foggy
Striker
I usually write stuff when I’m in the chemo ward. Pumped full of drugs to offset the other drugs that attack the cells in me that have gone a bit haywire.
I write about life, the end of it and the bits that have gone before. But mostly how I feel in the moment, given the end of it is looming large on the horizon without the certainty of just how near or far that horizon is.
This is a bit different. I’m sat in the A&E at Durham Hospital. The University one or still Dryburn for those of a certain age. Like me. 50 by the way. Everything is 50 at the moment. The moon landings. Woodstock. Monty Python. Charles Manson murders. Loads of stuff. Our lass was born the year after when fuck all else of note happened. Sorry I’m waffling, bored waiting for someone to shout my name.
It’s not an Emergency. It’s not even an Accident. It is because of a call to 111 earlier when a paramedic advised I get myself over here.
I’ll rewind a bit now I’ve set the scene. I last reported my goings on over a month ago, sat in a comfy chair being pumped with chemo, the last of six before a CT scan to see how inside me was doing.
I had that CT scan on 16 August and saw the oncologist on 2 September to talk about it. I was going to write something on here but was taken with the story of Coxhoe Dave, his terminal cancer diagnosis and his acceptance of a life lived well that would be over soon. He is not having chemo and given his diagnosis I can understand and agree. Chemo is shit. Really shit. The more you have the shitter it is. It fucks you over everywhere.
Chemo so far is keeping things in control. Growth and spread. The two things I fear the most. It’s my magic potion against growth and spread so I have to put up with it f***ing me over everywhere else. If I was told it would make little difference I would do exactly as Coxhoe Dave is. All the best sir.
Anyway thanks to Facebook in its not nonsense form and a group of people in my situation, I managed to find a surgeon who might offer me surgery after those at Durham had said no more. I didn’t wait for anyone at Durham to send my scan to him. I wrote to him to say my scan had been done plus the where and when. His team replied immediately. Their peritoneal team would have a look. The following Friday the man himself emailed me. He said ‘We have seen your scans and we may be able to help. Our team will contact you to make an outpatient appointment as a matter of urgency.’ Yay. Small fist pump.
I knew that meant I didn’t have spread and hopefully not too much growth. It got even better. I saw the oncologist the following Monday and she said my tumour had shrunk. Well fuck me sideways. The silver medal position. One behind the tumour has gone gold medal position. The NED. The no evidence of disease. I was ecstatic with silver.
One of the team at Imperial rang soon after and my appointment is for next week. I’m off to that London. I was there all the time with work until this embuggerance put the mockers on that. It’s been nearly three years. No doubt it’s still sirens and construction noise where nobody looks at anybody let alone speaks unless they’re begging.
All good then. Well no. At the beginning of September I developed a new pain in my world of pain. This time it’s my stomach. The stomach is nearer to the nipple than the belly button. Well yours anyway. I don’t have a belly button. They took it during my last surgery. The GP sent me to the Clinical Decisions Unit last Friday. They did the ultrasounds to check kidney and gall bladder plus an X-ray. The X-ray showed I was constipated. The nurse showed me. I could see my shit. It was almost up to my f***ing chin. So I was told to take lots of laxatives. I have a cupboard full. My cupboards are like Boots Pharmacy.
This weekend has been another break up the Lakes with the bairn and the dog. Fantastic. Here’s the postcard. Lodge, hot tub, sunshine, Keswick, ice cream, dog walks, alcoholic drinks, Strictly, Glenridding, Ullswater, dog walk/swim. But mostly just me and the bairn relaxing and enjoying the peaceful moment. We don’t have to talk. We’re readers. So we relax and read with the odd conversation piece here and there. And lots of laxatives for me.
All good then, except the laxatives didn’t shift whatever is lurking in there. They did something. A dozen short sprays of the bowl over a few hours meant things aren’t totally blocked but half a pizza last night had me biting the pillow as my stomach cramped and gurgled.
I got back a few hours ago and rang 111. They sent me to A&E. I told the story for the umpteenth time and got prodded a lot. Bloods taken. Pointed them to old faithful vein to stop the f***ing about I used to have at the beginning. The doc in A&E - they are always the junior ones, some haven’t started shaving- disappeared off to talk to the surgeon. Another X-ray. Two photos this time.
Then eventually the top brass enters the room. The consultant surgeon no less. I’ve read how long it takes for people to achieve this rank. This fella knows his gizzards.
And yet he doesn’t know what is wrong with mine. We talk food, scarring, adhesions, ulcers before he sends me on my way with a promise that I’ll be referred to the endoscopy people. The camera down the throat. Oh well that’s a new one. I’ve had the nasal tube before. And spewed everywhere. Now it will be a two week wait. If I’d said there was blood in any of vomit, piss or shit I’d be admitted and camera’d as soon as. But that would be fibs. So I’m packed off with advice on what to eat.
I stopped at the coop on the way home to pick up some soup and ice cream.
And now I’m sat at home. My stomach is cramping like fuck. Only two weeks until they probably won’t know again.
Fuck it, the tumour has shrunk and someone who spent years at surgeon school may soon tell me that he wants to have yet another crack at it. He might even fix this latest fuck on. That will more than do for now. Fuck you cramps.
