fuck, they’ll get round to me at some point. There’s an old bugger across the way who has been here an hour and he’s moaning on. There’s another over there who is having tea made and he’s not a patient, they don’t normally get fed and watered. That’s for us patients. Us long termers know not to bring anyone along. It’s a small room with not many seats. He’s taken one of the electric lazy boys. They’re meant to make us chemo bods feel better, or less shit, not some grumpy old entitled get. Maybe I’m generalising and being harsh but after 15 months of this I’ve found it’s the old buggers that are the miserable rude bastards. No please’s or thank-you’s. Lots of how long is this going to take’s. Anyway I’ve got the plipper for the telly so the football is going on at 3 and they can all get to fuck.

Today I am the Grouty of the chemo ward. Been here forever and in charge...
of the telly anyway.

For the keen eye’d you will notice it has been 3 weeks since my last ramble proper. Because, ladies and gentlemen, I had a holiday. I went to York at the weekend, met up with friends, barbecue, beer, crack, stayed over, city centre, pub, food, crack, train home with the hoi polloi. A bit of normalty. I don’t put the i in as it’s not quite there but it’s close. We’ve done the York thing for a few years, I missed last year altogether with my bit of a bugger on but before that it was a day long piss up by the river. But now normalty. I came home at 4 and left them to it.

Chemo started. After 6 hours and that’s fine. Shit happens. Now with the machines that go ping so thanks for your company. I bring the same book along - Backroom Boys : The Secret Return of the British Boffin - but never read it. Too busy rambling on here. I did 12 x Folfox last year and read When Breath Becomes Air - a book by a brilliant surgeon who was diagnosed with lung cancer. Sorry to put a spoiler in but he dies in the end, but it’s not like a Darth is his dad moment or owt, these things tend to turn out like that in cancerland, fantastic read though. The chemo nurses must have thought I was a bit odd but now I’m on number 21 including part 1 last year, I think they know me. I ask them how they are, how was their weekend, how are their families, where are they going for their holidays. And it’s not smalltalk, I am genuinely interested. I know who has cats, dogs, who have kids, who has twins, they’re 9 years old, who are divorced, even who has a twat for an ex husband. He pays no maintenance the absolute bastard.

These are real people, not uniforms and they are part of my keeping me alive world, they are wonderful. They are matter of fact too, we discuss constipation out loud. We all hear about each others poo. Hazey talked a lot about shit, I talked to him on here back in the day, about his childhood perversions I think it was, he left nothing out, bought the book 10 years ago but I get it more now. Here I am with my own Dark Friend except we’re not friends, fuck that, you sting like a bastard and never let me forget you’re there, I fucking hate you truth be told.

Every 2 weeks I get plugged in via Metal Mickey’s poison pump knowing I am going to feel like absolute shit for the next week, medicated to try and ease the nausea and whatnot. I take shitloads of pills, the steroids are the worst, dexamethazone. No sleep and a cranky head, but it suppresses the nausea along with the help of the other pills. They IV the first Dexa just before my starter, if they inject too fast, it lights up my arse ring - Johnny Cash style. I have my own cannabis oil, the legal one no THC like that poor lad with the epileptic fits. Even without that, it’s the nuts.
 
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Hazey - a weather condition blurring the view, ok that’s hazy. Foggy is nothing special to me. Back in the day we joined a chatroom, the Speakeasy?, to talk abut the match in progress and I was a non signed up guest, got the who Jo Guest? jibes from the regulars, looked at the telly saw Carl Fogarty won something, they called him foggy so that was me - how shite is that?- but if there’s any Blizzards, Desert Storms or even Dawn Mists on here, change your username or in 10 years you might be spouting shite on here for the likes too.

Make that 12 for a 10 year gap, my, no longer, secret target is the bairn’s graduation. There I’ve said it. I want 2 years. Truth be told I want that operation to give me even longer but I’ve found just take a bit at a time is the way.

My tears always start on the outside of the eye, left one first, I think I’m left eyed as well as handed, goes over the top bit, a blink, a roll down the cheek but not so much from the middle. That happens rarely but at night when the overwhelm of it all, the too much to deal with, turns up unannounced and takes over. Then it’s all of the eyes, a runny nose, a noise, snot, a good few wipe clears. I let it take its course, I can’t fight it so crack on. I can’t be cancer brave 100% of the time.

