Ducks and disappointment

Shrewsbury, yes AGAIN

The photograph above was taken from a footbridge over the Severn, while strolling back home from the town centre this afternoon.  It’s not the picture I wanted to take though.  While we were on the bridge a lady just behind us was pooped on twice by a passing duck.  She took it in good part (it’s supposed to be lucky after all) but, as much as I wanted to, I didn’t have the courage to ask her if I could take a photo.  That, I feel, would have been bad luck for me - I could well have ended up in the river.

After all this excitement the other-half felt the need for an ice cream.  Unfortunately the rest of Shrewsbury had beaten him to it.  There were about four lollies left in the corner shop and, after swearing quite a bit (I can only hope the shopkeeper thought he had Tourettes), he had to made do with a "disappointing" cornetto.  He was not impressed and insisted I take a photo of the offending article.

Can't see the problem myself

We had a welcome visit from the other-half’s twin brother and his wife.  There was wailing and gnashing of teeth over Wolverhampton Wanderers, discussion of the saga of the escaping cat and cake.

Tomorrow is blood test day and as long as that’s OK I’ll get my second lot of chemo on Tuesday.  Time flies when you’re having fun.

Hair today ...

Out of focus, but scrummy

Today we finally got to grips with the juicer.  When I say ‘we’ I mean, of course, the other-half.  I was still lazing around in bed while he girded his loins with cheap girders (copyright Spike Milligan) and read the juicer instruction book.  No mean feat.  The result, apple/celery/carrot juice was yummy even though it looked fairly disgusting.  So from now on we will be juice crazy and will be going on a veg buying spree tomorrow.  There are however two downsides to this juicing lark:  1)  When the juicer is running it sounds like a jumbo jet is taking off in the kitchen  2) Dismantling it to clean it (see below).

OK, the toaster isn't part of the juicer but daren't move it due to risk of crumb avalanche

 

It was a lovely warm, sunny day here in Shropshire.  We went to see our pals J, M and little N and had a good catch up.  Amazingly N (age 2 and a half) recognized me in my shorn state and what’s more didn’t run and hide behind the sofa in shock (neither did J and M).  Result!

Mind you I think even such hair as I have is well on its way out now.  This morning my pillow was covered in hair and I can see bald patches developing on one side.  Thanks again to C & C Hairdressing for Tuesday’s short back and sides, as my reaction to finding a lot of half inch hairs on my pillow was merely ‘oh look’, had they been six inches or so long I think it might have been more a case of ‘oh woe is me’.  The other-half has just informed me that my eyebrows are on the way out too.  Time to get practicing with the eyebrow pencil.  I think I might go for a Bert from Sesame Street look.  What do you think?

Cats, crops and celebrations

Watching him, watching me, watching him

After yesterday’s escapade Cyril is now only allowed in the garden under supervision.  It’s a bit like letting a prisoner out in to the exercise yard (I’d imagine) with me as the vigilant, hard-hearted prison guard.  Brown fluffy cat, who is leading my poor innocent cat astray with his wild ways, was nowhere to be seen.  Which is just as well as, if he carries on being a bad influence, I may well turn him into a nice pair of furry gloves should I ever manage to get my mits on him.

I went out again today wigless (to the chemist to collect a prescription).  I’ve found that people are really nice to you when you’ve got a ‘cancer crop’.  Today I used it as an excuse to walk into a complete stranger’s garden to fuss her cat and dog (she made the mistake of smiling and saying ‘hello’ as I walked past).  Also the pharmacist was charm personified.  Goodness only knows how people will behave when I’m totally bald, probably hand me kittens and wads of cash.  Well, I can hope.

Eight months ago today the other-half and I got spliced.  Yeah, OK I know you don’t get anything for eight months, certainly not kittens and wads of cash.  And eight months is especially puny when you consider that the other-half’s twin brother and his wife celebrate their twenty-fifth anniversary this year.  However, I’m using it as an excuse to include the photo below and say thanks again to everyone who made it such a special day, particularly the other-half who made it completely unforgettable by getting my name wrong during his speech.

