foggy
Striker
It’s been 3 weeks since I was last in the poison chair. And to be honest I haven’t really recovered from it. This is the last one before my scan on 16th. I’ve decided to have a break before the results are in early September.
I can barely walk the dog now. The fatigue and battle against pain is debilitating. Even worse is the mental struggle. This first appeared a few chemos ago but I picked up once my energy returned. Now I have waves of despair wash over and sometimes the colour disappears from the world. I know I should be positive and all that but it’s a slow losing fight against an illness that just picks away relentlessly.
On the plus side in my ongoing quest to be positive I still try and get out and do things.
I had my birthday bash at a posh hotel with a spa and whatnot and was down in York over the weekend for a meet up and bbq with friends. I’d had a couple of meals out the day and afternoon before so was a bit crippled with abdominal cramps. The host’s dog had more off my plate than I did. Not that I gave him the food. He jumped up to the table and took it. I just looked on wondering if I should give him a napkin. It was great to be in amongst friends though. More big 50 balloons and home made cake. They really needn’t have.
So. I can’t really eat. I can’t really drink. I can’t really get out. It doesn’t leave a lot. I read and watch things.
And now I have 6 days of hell. Confined to barracks. Dog farmed off. Nausea. Fatigue. Cabin fever. But I’m here to moan about it.
What I have left is me and my thoughts. I enjoy being asleep and dreaming as there is no pain. I wake and the hammer hits. There’s a dread that sits at the back of my eyes on the tear valve and a sinking heaviness in my chest. I don’t know where the turn that off button is. But I’m looking. I’ll always keep looking. Our old telly had uppy down change the colour buttons that if pressed long enough the picture would go black and white. It seems that someone is standing on the remote on the down button. I need to find it and press the other one.
In better news the bairn is in Tokyo having a ball. Lots of pics and videos coming through on WhatsApp which is great. Disneyland. Harry Potter World. Bullet trains. And some proper culture. They make me cry a bit. I don’t know why. I see the happiness of youth being played out and I feel joy but crushed at the same time. I suppose it’s the thought I won’t be around as her future unfolds. With me there in the background as a safety net. I don’t bother her too much. I’m not constantly asking questions and bombarding with messages. I just want to be there. To catch. If needed.
I was a bit dismissive of parents, close relatives and our lass in my last ramblings. Describing them as elders and peers and not in the same league as the bairn. But the birthday stuff brought things home. Of course this is difficult for them. I am now 50 but still the bairn to my parents. I’m the youngest. My mam was reminiscing. I was their third. No hospital like the first two. I was born in the bedroom. In the house where they still live. Think she put a bookmark in her Mills and Boon, put it on the side for a bit and boom there was me. Picked up book. Back to chapter five. That’s my version I tell people anyway.
I can’t imagine watching a child of mine, no matter their age, go through what I am. My parents should not be at my funeral.
Our lass talked of a lonely future without me. She wasn’t being selfish. I am now 2 and half years into this shite and it is the first time she has talked about how it is for her. I’ve known that crazy woman since 1985. We were together at school. Then a break while we both went off, married and had children with others before she tracked me down using that internet thing. While I was single and separated of course. Now she may have to say goodbye for good. A lot earlier than what she expected. It’s shit really. I feel terrible guilt over the bother I’m causing.
I own my little terraced house and I have savings. I don’t want or want for anything. As in material stuff. Things that I used to buy and enjoy mean little now.
Richard Branson said stuff didn’t really matter and that fucker has an island. I have a roof, can keep dry, warm and fed. It’s enough. It really is.
Next up. There has to be a next up. It’s how I get by. Another long weekend in the Lakes. Early September. Me, bairn, dog. Nice lodge. Hot tub even. It will be just after my scan results are in. It’s a case of how far the tumour or tumours have progressed. Then what. I don’t know. I’ve learned to take each bit at a time. I ask myself when I’ll die. Not today is always the answer.
I’m determined not to spend the last of me in this pit of despair. Even writing this has picked me up. I feel much better than I did when I started this latest drivel on.
There’s always the football though eh? Ah. I read in here we were shite on Saturday. We need a Marco. An Eric. Maybe a Gary or two. I remember standing in the 29k crowd against Northampton. It was packed. Now we get more even though the other side aren’t getting humped 7 nil like good old little third division teams used to. I’ll try and get to a match soon. Maybe on the chemo break. I’m still optimistic about us. It’s my default position in life these days and spills over. No matter how bad things get when I do make it to the match it still feels special. Watching us. No matter how shite the football. It still gives me the buzz. It always did. I’m lucky to have it in my life. I got over the play off final a minute after their goal. I don’t do if only’s and regret.