Beat the ‘die in 6 months’ PIP form, beat the ‘die in 12 months fast track for a pension’ form. Then…

A graduation. Please. One more milestone. I’ve just noticed I wiped my left eye. Now stop it. I’m in public. No middle eye stuff, no noise, no snot, none of that nonsense. I can’t think of the leaving her, we’re meant to be here right? Us parents. Let them go but be here to keep/put things right and fix when needed. I want to be here and not there, even if there is the big happy cloud for the good people. I say please and thank you to Alexa without thinking ffs, so that’s a good start surely?

But most of it is not up to me, I’ll do the most with the bit that is. I have a note from years ago- we are defined by the gifts we leave our children. I think I’ve done alright, separated from her mam when she was almost 4 and I can only remember one Christmas when she broke down wanting her mam and dad together. That was hard but I did my level best not to be a bitter McDonald’s dad, I never said anything about the break up, no blame, just joint support, bairn first, always.

She didn’t have a procession of new Uncles and her mam always put her first too. And knew how important I was so no Batman outfit needed here. Of course there were moments but hey ho, no arguing in front of, ever. I took her everywhere, in lots of ways being a MamDad made it better, our own holidays, me carrying her around Disneyland doing Dumbo and the Teacups but no Aerosmith or any other rollercoasters . We went up the Lakes a lot, walked up Catbells, around Keswick, Menorca, the sunsets, the waterparks, the swimming club trips came in handy, Corfu, up on a mountain top villa with snakes dropping out of trees. Films at the cinema, cheesy rubbish like Transformers, Harry Potters, Hobbits, every Pixar, Dreamworks, musicals in London, Mamma Mia, at the Empire up here, Hairspray, last year. As many ‘out of school activities’ as possible. All them bloody plays, mostly shite , but I clapped with everyone else.

The Air Cadets which gave her fantastic experiences, teamwork, trips abroad, up the Pyrenees for the Duke of Edinburgh award, Aushwitz, the Somme, up in Chinooks, gliders, parachuted after stepping out onto a wing of an aeroplane on her own. I was more frightened watching it from the ground.

Remembrance Day, every year at Durham Catherdral, Let’s Not Forget eh? Please try and go to Durham Cathedral for Remembrance, the Last Post is spine tingling and the timing is always perfect. Just go, the greatest cathedral in the world with the greatest armed forces all turning out.

The cadet thing has shaped her character in a way we as parents couldn’t. I would love to go to Auschwitz and the Somme. They’re on my bucket list along with New England ‘in the fall’ for something to go wow at. Maybe the northern lights. And Yellowstone Park. Depends on being able to get travel insurance and the terminal clause paying out on my life insurance. There’s terminal and there’s terminal apparently. Legal and General insist on 12 months til stumps before they’ll pay out. In cancerland they only really know when you haven’t got long left, when the spread becomes uncontrollable and you start to breakdown everywhere. Quickly. Just pay you buggers. It will save the executors having to fuck on later.

The bairn knows a credit card is really a debt card, saves, budgets, works, we can’t pay Uni fees like her friends’ parents, she needs a job, good. Better a work ethic than it all handed on a plate. I’m after a rescue dog, she suggested an old Labrador with grey whiskers, she’s right, that is me now, I’m no Border Collie anymore. Seems to have sense too.

Sorry for the boring dad shite, apart from a cover picture on Facebook I’ve never shared a single ‘proud dad’ moment on there. I did say I arranged the General Election last year as it was on her 18th birthday but nowt else. I’m not sure why I’m letting it all out here. Self Therapy, did I do ok? I’ll carry on.

I worked away so did the guilty weekend treats. I always got at least a Saturday once it was the big school, get the routine in place, no 3 night sleeps here and there, no constant uproot, or keep clothes and stuff here because ‘I bought them’ bullshit. Bairn first.

My gifts for birthdays and father’s day from her are things like hand drawn pictures, sometimes where we’ve been years ago, Castle Crag, framed, even drew me in pencil from a photo. I call that thoughty, always signed “To Pops”. I am lucky aren’t I?

My Father’s Day card was to ‘Popabear’ according to the envelope. Two Polar bears flying kites - one was Ursa Major, one Ursa Minor - Us!. And a verse inside, from her, a blank page filled with just her words - I won’t repeat them but oh my. Thoughty and then some…Oh and Harrods Tea Blend no 14, the hint worked. Very nice Flicky - better than the Ringtons.