All the best.
I write about life, the end of it and the bits that have gone before. But mostly how I feel in the moment, given the end of it is looming large on the horizon without the certainty of just how near or far that horizon is.
This is a bit different. I’m sat in the A&E at Durham Hospital. The University one or still Dryburn for those of a certain age. Like me. 50 by the way. Everything is 50 at the moment. The moon landings. Woodstock. Monty Python. Charles Manson murders. Loads of stuff. Our lass was born the year after when fuck all else of note happened. Sorry I’m waffling, bored waiting for someone to shout my name.
It’s not an Emergency. It’s not even an Accident. It is because of a call to 111 earlier when a paramedic advised I get myself over here.
I’ll rewind a bit now I’ve set the scene. I last reported my goings on over a month ago, sat in a comfy chair being pumped with chemo, the last of six before a CT scan to see how inside me was doing.
I had that CT scan on 16 August and saw the oncologist on 2 September to talk about it. I was going to write something on here but was taken with the story of Coxhoe Dave, his terminal cancer diagnosis and his acceptance of a life lived well that would be over soon. He is not having chemo and given his diagnosis I can understand and agree. Chemo is shit. Really shit. The more you have the shitter it is. It fucks you over everywhere.
Chemo so far is keeping things in control. Growth and spread. The two things I fear the most. It’s my magic potion against growth and spread so I have to put up with it f***ing me over everywhere else. If I was told it would make little difference I would do exactly as Coxhoe Dave is. All the best sir.
Anyway thanks to Facebook in its not nonsense form and a group of people in my situation, I managed to find a surgeon who might offer me surgery after those at Durham had said no more. I didn’t wait for anyone at Durham to send my scan to him. I wrote to him to say my scan had been done plus the where and when. His team replied immediately. Their peritoneal team would have a look. The following Friday the man himself emailed me. He said ‘We have seen your scans and we may be able to help. Our team will contact you to make an outpatient appointment as a matter of urgency.’ Yay. Small fist pump.
I knew that meant I didn’t have spread and hopefully not too much growth. It got even better. I saw the oncologist the following Monday and she said my tumour had shrunk. Well fuck me sideways. The silver medal position. One behind the tumour has gone gold medal position. The NED. The no evidence of disease. I was ecstatic with silver.
One of the team at Imperial rang soon after and my appointment is for next week. I’m off to that London. I was there all the time with work until this embuggerance put the mockers on that. It’s been nearly three years. No doubt it’s still sirens and construction noise where nobody looks at anybody let alone speaks unless they’re begging.
All good then. Well no. At the beginning of September I developed a new pain in my world of pain. This time it’s my stomach. The stomach is nearer to the nipple than the belly button. Well yours anyway. I don’t have a belly button. They took it during my last surgery. The GP sent me to the Clinical Decisions Unit last Friday. They did the ultrasounds to check kidney and gall bladder plus an X-ray. The X-ray showed I was constipated. The nurse showed me. I could see my shit. It was almost up to my f***ing chin. So I was told to take lots of laxatives. I have a cupboard full. My cupboards are like Boots Pharmacy.
This weekend has been another break up the Lakes with the bairn and the dog. Fantastic. Here’s the postcard. Lodge, hot tub, sunshine, Keswick, ice cream, dog walks, alcoholic drinks, Strictly, Glenridding, Ullswater, dog walk/swim. But mostly just me and the bairn relaxing and enjoying the peaceful moment. We don’t have to talk. We’re readers. So we relax and read with the odd conversation piece here and there. And lots of laxatives for me.
All good then, except the laxatives didn’t shift whatever is lurking in there. They did something. A dozen short sprays of the bowl over a few hours meant things aren’t totally blocked but half a pizza last night had me biting the pillow as my stomach cramped and gurgled.
I got back a few hours ago and rang 111. They sent me to A&E. I told the story for the umpteenth time and got prodded a lot. Bloods taken. Pointed them to old faithful vein to stop the f***ing about I used to have at the beginning. The doc in A&E - they are always the junior ones, some haven’t started shaving- disappeared off to talk to the surgeon. Another X-ray. Two photos this time.
Then eventually the top brass enters the room. The consultant surgeon no less. I’ve read how long it takes for people to achieve this rank. This fella knows his gizzards.
And yet he doesn’t know what is wrong with mine. We talk food, scarring, adhesions, ulcers before he sends me on my way with a promise that I’ll be referred to the endoscopy people. The camera down the throat. Oh well that’s a new one. I’ve had the nasal tube before. And spewed everywhere. Now it will be a two week wait. If I’d said there was blood in any of vomit, piss or shit I’d be admitted and camera’d as soon as. But that would be fibs. So I’m packed off with advice on what to eat.
I stopped at the coop on the way home to pick up some soup and ice cream.
And now I’m sat at home. My stomach is cramping like fuck. Only two weeks until they probably won’t know again.
Fuck it, the tumour has shrunk and someone who spent years at surgeon school may soon tell me that he wants to have yet another crack at it. He might even fix this latest fuck on. That will more than do for now. Fuck you cramps.
All the best.