Falling in with the wrong crowd

Non-escaping cats

Well it didn’t take long did it?  Cyril, the three-legged monster cat, escaped from Fort Discombobulated today.  After all the fence extending and close monitoring, the little so and so must have sneaked out without us realising while the other-half was hanging out washing.  It wasn’t until about an hour later that we noticed that Cyril was nowhere to be found in the house.  So the usual search started.  This time I found him after only about ten minutes of looking.  He was in the gardens of the houses near the Very Busy Road.  This time I managed to grab him and march him back home (unlike last time when he gave us the round around for five hours).  He was most unimpressed because, yet again, he was hanging around with Fluffy Brown Cat.  In other words I showed him up in front of his mate.  The thing is that I don’t think Fluffy Brown Cat is the right sort of friend for Cyril at all.  He's a rough sort and Cyril is a nicely brought up boy.  I’m sure Fluffy lures Cyril away from the garden to get up to all sorts of cat delinquency.  How long before they start playing knock-the-door-and-run-away, mugging dogs and going joy-riding? 

I’m not sure I can cope with all this parental anguish!  I took the above picture at a garden centre this afternoon – would it be so terrible to replace Cyril with a cat terracotta army?

Shorn

I'm going to have to make sure I wash behind my ears from now on

So far I’ve been a bit cagey on this blog, not mentioning names or showing pictures of people.  But today I’ve decided to stop being such a wuss, bite the bullet and reveal myself in all my glory (if this doesn’t cause the number of visits to this blog to plummet nothing will).

Today two of my sisters-in-law came over and gave me a very, very short back and sides (see above).  I can heartily recommend C & C Hairdressing Services, they made what could have been a fairly traumatic experience into a good laugh.  Not only that, they brought home made choc chip muffins with them.  Sadly my hair won’t stay like this very long as it will all fall out but at least it’ll be half inch lengths falling out now rather than great long revolting stringy bits.  Thanks C and C!

This afternoon I went out in my wig for the first time (see below).  Very odd feeling and I kept worrying that it might slip but it seemed to work out OK.  It didn’t make any children cry, horses bolt or dogs whine.  

Look, no split ends

 The reason for going out this afternoon was for my first ever reflexology session (in a bid to relax a bit).  Now I’m a bit of a weirdo and actually like having my feet touched so it was absolute bliss.  I’ll be going back for more of that.  I was thinking of finishing this post with a picture of my (very relaxed) feet but you’ll be relieved to hear that I’ve thought better of it and will spare you (for now).

Escape plans and sophistication

OK, can I leap out of the garden from here?

Well how about getting under here then?

Hmm, tricky, maybe I'll just try giving her The Look

Cyril the Devious is at it again.  I let him out in the garden for half an hour (under strict supervision) and he seemed to be investigating escape routes.  I suspect he may try digging a tunnel or building a glider in the loft when we're not around.  I wish I'd never let him watch The Colditz Story with me the other afternoon.

Meanwhile I continue to leave a trail of hair behind me, so tomorrow two of my sisters-in-law are coming over to give me an extreme short back and sides.  It's very good of them, but I will be double-checking that they don't shave swear words into the back of my head.

Tonight was another meals on wheels night.  Shepherds pie - hurrah.  This time we let the cook eat with us (I know, my standards are slipping) along with out mate T.  T had brought a bottle of advocaat with him so we had pre-dinner snowballs (and it wasn't even Christmas).  Truly my middle name is sophistication. Afterwards I caught the other-half in the kitchen supposedly washing up but with this head in the dish eating the last scrappings of shepherds pie.  As others can testify, this isn't the first time this has happened.  The things I put up with.

Meals on wheels

Big Sis Catering presents ...

Today was the other-half’s first day back at work.  So, given my iffyness about food at the moment, Big Sis Catering came into force.  She very kindly cooked us chicken and leek pie for dinner.  It was fantastic.  We both had two helpings.  She now has a job for life.  The cat wanted some too but he didn’t get a look in.

Less happily I found out today that my cancer is HER2+ which isn’t great news (although not a huge surprise) but this does means that herceptin might be effective.  Hey ho.  I’ll find out more at my next appointment with the oncologist.