Anyway back to the past, sold the big house, had a tough time financially but so glad I’m in my little home now. I prefer the memories to bricks. Some bricks matter, a roof, being dry is a bonus as is heat, but having a lot of them isn’t. I only need one toilet light anarl. I’ve given away 12 now to my ‘loved ones’. Egg man you’re next.
 
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Hug your special ones, please don’t take it for granted. The bairn is mentioning some long term future plans, career aspirations, she has a fella, Sunderland supporter, goes to the match when he’s back up here, even last season, doesn’t drink, so polite, also at a University close to hers, lovely lad, if Carlsberg did etc. She even started talking future baby names - nope not pregnant, what she wants to do as a career, I actually think a bit of her is telling me that she will be fine and cope in a future without me, bless her. Is she is giving me permission to go knowing that she will be fine?

Permission to go? I’m not ready, I’m greedy, I’m selfish, I’m 48 for fucks’ sake. I don’t want to go, I want a future, even see a grandchild. I’d be a top grandad if I do say so myself but I won’t get a chance to prove that will I? Oh shit, my eye middles are leaking, I need to wheel Metal Mickey to the toilet, we’re attached at my chest port…

My own parents taught me the rights and wrongs to start with, the do the right thing, the think of others. Pity my dad was born in Sunderland and my mam a staunch pit village, Sunderland only. I don’t mean it, I’m glad they weren’t born in Manchester or Madrid. We have season cards selling like lukewarm cakes, pink seat replacement, another div 3 campaign. Fuck the Premier and Champions’ League, the highs are higher when the climb is steeper.

And now they’re watching me fight a battle I have a slim chance of winning. I can’t imagine that, we shouldn’t see our children buried, it’s the wrong order, no matter the age.

No doubt, I believe in the power of the mind and that is all I have to get to that day. The graduation day, I’m off on a tangent. Who has the toilet lights? They are my Tinkerbells out there. Pee, believe, send a thought, believe a bit more and it will help me get there.

So. Back to shit. I described my shit once as caramel cack, not big logs, not small peas, with thumb and finger helping things out, caramel sloppy cacky. The nurse nodded knowingly, they are shit experts I’m telling you. I got something added to my prescriptions to grease the rails. That is 6 prescriptions now just for chemo and related pain med and poo side effects.

Do I still have to introduce my ramblings? ‘The Attention Seeking Bellendery of a Drug Induced Incurable Self Pitying Benefits Scrounger Milking An Embuggerance In No Way Unique To Me? It’s a lot to type. Maybe I’ll have that at the top each time. Like a book title? Hazey’s was catchier and the Terry Pratchett estate will have me. So maybe not.

One of the younger nurses has had cancer herself. She had a tumour she said, that was and I quote ‘hanging out of my vagina’ as she did the size of the tumour thing with her hands. It was a big tumour. I repeated ‘hanging out of your vagina?’ and nodded up down and sideways, fast, like a young-but old-Tom Hanks in Big would do, in appreciation of its size and what I’d just heard.

Later on, our lass sniffed and told me ‘she was flirting with you’. Only our lass, the crazy jealous our lass. Even hates that I like It’s Time For Carol With The Weather. Get that slag off she says. Carol the weatherlass? Lovely scottish Carol who makes flood warnings sound like toasted marshmallows? Just be careful and it will be alright soon? Nee wonder Myrtle, the ghost at the top of the stairs in front of the bathroom door has reservations about our lass, she’s crackers but eternally optimistic, will not ever accept anything negative about me and this bugger on before it’s inevitable. A bloody rock when all is said and done. Crazy Paving I suppose.

But tell me, if ever a lass tells you about her hanging out vagina tumour, would you stop and think uh-oh I think I better be telling her I’m not single right about now?