No the future has to have colour in it. Red and white is so much better than black and white. In all ways.
All the best
I can barely walk the dog now. The fatigue and battle against pain is debilitating. Even worse is the mental struggle. This first appeared a few chemos ago but I picked up once my energy returned. Now I have waves of despair wash over and sometimes the colour disappears from the world. I know I should be positive and all that but it’s a slow losing fight against an illness that just picks away relentlessly.
On the plus side in my ongoing quest to be positive I still try and get out and do things.
I had my birthday bash at a posh hotel with a spa and whatnot and was down in York over the weekend for a meet up and bbq with friends. I’d had a couple of meals out the day and afternoon before so was a bit crippled with abdominal cramps. The host’s dog had more off my plate than I did. Not that I gave him the food. He jumped up to the table and took it. I just looked on wondering if I should give him a napkin. It was great to be in amongst friends though. More big 50 balloons and home made cake. They really needn’t have.
So. I can’t really eat. I can’t really drink. I can’t really get out. It doesn’t leave a lot. I read and watch things.
And now I have 6 days of hell. Confined to barracks. Dog farmed off. Nausea. Fatigue. Cabin fever. But I’m here to moan about it.
What I have left is me and my thoughts. I enjoy being asleep and dreaming as there is no pain. I wake and the hammer hits. There’s a dread that sits at the back of my eyes on the tear valve and a sinking heaviness in my chest. I don’t know where the turn that off button is. But I’m looking. I’ll always keep looking. Our old telly had uppy down change the colour buttons that if pressed long enough the picture would go black and white. It seems that someone is standing on the remote on the down button. I need to find it and press the other one.
In better news the bairn is in Tokyo having a ball. Lots of pics and videos coming through on WhatsApp which is great. Disneyland. Harry Potter World. Bullet trains. And some proper culture. They make me cry a bit. I don’t know why. I see the happiness of youth being played out and I feel joy but crushed at the same time. I suppose it’s the thought I won’t be around as her future unfolds. With me there in the background as a safety net. I don’t bother her too much. I’m not constantly asking questions and bombarding with messages. I just want to be there. To catch. If needed.
I was a bit dismissive of parents, close relatives and our lass in my last ramblings. Describing them as elders and peers and not in the same league as the bairn. But the birthday stuff brought things home. Of course this is difficult for them. I am now 50 but still the bairn to my parents. I’m the youngest. My mam was reminiscing. I was their third. No hospital like the first two. I was born in the bedroom. In the house where they still live. Think she put a bookmark in her Mills and Boon, put it on the side for a bit and boom there was me. Picked up book. Back to chapter five. That’s my version I tell people anyway.
I can’t imagine watching a child of mine, no matter their age, go through what I am. My parents should not be at my funeral.
Our lass talked of a lonely future without me. She wasn’t being selfish. I am now 2 and half years into this shite and it is the first time she has talked about how it is for her. I’ve known that crazy woman since 1985. We were together at school. Then a break while we both went off, married and had children with others before she tracked me down using that internet thing. While I was single and separated of course. Now she may have to say goodbye for good. A lot earlier than what she expected. It’s shit really. I feel terrible guilt over the bother I’m causing.
I own my little terraced house and I have savings. I don’t want or want for anything. As in material stuff. Things that I used to buy and enjoy mean little now.
Richard Branson said stuff didn’t really matter and that fucker has an island. I have a roof, can keep dry, warm and fed. It’s enough. It really is.
Next up. There has to be a next up. It’s how I get by. Another long weekend in the Lakes. Early September. Me, bairn, dog. Nice lodge. Hot tub even. It will be just after my scan results are in. It’s a case of how far the tumour or tumours have progressed. Then what. I don’t know. I’ve learned to take each bit at a time. I ask myself when I’ll die. Not today is always the answer.
I’m determined not to spend the last of me in this pit of despair. Even writing this has picked me up. I feel much better than I did when I started this latest drivel on.
There’s always the football though eh? Ah. I read in here we were shite on Saturday. We need a Marco. An Eric. Maybe a Gary or two. I remember standing in the 29k crowd against Northampton. It was packed. Now we get more even though the other side aren’t getting humped 7 nil like good old little third division teams used to. I’ll try and get to a match soon. Maybe on the chemo break. I’m still optimistic about us. It’s my default position in life these days and spills over. No matter how bad things get when I do make it to the match it still feels special. Watching us. No matter how shite the football. It still gives me the buzz. It always did. I’m lucky to have it in my life. I got over the play off final a minute after their goal. I don’t do if only’s and regret.
No the future has to have colour in it. Red and white is so much better than black and white. In all ways.
All the best
