Challenges

Challenge 1

A thousand years ago (oh alright, last year) we had building work done at Discombobulated Towers which, although a lengthy and often infuriating process, resulted in me having the Best Kitchen in the World (I might be a tad biased on this one).

The only problem has been the total destruction of my garden.  The tiny garden was the only place the builders could store their materials.  So it went from something like this

to utter devastation.  However the builders finished and moved out months and months ago and yet the garden still looks like this

Ok,  he's painted and moved the shed but let's not split hairs

Given that the other-half used to garden for a living this is a very sorry state of affairs.  Initially he claimed to have gardeners block, then he told me he’d lost his gardening mo-jo (full marks for inventive excuses).  Then, just as he’d got his motivation back, the rain started.  It rained cats and dogs and rats and elephants for months and months and months.  Well now the deluge has ceased and, by happy co-incidence, the other-half has next week off work.  He has promised that I will have a garden by the end of next week.  So I’m using this blog to encourage* him.  I will post another picture at the end of next week so you can see if he’s kept his word.  Gardner’s block my arse!

*I say encourage, I mean, of course, threaten.

Challenge 2

My old chum Al is running a half-marathon in June and will be raising money for Breakthrough Breast Cancer, a charity which, among other things funds the development of new treatments.  If anyone has any spare bundles of cash lying around you can sponsor him here.

Actually I'm not telling the entire truth when I call Al an old chum.  He is, in fact, my ex-husband. Still, water under the bridge and all that.  Running a ridiculous distance for a breast cancer charity is a lovely thing to do.  Smiley face.  And of course I wouldn't dream of standing in the crowd waiting to trip him up.  Or would I?  Sinister laugh.  I only say this to encourage him*.  See, now I've planted the seeds of doubt in his mind the least you could do is sponsor him.  No pressure.  

*I say encourage, I mean, of course, threaten. 

 

 

Thoughts from on high

Scotland (yes again)

As someone with an incurable illness I have obviously given thought to all sorts of deep and meaningful matters and, after a short struggle, have achieved enlightenment.  I have generously decided to share two of my insights with you lesser mortals (if you are a fellow illness sufferer then do bear with me while I talk to our benighted chums).

Insight 1

Do not think that, while simmering porridge on the stove, you have enough time to go into the garden for two bloody nanoseconds to feed the birds without there being a huge and Vesuvius-like oatmeal disaster back in the kitchen.

Insight 2

In the event of a huge and Vesuvius-like oatmeal disaster do not think that it is a good idea to let the spillage cool before trying to clear it up.  It sets like sodding concrete.  This is a particular pain if, as in the case with my stove, the manufacturer’s instructions insist that you clean the hob with nothing more abrasive than the downy fluff from an Angora rabbit’s armpit. 

Which reminds me, I saw a TV quiz programme the other day and, when asked to name a country being with A, the contestant said ‘Angora’.  Honestly, some people.  Actually I only mock the poor woman to make myself feel better about last Friday. 

The other-half and I went along with our pals J and M to a village quiz.  J and M will be moving to the village in question soon so we were on our best behaviour in order not to disgrace them before they move in.  This meant the other-half having to concentrate very hard on not falling over and breaking anything and me trying to remember not to fart loudly in public (harder than it sounds).  Anyway all went well until the sport round when we scored a big fat zero.  As our score was called out the room went quiet there was a gasp of disbelief at our incredible stupidity and then a round of applause.  No other team managed to score zero in any of the rounds.  Oh the shame.  We did redeem ourselves a bit in other rounds though.  All I can say is thank goodness for the 80s music questions. 

Before I go, just a word of warning.  In search of even more all round fantastic-ness I will be observing Lent (which starts on Wednesday) by giving up Fruit Ninja.  There may be some tetchiness. 

In which I am led astray

As you’ve probably guessed by now, I like to lead a blameless life of cat worship and failed sorties into the world of knitting.  However, this summer I have been repeatedly led astray.

Firstly there was the Normandy holiday

where I was on a wine and cheese drip for the duration.