Also on the grim side, my hair has really started coming out now (and my scalp is incredibly tingly).  I’ve been frantically ordering scarves today.  I think I’ll be calling on the services of the sis-in-law who said she’d help with the head shaving pretty soon.  I hope the offer is still on!

On a more positive note I have undertaken a scientific experiment and my findings are that the stress caused by finding out I’m HER2+ and that I’m going to be bald soon was combated quite well by diazepam, a dark rum and ginger beer and two helpings of chicken pie.  Also if the scarves don’t arrive in time I always have a beautiful hat (see below) which my nephew gave me last Christmas.  See every cloud has a drug-fuelled, rum-soaked, green monster-hatted lining.

Bath-time frolics

Yes I know, brass taps but a silver plug ... that's the kind of rebel I am

I had a day at home flopped on the sofa making up for all the recent activity.  Sorry not to have been able to make N’s christening but it sounds like a good time was had by all.

After a long sit on the sofa I summoned up the energy for a bath and Cyril, as he so often does, decided to supervise.  It’s not the most soothing experience having a three-legged cat wobble about perilously on the side of the bath while you’re trying to relax in the water.  On slip and he’d be in the water, instantly transformed into a mass of panicking claws.  He didn’t fall in, this time, but found another way to torment me.  He sat on the drawers facing the bath and did that weird staring into space as if he could see-something-spooky-that-humans-can’t-see thing that cats do sometimes.  He was staring at the open bathroom door behind my head.  I don’t usually let this weird cat behaviour get to me but there was no-one else in the house and he made me feel distinctly uneasy (little git).  Of course, when I got out of the bath there was nothing lurking behind me and Cyril immediately stopped behaving like a portent of doom.  In fact he went back to wobbling about on the side of the bath fascinated by the water going down the plug hole.  I was tempted to give him a bit of a push to get my own back but I’m far too soft for that.

Then I did some more sofa sitting and dozing.  Well, all that bath-time excitement took it out of me.   

Viva la revolution

This does NOT belong to me.  Honest.

The other-half and I strolled into town again today and met up with big sis, nephew and wife to mooch around shops and have lunch.  All of which was very jolly even if now, a few hours later, my lunch is repeating on me (hmmm salami sandwich, the gift that keeps on giving).

All this recent activity has been great but a bit knackering.  So I have returned home to spend the afternoon (and probably evening) stretched out on the sofa with the cat.  The other-half has gone to visit friends in Bridgnorth.  (Sorry I couldn’t make it for further trumping conversations, but I’m truly shattered). 

Anyway, I flopped onto the sofa turned on the TV and found that the film ‘Cromwell’ was on.  I know it’s historically inaccurate.  I know it’s a bit iffy (to say the very least) to show it on St Patrick’s Day (given Cromwell’s behaviour in Ireland).  But I do love this film.  It’s a good thing the other-half is out as I can relish the film (and defeat of the monarchy) in peace without him (being a complete royalist) ruining it for me.

As you can probably imagine the solar-powered waving plastic queen (yes, really), pictured above, belongs to the other-half not me.  He is threatening to display it in our front window during the Diamond Jubilee, whereas I will, of course, be constructing a guillotine in the back garden.

City slickers and a foul mouth

The Royal Oak, Cardington

Today we’ve been showing off the delights of Shropshire to my nephew and his wife.  They both work in London (crazy young people!) and are used to fancy-pancy delights like double-decker buses, i-phones and electricity.  So we gave them the rural Shropshire experience, but softy style (you know how easy it is to scare these city types).  We had lunch at the Royal Oak in Cardington and it was delicious (again) then went off on a drive around the countryside with a couple of stops – Langley Chapel and Acton Burnell Castle – for full isolated, squawking-crow atmosphere .  We have now released the poor couple and I think they plan to make up for today with some serious shopping in Shrewsbury tomorrow.  Stand by shop keepers!

Acton Burnell Castle

And now for something completely different.  Yesterday I came across a couple of kids dismantling a fence next to an industrial unit.  The other-half was remonstrating reasonably with them when all of a sudden, much to my own surprise, I waded in, calling them ‘a pair of little shits’.  I’ve decided sudden, uncontrollable and aggressive swearing is an (unlisted) side effect of chemo and that I’m not responsible for my own actions.  Anyone want to ****ing well argue with me about it?