So this year and up to number 9, I’ve come out and feel liberated. No time to read about the Boffins, the time flies over. I feel like I’m talking to you each of you one on one. I know who some of you are now. The lad who went to my school, the egg man, great eggs marra. Hint, hint, the egg boxes are in the usual place. Me and Becs are going dog walking when I get me dog. Yes the one and anly legendary Becs. I know others in my head, Janey, her Dad - doffs cap - , Flicky - went to my school ages before me, used a feathered quill and the inkwell, Epps, King K, Goaty, HKP, Dober, WW, WS,, mellie, MKF, Daffy, hunk, raindog, piano, Cowvahlo, Peil, Swindon, Fish, Wicksy, Nemo - even older than Flicky, the Monk, Roker legend for the retirement help, fuck it I want to type the name of everyone but just know that I know all of you. You say things and I file it under you in the Rollerdex in my head, like the nurses. This has become so important to me. You talk about how I write, it’s a bit of a bugger on, I have peripheral neuropathy, or fizzy fingers, due to the Oxyplatin on last year’s Folfox but I get a sweaty head on and tippy tap away.

And how I inspire? Really? Get to fuck. I’m a big fucking snotty cry baby begging for Tinkerbell toilet believe in me’s.

I have been in the ward from 9 this morning and it’s 6pm. I know this is too long to post in one thread so will have to split when home.

I’ve managed my 25 paragraphs and then some. This is therapy for me so if you made it this far - get a life.

I get pm’s. Some from those who have relatives in a similar or worse position than me. (I’ll take a moment for Liam who died last week - my thoughts are with you and your family Jayjay). Others want to know how it is for them and how to be. Well their diagnosis is your diagnosis. It’s harder for you most of the time because you think you can’t help. Bollocks. I was an independent sort my shit out myself type, but I couldn’t manage without the support. Family have no choice but real friends stay and actually do things not just say it. Bless them all. I know that support is there and by fuck do I appreciate it. Just be there, do and have normalty.

Do the now, not the pre-grieve. Time for that later, or maybe not, you never know.

Keep The Faith, I believe is the term we use around these parts.

All the best
 
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Hug your special ones, please don’t take it for granted. The bairn is mentioning some long term future plans, career aspirations, she has a fella, Sunderland supporter, goes to the match when he’s back up here, even last season, doesn’t drink, so polite, also at a University close to hers, lovely lad, if Carlsberg did etc. She even started talking future baby names - nope not pregnant, what she wants to do as a career, I actually think a bit of her is telling me that she will be fine and cope in a future without me, bless her. Is she is giving me permission to go knowing that she will be fine?

Permission to go? I’m not ready, I’m greedy, I’m selfish, I’m 48 for fucks’ sake. I don’t want to go, I want a future, even see a grandchild. I’d be a top grandad if I do say so myself but I won’t get a chance to prove that will I? Oh shit, my eye middles are leaking, I need to wheel Metal Mickey to the toilet, we’re attached at my chest port…

My own parents taught me the rights and wrongs to start with, the do the right thing, the think of others. Pity my dad was born in Sunderland and my mam a staunch pit village, Sunderland only. I don’t mean it, I’m glad they weren’t born in Manchester or Madrid. We have season cards selling like lukewarm cakes, pink seat replacement, another div 3 campaign. Fuck the Premier and Champions’ League, the highs are higher when the climb is steeper.

And now they’re watching me fight a battle I have a slim chance of winning. I can’t imagine that, we shouldn’t see our children buried, it’s the wrong order, no matter the age.

No doubt, I believe in the power of the mind and that is all I have to get to that day. The graduation day, I’m off on a tangent. Who has the toilet lights? They are my Tinkerbells out there. Pee, believe, send a thought, believe a bit more and it will help me get there.

So. Back to shit. I described my shit once as caramel cack, not big logs, not small peas, with thumb and finger helping things out, caramel sloppy cacky. The nurse nodded knowingly, they are shit experts I’m telling you. I got something added to my prescriptions to grease the rails. That is 6 prescriptions now just for chemo and related pain med and poo side effects.

Do I still have to introduce my ramblings? ‘The Attention Seeking Bellendery of a Drug Induced Incurable Self Pitying Benefits Scrounger Milking An Embuggerance In No Way Unique To Me? It’s a lot to type. Maybe I’ll have that at the top each time. Like a book title? Hazey’s was catchier and the Terry Pratchett estate will have me. So maybe not.

One of the younger nurses has had cancer herself. She had a tumour she said, that was and I quote ‘hanging out of my vagina’ as she did the size of the tumour thing with her hands. It was a big tumour. I repeated ‘hanging out of your vagina?’ and nodded up down and sideways, fast, like a young-but old-Tom Hanks in Big would do, in appreciation of its size and what I’d just heard.