Then, on my return to Shropshire my old pal M came up to stay.  She lugged a bursting-at-the-seems wheelie trolley all the way by train from London.  The trolley contained a few clothes but was mostly full of all the ingredients for making mojitos.  It would have been rude not to drink them after all that effort.  And, if I drank more than anyone else, surely that just goes to show my dedication to the cause of hospitality and politeness, rather than any indication of greed and alcoholism.  

M did another bad thing.  She introduced me to Spotify.  Now how am I ever going to get anything done ever again when I’m addicted to finding all sorts of music and fighting off the other-half when he tries to add such monstrosities as Duran Duran and ZZ Top to my playlist (oh the horror)?

T, another old pal came to visit at the same time as M and we started a sensible grown-up conversation about the problems with creosote seepage when using old railway sleepers in the garden.  We reckoned if you built a seat from them you’d need to devise some sort of bum pad to protect your bottom.  The conversation rapidly degenerated to replacing words in song/book/film/titles with bum pad.  This went on intermittently for a whole day inducing increasing amounts of hysteria.  In the evening we went to the pub and ended up making spectacles of ourselves by hitting our heads on the table and sobbing when the other-half suddenly blurted out ‘Chitty Chitty Bum Pad’.  Hmm, maybe you had to be there. 

Perhaps I should add that, during a previous visit to this particular pub, sis no 3 tried to kill a dog – I’m scared to go back there again, who knows what will happen next time.

Oh alright, she didn’t exactly try to kill a dog.  She swept a wasp from the table with her hand (in a valiant effort to save the other-half who is horribly allergic to wasp stings).  Her bravery was rewarded by fear and trauma, as the dog sitting next to our table quickly snapped his jaws, grabbed the wasp and swallowed it in one gulp.  We think the dog was OK but didn’t hang around too long to find out.  Oh come on, it wasn’t as if it was a cat.  Get a sense of proportion people.

Anyway, after all that excitement the other-half and I were delighted to be invited for a meal at the house of old chums, and very good cooks, J and M.  I was looking forward to an evening of gentle conversation and decorum.  Instead I was forced to drink red wine from eight that evening until five o’clock the following morning.  I say forced because, although I can’t remember the details, I’m sure I would never be so foolish as to do such a thing left to my own devices.  J and the other-half wimped out and went to bed around 3am but M and I carried on determinedly.  Actually I suspect poor M desperately wanted to go to bed but I wouldn’t stop yakking.  Thankfully I can’t remember the utter bilge I was talking (please M, be kind, don’t remind me).  Hats off to M though, not only did she stay the course but she also attended a four year old’s birthday party the following day.  She’s made of sterner stuff than me.  I just sat around whimpering with a hangover that lasted two and half days. 

So, as you can imagine, I am now back to the straight and narrow, worshipping Cyril the three-legged monster cat and thinking about knitting a scarf. 

Two days until the scary oncology appointment, not that I’m worried or anything of course.  Back to diverting myself with Spotify I think.  A prance around the kitchen (while no-one is looking) to Jolene, should put the world to rights.

 

 

A mixed bag

Picture from here

I saw Mr Oily (the oncologist) yesterday.  The appointment was both good and bad. 

Let’s deal with the grot first.  A few days ago I found a new lump in more or less the same area as before.  Mr Oily says it’s a ‘thickening’ rather than a lump but it does need watching.  Hopefully it’s just scar tissue but there’s always the possibility it’s a new tumor.  I will add it to my list of things to worry about, probably a few notches above my concern about how to keep my new cream sofa clean when there’s a very dirty three-legged cat in the house.

This was a good day.  I don't always manage to get a throw on the sofa before Cyril makes his mark.

 

I’ve been getting quite a lot of pain in my side, maybe due to the (possible) cancer in my ribs.  However, I have now been prescribed vast quantities of top strength co-codamol.  Hurrah for drugs.