A bit mixed

View from Applecross, Wester Ross

Today’s photo is one we took in Scotland last year (be warned there are millions of others) and it’s supposed to represent the worry/relief combo which was the result of today’s visit to the oncologist (otherwise known as the Anti-Doogie).

Firstly, not to miss the chance to blow my own trumpet, the Anti-Doogie congratulated me on having fought and succeeded in getting my chemo date changed (he had tried and failed).  I felt very full of myself and am considering renaming myself and only answering to ‘Champ’. 

Less positively the Anti-Doogie noticed some new symptoms that I hadn’t.  These may just be a reaction to the chemo but need to be watched.  This means that he is moving the next CT scan forward by about a month and that my chemo (after the next one) may need to be changed.  At least, as my mate F pointed out, he’s on the ball.  Trust me not to notice new symptoms that need noticing.  Yet I did notice that the Anti-Doogie was wearing a really horrible pair of pointy shoes.  Nothing like getting your priorities straight is there?

More happily the Anti-D assured me that some of the other symptoms I’d been experiencing must be anxiety related rather than lung related (as I feared).  As a result this afternoon I walked into, around and home from town for the first time since having chemo.

So there you have it, a bit of a mixed day – the photo says it all. 

Espalier – there I knew I’d get it in somehow

In my very first post I mentioned that my favourite word is ‘discombobulated’ with ‘espalier’ coming in a close second place.  I also said that I doubted I’d ever be able to use ‘espalier’ again in this blog – well I obviously underestimated my resourcefulness for I have risen to the challenge!  Today I went for a walk around Attingham Park and took the above picture to show how spring-like it was, and correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that tree espaliered?  Give the girl a coconut.

We strolled around Attingham and got some veg planting ideas from the walled garden (see below) which is about a gazillion times bigger than our allotment, but we can dream.

The other-half also bought a second-hand hoe (that’s a gardening implement, you mucky-minded lot) so it’s all systems go on the grow-your-own front (that is if you don't include getting the seeds and planting and all that palaver).

 

As if he hasn't got enough to do what with gardening, building cat defences and catering to my every whim, next week the other-half goes back to work.  He has had some time off to run me back and forwards for assorted medical appointments and also just be generally marvelous (don’t tell him I said that).  Anyway once he’s back at work my big sis has very kindly volunteered to cook some dinners for us as my appetite is a bit rubbish at the moment and if I start preparing food I find I really don’t want to eat it (well that’s my excuse for the other-half doing all the cooking at the moment and I’m sticking to it).  Big sis has asked what sort of meals we’d like, so if anyone has any ideas for something really complicated do let me know, I’d like to see the look on her face when I ask for something like lobster thermidor (whatever that is).     

Talking of kindly sisters, one of my sister-in-laws has said she she'll help me with head shaving when the time comes.  It's really appreciated as goodness only knows what sort of a mess I'd make of it.  As I type my scalp is feeling distinctly prickly I wonder if that's a sign of the start of the hair loss.  That, or maybe it's just nits.

The cat's whiskers

 

Looky look what I was given today.  An original Louis Wain sketch.  Many, many thanks to R, M, A, A and, of course, Molly the Cat.  I absolutely love it.  The photo doesn’t really do it justice due to the reflecting light problem (oh how we photographers struggle).  It probably would have been better to wait and take the photo in daylight but pah to that, I wanted to show it off NOW.

On to more mundane subjects.  This morning I had a visit from the Macmillan nurse.  She told me that there is somewhere a bit more local where I can access the same sort of services (ie complimentary therapies) that are available at the Haven, so I might give that a go.  Last night I took two sleeping tablets but still woke up at 3am.  I did manage to get a couple more hours later on, but I think it’s fair to say I could do with some help relaxing and/or controlling this crappy anxiety (medical term).  Any chloroform dealers out there?  On a more positive note the nurse said that the anti-anxiety medication I’m taking probably hasn’t started working to full effect yet (she reckons it can take a couple more weeks) so maybe the drugs will do the trick yet. 