Later on, our lass sniffed and told me ‘she was flirting with you’. Only our lass, the crazy jealous our lass. Even hates that I like It’s Time For Carol With The Weather. Get that slag off she says. Carol the weatherlass? Lovely scottish Carol who makes flood warnings sound like toasted marshmallows? Just be careful and it will be alright soon? Nee wonder Myrtle, the ghost at the top of the stairs in front of the bathroom door has reservations about our lass, she’s crackers but eternally optimistic, will not ever accept anything negative about me and this bugger on before it’s inevitable. A bloody rock when all is said and done. Crazy Paving I suppose.

But tell me, if ever a lass tells you about her hanging out vagina tumour, would you stop and think uh-oh I think I better be telling her I’m not single right about now?

So this year and up to number 9, I’ve come out and feel liberated. No time to read about the Boffins, the time flies over. I feel like I’m talking to you each of you one on one. I know who some of you are now. The lad who went to my school, the egg man, great eggs marra. Hint, hint, the egg boxes are in the usual place. Me and Becs are going dog walking when I get me dog. Yes the one and anly legendary Becs. I know others in my head, Janey, her Dad - doffs cap - , Flicky - went to my school ages before me, used a feathered quill and the inkwell, Epps, King K, Goaty, HKP, Dober, WW, WS,, mellie, MKF, Daffy, hunk, raindog, piano, Cowvahlo, Peil, Swindon, Fish, Wicksy, Nemo - even older than Flicky, the Monk, Roker legend for the retirement help, fuck it I want to type the name of everyone but just know that I know all of you. You say things and I file it under you in the Rollerdex in my head, like the nurses. This has become so important to me. You talk about how I write, it’s a bit of a bugger on, I have peripheral neuropathy, or fizzy fingers, due to the Oxyplatin on last year’s Folfox but I get a sweaty head on and tippy tap away.

And how I inspire? Really? Get to fuck. I’m a big fucking snotty cry baby begging for Tinkerbell toilet believe in me’s.

I have been in the ward from 9 this morning and it’s 6pm. I know this is too long to post in one thread so will have to split when home.

I’ve managed my 25 paragraphs and then some. This is therapy for me so if you made it this far - get a life.

I get pm’s. Some from those who have relatives in a similar or worse position than me. (I’ll take a moment for Liam who died last week - my thoughts are with you and your family Jayjay). Others want to know how it is for them and how to be. Well their diagnosis is your diagnosis. It’s harder for you most of the time because you think you can’t help. Bollocks. I was an independent sort my shit out myself type, but I couldn’t manage without the support. Family have no choice but real friends stay and actually do things not just say it. Bless them all. I know that support is there and by fuck do I appreciate it. Just be there, do and have normalty.

Do the now, not the pre-grieve. Time for that later, or maybe not, you never know.

Keep The Faith, I believe is the term we use around these parts.

All the best
I'm a right mess here you beautiful brave bastard
 
Sat on a train coming home from work and just read that, brought a tear (right eye for me)

Stay strong mate. Sounds like you are a cracking Dad - I hope you get to make many more memories with your daughter.
 
Fucking Fogster you have me in puddles here in my office at work... thank God it's a private office...

You are the bravest motherfucker I have never met, Fogster… And I am praying hard for you my man - I don't give a shit if most people on here don't believe in God - I do and I am down on my knees praying to Him for you - because the world NEEDS motherfuckers like you around...

I love your brutal honesty, man, your transparency - I really do... you inspire the fuck out of me... every time I look at my fucking toilet lights, I think of you, man - and I get inspired to live life and love life - and then I get down on my motherfucking knees and pray for you, fucker...

You fight, motherfucker, you hear me? Don't you fucking give a motherfucking inch - cuz, I fucking swear that if you do I will take the first plane out there - my fear of flying be damned - and kick your fucking ass....

Keep posting, motherfucker - you have to stay on here and keep posting - stay and watch me make Striker, bitch!

Best motherfucker I have never met, Fogster, you really fucking are...
 

Scudley

Subs Bench
Absolutely inspirational. Keep fighting Foggy, as if you wouldn’t . Best wishes to you and all your family.
 