On a happier note my blood tests and heart tests are all tickety-boo.  Mr Oily said that the flu-like side-effects I had after my first dose of the trial drug, TDM1, are pretty standard and now he is confident that this chemo doesn’t have an effect on the white blood cells, he advised me to take paracetamol as a matter of course for the first couple of days after treatment.  So hopefully, I won’t feel quite as vile after my next dose of new swamp juice next week.  I’ll let you know either way.  There is no escape.

Also, I think, maybe possibly touch wood, that my breathing has improved.  I’m certainly coughing less and the other day I walked to and from the supermarket (a 15 minute round trip), something I haven’t been able to do for ages.  Who’d have thought that going to the supermarket would ever be a cause for celebration?

In other news Cyril (the three-legged monster cat) loves his new carpeted cat tunnel.   

 He comes and goes at all hours of the day and night and likes to mark his return home by miaowing incredibly loudly, often at around 3am, to let us know he’s home.  I’m wondering if I can fit him with a silencer. 

My new kitchen is still a source of delight and wonder to me.  In fact I have just been sneaking my recycling into next door’s boxes (it’s kerb side collection day) as I don’t want to litter my lovely kitchen with recycling containers.  Not only do I think this marks me out as just a little bit bonkers but I also reckon I have lost any chance of a neighbour of the year award. 

Kitchen capers

        Picture from here.  Artistic embellishment by moi

The building, re-wiring, decorating etc at Discombobulated Towers is finally finished.  Sis no 1 and her cat, Tuppence (the ginger ninja) can breathe a sigh of relief as I, the other-half and the three-legged monster cat have returned home after a prolonged (and much appreciated) stay at her house.

Stupidly we didn’t take any pictures of the old kitchen before work started but take it from me it was a dark, dank dungeon of a place.  But now?  Ta dah!

Cooker is cream, washer machine is white - Argh!

Flowers from the builder (probably included in his bill)

And, just for my mate M, look our co-produced artwork once again has pride of place (don’t worry I won’t tell anyone about how you bullied me into creating this masterpiece).

Please don't go thinking this refurb was a painless experience.  It took twice as long (or more) than we expected, went over budget and involved a dust up with a 'kitchen fitter' who could no more fit a kitchen than I could crochet a teapot. 

I always used to sneer, as I watched Grand Designs, at people who almost always spent loads more than they intended on their dream homes, took months and months longer than expected to complete building and ended up close to a nervous breakdown.  Now bitter experience has taught me better and I will watch the programme wearing my humble trousers in future.

However, all the trauma is behind us now and I can bask in the fantastic-ness of the new kitchen - it's not for cooking in you understand, just for looking at.  

Our small garden has taken a pounding.  It was used by the builders for storage space.  So while it used to look like this:

It now looks like this:

Which means that when Cyril went out for the first time since our return he couldn't resist rolling around in the sandy red grot and ended up looking like this:

I should at this point mention that I've also got new sofas.  One is cream coloured.  I sense a difficult evening ahead.

Normal non-refurb whinging will be resumed tomorrow when I start on chemo again - the drug trial TDM1.  Please keep everything crossed that this is the chemo that zaps the buggers!

Arse biscuits!

Picture from here

Today’s news can best be summed up by the immortal Father Jack.  Arse Biscuits!  If you’d like further details read on. 

All my test results have come through. 

Unfortunately it looks extremely likely that the cancer is in my bones (as well as, as I already knew, in my lungs).  The bone scan revealed two suspicious areas on my ribs (on both sides of my ribcage).  I've been getting pain in those particular areas, but was hoping it was due to excessive* hoovering.  There is a very small area of doubt about this (the cancer, not the hoovering) as the CT scan doesn't show anything on the ribs.  However CTs are better at showing stuff in soft tissue rather than bones, so it'd be daft to pin any hopes on that.  The results only came through today.  The research nurse (my new best friend) rang and told me (as requested by me).  Mr Oily (the boss oncologist) is off today but she will show him the scans tomorrow.

 
On the plus side my heart is OK and my brain is clear. Also on the plus side, the spread to my bones does not stop me going ahead with the trial drug.  In fact I start on Tuesday.  Here's hoping it packs a punch and bops the buggers on the bum.

In the meantime I am drowning my sorrows in Chablis, and I have to say it’s working a treat.  However, I may not be a delight to be around tomorrow morning.

There is no escape from the kitchen refurb report, but I’ll spare you until next time.

*when I say ‘excessive’ hoovering, I mean, of course, any hoovering.

The sandwich bandit

The other-half, Cyril (three-legged monster cat) and I have now been staying with sis no 1 for about six weeks as building work takes place back at Discombobulated Towers.  We are very grateful for this place of refuge but quite frankly it’s amazing we haven’t been evicted due to Cyril’s behaviour.  As well as intermittently bullying my sister’s cat, Tuppence, commandeering the best seats in the living room and demanding his share of the breakfast bacon, he has now taken up thievery.  Yesterday he got through a plastic bag and some cling film wrap to have a good nibble of my sister’s ham sandwich. As you can see from the picture below he is consumed with remorse and sleepless nights over the whole incident.

Still wearing the bandit mask too

Meanwhile poor Tuppence has resorted to befriending the vacuum cleaner.

The end is in sight with the building work.  On the plus side the new room looks fantastic on the downside the kitchen fitter turned out to be completely fucking useless.  Sorry, but there really is no other way to put it.  I wouldn’t trust him with a lego set.  Anyway the work is being redone but, of course, this is yet another delay.

I’m also waiting to hear from the oncologist in Warwick.  I want to give the chap a chance but I will start chasing next week.  I’d really like to be on something to try to combat the buggers in my lungs.  I have started another hormone therapy, Letrozole (replaces tamoxifen in trying to block the oestrogen which my type of cancer loves).  It seems to be causing massive hot flushes (a small price to pay) which have even resulted to me standing around in the garden at night, flapping my dressing gown around like some kind of giant albino vampire bat.  

Yes, I know it's a crap photo.  But would you really want more detail?

Cattiness

The planets must be curiously aligned, or it’s the dawning of the age of aquarius or something, in other words all three of my sisters are once again in Shropshire.  While the sister-glut means that I’ve been getting yummy grub and have been ferried about all over the place, there are also darker moments.  For example, I have been heartlessly abandoned at the hospital after a radiotherapy appointment with some flimsy excuse about mobile reception.  This abandonment forced me on to a bus (oh the horror).  To add insult to injury I’ve also been told that my hair is like a doormat.  How I suffer.  Would anyone like to adopt me?

I’m still at my sister’s house as the building work at my place continues.  Fingers crossed I might get a kitchen roof this week.  Cyril and my sister’s cat, Tuppence, are slowly learning to tolerate each other.  See below for a united approach to Squirrel Watch.

Let's get 'im!

And, finally, if you’re sick to death of cat photos you’re in the wrong place.  I went to Shropshire Cat Rescue again today and look what was there. 

Want one, want one, want one!

The big question

Sis no 2 has just returned from Australia bearing gifts (see above).  I’d never had a Tim Tam before but understood that they are similar to the mighty Penguin.  In fact there seems to be some internet debate about which is the best.  So, purely in the name of scientific research, I have tried them out.  It is my unpatriotic duty to announce that Tim Tams win hands down.  They are Penguiny but also with a hint of Crunchie Bar.  A marriage made in heaven (or New South Wales according to the packet).

Anyway I’m soothing my soul with Tim Tams while the building work continues.  My uninhabitable house currently looks like this:

I shamelessly (and rather cheaply) ‘let slip’ to the builders that I’ve got cancer.  My not very subtle subtext being ‘so please do the work extra quickly and extra well’.  My cheek has been rewarded as now, every time I go to see the work in progress, I get a hug from the chief builder.  As a result, I am now about to tour the building sites of Shrewsbury, pulling my poorly face, in search of sympathetic cuddles from all and sundry.