You're a brave, lovely, inspiring man @foggy and I want you to karate chop that fucker in half fella, fight it, finish it (see if you can get your hands on the proper oil, with the THC - needs must, research Rick Simpson and the likes xx).......keep that mind positive, you know we're all in your corner and I'm deeply flattered at the mention in your post lovely man :).
MASSIVE ((((HUGS)))) and lots of love, keep on keeping on my friend !!!!!! :cool:.
 

willin'

Midfield
Wishing you all the best Foggy. I read that with a lot of emotion and not far away from a few tears. Your inspirational post a while ago gave me the confidence to talk on here about my battle with cancer. I'll be forever grateful to you for that.

Hang in there Foggy, we think the world of you and have the support of hundreds on this great board.
 

janiep

Striker
@foggy it's wonderful, beautiful writing - so full of wisdom, life, humour. God bless you x 1,000,000,000. Write, write, write as much as you can. Stories are one of THE great consolations of life - we all love getting lost in other people's stories, it's a rare talent that can put across our own, and you can. And our lass's. And the bairn's. And the nurse with the tumour that was hanging out of her vagina. Even Metal Mickey - he's become a person in the way you write him. We're all going to have to confront the void, stories are one of the great acts of defiance and triumph by which we spit in its face.
 

SOLOL

Goalkeeper
Hug your special ones, please don’t take it for granted. The bairn is mentioning some long term future plans, career aspirations, she has a fella, Sunderland supporter, goes to the match when he’s back up here, even last season, doesn’t drink, so polite, also at a University close to hers, lovely lad, if Carlsberg did etc. She even started talking future baby names - nope not pregnant, what she wants to do as a career, I actually think a bit of her is telling me that she will be fine and cope in a future without me, bless her. Is she is giving me permission to go knowing that she will be fine?

Permission to go? I’m not ready, I’m greedy, I’m selfish, I’m 48 for fucks’ sake. I don’t want to go, I want a future, even see a grandchild. I’d be a top grandad if I do say so myself but I won’t get a chance to prove that will I? Oh shit, my eye middles are leaking, I need to wheel Metal Mickey to the toilet, we’re attached at my chest port…

My own parents taught me the rights and wrongs to start with, the do the right thing, the think of others. Pity my dad was born in Sunderland and my mam a staunch pit village, Sunderland only. I don’t mean it, I’m glad they weren’t born in Manchester or Madrid. We have season cards selling like lukewarm cakes, pink seat replacement, another div 3 campaign. Fuck the Premier and Champions’ League, the highs are higher when the climb is steeper.

And now they’re watching me fight a battle I have a slim chance of winning. I can’t imagine that, we shouldn’t see our children buried, it’s the wrong order, no matter the age.

No doubt, I believe in the power of the mind and that is all I have to get to that day. The graduation day, I’m off on a tangent. Who has the toilet lights? They are my Tinkerbells out there. Pee, believe, send a thought, believe a bit more and it will help me get there.

So. Back to shit. I described my shit once as caramel cack, not big logs, not small peas, with thumb and finger helping things out, caramel sloppy cacky. The nurse nodded knowingly, they are shit experts I’m telling you. I got something added to my prescriptions to grease the rails. That is 6 prescriptions now just for chemo and related pain med and poo side effects.

Do I still have to introduce my ramblings? ‘The Attention Seeking Bellendery of a Drug Induced Incurable Self Pitying Benefits Scrounger Milking An Embuggerance In No Way Unique To Me? It’s a lot to type. Maybe I’ll have that at the top each time. Like a book title? Hazey’s was catchier and the Terry Pratchett estate will have me. So maybe not.

One of the younger nurses has had cancer herself. She had a tumour she said, that was and I quote ‘hanging out of my vagina’ as she did the size of the tumour thing with her hands. It was a big tumour. I repeated ‘hanging out of your vagina?’ and nodded up down and sideways, fast, like a young-but old-Tom Hanks in Big would do, in appreciation of its size and what I’d just heard.

Later on, our lass sniffed and told me ‘she was flirting with you’. Only our lass, the crazy jealous our lass. Even hates that I like It’s Time For Carol With The Weather. Get that slag off she says. Carol the weatherlass? Lovely scottish Carol who makes flood warnings sound like toasted marshmallows? Just be careful and it will be alright soon? Nee wonder Myrtle, the ghost at the top of the stairs in front of the bathroom door has reservations about our lass, she’s crackers but eternally optimistic, will not ever accept anything negative about me and this bugger on before it’s inevitable. A bloody rock when all is said and done. Crazy Paving I suppose.