The quilt of guilt

Picture from here

Building work has started on Discombobulated Towers, you should see the mess.  Predictably enough we’ve already run into a problem.  It turns out that one of the kitchen walls had been built on jelly or a plague pit or something else equally gooey and now has to be rebuilt.  Good start.

I’m happily ensconced at Sis No 1’s house for the duration of the building work.  I’m not so sure that Sis’s cat, Tuppence, is particularly happy about the ensconcing though.  Cyril (my three-legged monster cat) is being a thug, chasing Tuppence and stressing her out.  He is  an ASBO cat.  On the first day of our stay someone peed on my sister’s bed.  The jury is out as to whether this was Tuppence, Cyril or the Other-half.  Strangely, no-one seems keen on taking up my suggestion of DNA testing or calling in CSI Shrewsbury to unmask the culprit.  When we dropped the quilt off at the cleaners, we quickly exited the premises without mentioning why it needed cleaning.  The nice lady behind the counter will have a bit of a surprise when she opens up the bin bag containing the quilt.  I’m a bit scared about going back to collect it. 

I had my radiotherapy planning appointment today.  This involved a woman with extremely cold hands drawing all over my chest with a biro, running me through a CT scanner a couple of times and then tattooing me.  Now I’m all ready for the zapping process which will start in April and will mean a trip to the hospital everyday for three weeks.  Everyone assures me that radiotherapy is easy-peasy in comparison to chemo.  We’ll see.  I should think it’ll probably make me too ill to go to collect the quilt though, don’t you?

Irritations

Love letters to and from the Inland Revenue

See that picture?  That’s the correspondence I’ve had with the tax office over the last six weeks.  It’s a long and dull story best summed up as they are doing my bloody head in!  I am battling on and think I might be wearing them down as the latest letter from the powers-that-be said, amongst other things, that they were ‘sending me kind thoughts’.  Sweet, but I’d prefer it if they just got my tax right. 

I’ve got a seroma (collection of icky fluid at the operation site).  Maybe don’t click on that link if you’re about to eat.  Too late?  Oops sorry.  I had the fluid drained on Friday by the surgeon but by Friday evening it was back.  I thought I was tremendously brave putting up with it all weekend and called the hospital on Monday morning expecting them to rush me in to mop my brow and drain the gunk.  They were unimpressed.  I have to wait until Wednesday to get it drained again.  Meanwhile I’m walking around with what feels like a small water bed on my chest.  This in turn has put the kibosh on my radiotherapy planning appointment (also scheduled for Wednesday).  I spent all day yesterday (apart from the two hours I spent composing my latest letter to the tax office) trying to phone the radiotherapy department to reschedule my appointment.  The phone rang and rang and rang and rang.  No-one answered all day.

I’m still pathetically tired.  I walked for 10 minutes yesterday, had a major (and embarrassing) coughing fit in the post office then walked 10 minutes home and had to have a lie down. 

I’m persisting with the grotty post-mastectomy exercises as instructed by the physiotherapist.  They hurt and make me even grumpier.

Building work on the kitchen starts on Monday.  There is still So Much To Do Before The Work Can Start.  And Cyril (three-legged monster cat) is not helping much with the packing.

To cap it all I’ve opened a new tub of margarine when we already had an unfinished tub in the fridge.  Argh.  As John Shuttleworth says 'two margarines on the go, it's a nightmare scenario'.  See below for his musical masterpiece:

Medical update

With all the ranting I forgot to update you on my recent surgeon and oncologist appointments.  The surgeon is happy with my progress (the seroma problem is common and nothing to worry about).  Sufficiently clear margins were taken out around the tumour so I don’t have to have more surgery.  The main tumour itself was a bit smaller than expected and the other cancer in the breast found during biopsies a year ago was nowhere to be seen.  The surgeon suspects it was zapped by the chemo.  The oncologist (the one that looks like Smokey Robinson, he’s my new favourite) decided I should have radiotherapy because, although it will not help with secondary cancer, it can reduce the risk of a recurrence of a new cancer in the same area as the first.  So pretty good news all round.  I really shouldn’t be so grumpy, but I am.