But tell me, if ever a lass tells you about her hanging out vagina tumour, would you stop and think uh-oh I think I better be telling her I’m not single right about now?

So this year and up to number 9, I’ve come out and feel liberated. No time to read about the Boffins, the time flies over. I feel like I’m talking to you each of you one on one. I know who some of you are now. The lad who went to my school, the egg man, great eggs marra. Hint, hint, the egg boxes are in the usual place. Me and Becs are going dog walking when I get me dog. Yes the one and anly legendary Becs. I know others in my head, Janey, her Dad - doffs cap - , Flicky - went to my school ages before me, used a feathered quill and the inkwell, Epps, King K, Goaty, HKP, Dober, WW, WS,, mellie, MKF, Daffy, hunk, raindog, piano, Cowvahlo, Peil, Swindon, Fish, Wicksy, Nemo - even older than Flicky, the Monk, Roker legend for the retirement help, fuck it I want to type the name of everyone but just know that I know all of you. You say things and I file it under you in the Rollerdex in my head, like the nurses. This has become so important to me. You talk about how I write, it’s a bit of a bugger on, I have peripheral neuropathy, or fizzy fingers, due to the Oxyplatin on last year’s Folfox but I get a sweaty head on and tippy tap away.

And how I inspire? Really? Get to fuck. I’m a big fucking snotty cry baby begging for Tinkerbell toilet believe in me’s.

I have been in the ward from 9 this morning and it’s 6pm. I know this is too long to post in one thread so will have to split when home.

I’ve managed my 25 paragraphs and then some. This is therapy for me so if you made it this far - get a life.

I get pm’s. Some from those who have relatives in a similar or worse position than me. (I’ll take a moment for Liam who died last week - my thoughts are with you and your family Jayjay). Others want to know how it is for them and how to be. Well their diagnosis is your diagnosis. It’s harder for you most of the time because you think you can’t help. Bollocks. I was an independent sort my shit out myself type, but I couldn’t manage without the support. Family have no choice but real friends stay and actually do things not just say it. Bless them all. I know that support is there and by fuck do I appreciate it. Just be there, do and have normalty.

Do the now, not the pre-grieve. Time for that later, or maybe not, you never know.

Keep The Faith, I believe is the term we use around these parts.

All the best
Nothing less than inspirational.
 

monkeytassle

Striker
Hazey - a weather condition blurring the view, ok that’s hazy. Foggy is nothing special to me. Back in the day we joined a chatroom, the Speakeasy?, to talk abut the match in progress and I was a non signed up guest, got the who Jo Guest? jibes from the regulars, looked at the telly saw Carl Fogarty won something, they called him foggy so that was me - how shite is that?- but if there’s any Blizzards, Desert Storms or even Dawn Mists on here, change your username or in 10 years you might be spouting shite on here for the likes too.

Make that 12 for a 10 year gap, my, no longer, secret target is the bairn’s graduation. There I’ve said it. I want 2 years. Truth be told I want that operation to give me even longer but I’ve found just take a bit at a time is the way.

My tears always start on the outside of the eye, left one first, I think I’m left eyed as well as handed, goes over the top bit, a blink, a roll down the cheek but not so much from the middle. That happens rarely but at night when the overwhelm of it all, the too much to deal with, turns up unannounced and takes over. Then it’s all of the eyes, a runny nose, a noise, snot, a good few wipe clears. I let it take its course, I can’t fight it so crack on. I can’t be cancer brave 100% of the time.

Beat the ‘die in 6 months’ PIP form, beat the ‘die in 12 months fast track for a pension’ form. Then…

A graduation. Please. One more milestone. I’ve just noticed I wiped my left eye. Now stop it. I’m in public. No middle eye stuff, no noise, no snot, none of that nonsense. I can’t think of the leaving her, we’re meant to be here right? Us parents. Let them go but be here to keep/put things right and fix when needed. I want to be here and not there, even if there is the big happy cloud for the good people. I say please and thank you to Alexa without thinking ffs, so that’s a good start surely?

But most of it is not up to me, I’ll do the most with the bit that is. I have a note from years ago- we are defined by the gifts we leave our children. I think I’ve done alright, separated from her mam when she was almost 4 and I can only remember one Christmas when she broke down wanting her mam and dad together. That was hard but I did my level best not to be a bitter McDonald’s dad, I never said anything about the break up, no blame, just joint support, bairn first, always.

She didn’t have a procession of new Uncles and her mam always put her first too. And knew how important I was so no Batman outfit needed here. Of course there were moments but hey ho, no arguing in front of, ever. I took her everywhere, in lots of ways being a MamDad made it better, our own holidays, me carrying her around Disneyland doing Dumbo and the Teacups but no Aerosmith or any other rollercoasters . We went up the Lakes a lot, walked up Catbells, around Keswick, Menorca, the sunsets, the waterparks, the swimming club trips came in handy, Corfu, up on a mountain top villa with snakes dropping out of trees. Films at the cinema, cheesy rubbish like Transformers, Harry Potters, Hobbits, every Pixar, Dreamworks, musicals in London, Mamma Mia, at the Empire up here, Hairspray, last year. As many ‘out of school activities’ as possible. All them bloody plays, mostly shite , but I clapped with everyone else.

The Air Cadets which gave her fantastic experiences, teamwork, trips abroad, up the Pyrenees for the Duke of Edinburgh award, Aushwitz, the Somme, up in Chinooks, gliders, parachuted after stepping out onto a wing of an aeroplane on her own. I was more frightened watching it from the ground.

Remembrance Day, every year at Durham Catherdral, Let’s Not Forget eh? Please try and go to Durham Cathedral for Remembrance, the Last Post is spine tingling and the timing is always perfect. Just go, the greatest cathedral in the world with the greatest armed forces all turning out.

The cadet thing has shaped her character in a way we as parents couldn’t. I would love to go to Auschwitz and the Somme. They’re on my bucket list along with New England ‘in the fall’ for something to go wow at. Maybe the northern lights. And Yellowstone Park. Depends on being able to get travel insurance and the terminal clause paying out on my life insurance. There’s terminal and there’s terminal apparently. Legal and General insist on 12 months til stumps before they’ll pay out. In cancerland they only really know when you haven’t got long left, when the spread becomes uncontrollable and you start to breakdown everywhere. Quickly. Just pay you buggers. It will save the executors having to fuck on later.

The bairn knows a credit card is really a debt card, saves, budgets, works, we can’t pay Uni fees like her friends’ parents, she needs a job, good. Better a work ethic than it all handed on a plate. I’m after a rescue dog, she suggested an old Labrador with grey whiskers, she’s right, that is me now, I’m no Border Collie anymore. Seems to have sense too.

Sorry for the boring dad shite, apart from a cover picture on Facebook I’ve never shared a single ‘proud dad’ moment on there. I did say I arranged the General Election last year as it was on her 18th birthday but nowt else. I’m not sure why I’m letting it all out here. Self Therapy, did I do ok? I’ll carry on.

I worked away so did the guilty weekend treats. I always got at least a Saturday once it was the big school, get the routine in place, no 3 night sleeps here and there, no constant uproot, or keep clothes and stuff here because ‘I bought them’ bullshit. Bairn first.

My gifts for birthdays and father’s day from her are things like hand drawn pictures, sometimes where we’ve been years ago, Castle Crag, framed, even drew me in pencil from a photo. I call that thoughty, always signed “To Pops”. I am lucky aren’t I?

My Father’s Day card was to ‘Popabear’ according to the envelope. Two Polar bears flying kites - one was Ursa Major, one Ursa Minor - Us!. And a verse inside, from her, a blank page filled with just her words - I won’t repeat them but oh my. Thoughty and then some…Oh and Harrods Tea Blend no 14, the hint worked. Very nice Flicky - better than the Ringtons.

Anyway back to the past, sold the big house, had a tough time financially but so glad I’m in my little home now. I prefer the memories to bricks. Some bricks matter, a roof, being dry is a bonus as is heat, but having a lot of them isn’t. I only need one toilet light anarl. I’ve given away 12 now to my ‘loved ones’. Egg man you’re next.
I've bought a toilet light
 
Keep talking to us foggy , your words explain everything you’re going through and what it means to your family, you’re obviously pissed off with the whole thing ( and can’t blame you for that) but please give it your best shot and the people treating your let them give it their best shot as well, I’m with you as much as I can be as I’m sure the rest of the SMB’rs are as well ;)
 
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