And that’s about it for today (if you can say that about a day when I got a Louis Wain picture).   

I could tell you about my trip to Telford with the other-half to collect the car from its MOT and service but I really don’t think you could handle the excitement. 

Here there be dragons

Today was one of those days when the Anxiety Dragon was blowing fire in my direction and I quailed like a wimpy damsel in distress.  Fortunately St George made an appearance in the guise of an Aubery Manning DVD (ta T), some trusty diazepam plus a welcome visit from S + J.  Equilibrium was restored.  By the way, I already had the diazepam – I didn’t mean to imply that my visitors were dealers.

The other-half trekked off to the allotment where the weeds were as high as an elephant’s eye and restored order there – ready to grow lots of healthy veg for summer.  Dragons hate veg, it’s a well known fact.

Spring is sprung

 Hawthorn in blossom on today's walk 

This afternoon, as the sun was shining and spring was in the air, we went for a walk round the scene of the Battle of Shrewsbury of 1403 (Can I resist saying ‘oh that's nearly five past two’?  No, obviously I can’t.)  We walked through fields to the Battlefield church.  It was all very lovely apart from the pylons at the start of the walk which were huge and crackling like crazy - not very atmospheric.

Anyway I reckon I walked about a mile and a half .  I feel a bit tired now but at least I got out and about in the sunshine for a while.  It was all very spring like, the blossom was out and the birdies were singing and most dog owners on the same walk even picked up their mutts’ poo (but not all of course).  Anyway we celebrated the lovely weather by strolling around a site where thousands of people had been killed in a bloody battle (albeit 600 years ago).

Talking of warfare, I’ve now reached peak possible infection time (when my blood count can be apparently at it’s lowest).  However I think I may be in greater danger of the other-half’s wrath.  I am constantly and unnecessarily reminding him to wash his hands after touching anything.  That noise you can hear is him grinding his teeth.

Memory lane

My big sis baby-sat me today while the other-half foolishly went to watch football.  Ta big sis.  I wasn’t on form as I’d had a bit of a ropey night but we had a good look through some family photos that had come from my parents’ house a few years ago.  So I was able to admire hairstyles (especially mine), outfits and home decoration of the last umpteem years.  Were the early 70s entirely brown and orange?  Was it illegal not to have a moustache?  And how did my sisters manage to tuck all their clothes into their knickers to go paddling in the sea? 

Because I’m (rightly) terrified of all my family, the picture above is of the older generation (my parents’ wedding) rather than of anyone who might come round and punch me.  Spiffy photo isn’t it?  How they managed to put on such a show in 1946 (with clothing rationing still in force I think) I just don’t know.

Now I await the return of a very depressed other-half who has just watched his team lose yet again.  I keep telling him to support a good team instead, but he doesn’t listen.  You just can’t help some people can you?

The sweet smell of freedom

The defences have been put up and the barricades manned.  Or to put it another way the other-half has finished fitting the trellis to the garden fence which will hopefully stop Cyril, the three-legged monster cat, from further escape attempts. However, we do have doubts that he may use the trellis as a sort of cat-ladder, so the trauma may be far from over.  Anyway Cyril got his first spell in the garden today for a good few days and I think his expression in the photo sums up his pleasure at being outside.

He did spot a possible escape route straight away – see photo below.  But rest assured this gap will soon be filled.

 Earlier on he was a very snooty cat indeed.  My cat-loving friend K visited (with lovely malteasers) and Cyril ignored her completely.  Sorry K, what can I say I’ve obviously brought him up all wrong.  I am responsible for a delinquent cat.

Still feeling pretty tired so didn’t get up to much today.  I’m now reaching the phase (about a week after receiving chemo) when you apparently become much more at risk of contracting infections.  I’ve been told to keep an eye on my temperature and if it goes over 37.5 degrees for longer than half an hour I have to phone the hospital.  So I’m wandering around with a thermometer being moderately neurotic.  Not a hobby I’d recommend.  On the whole I reckon escaping over fences would be more exciting.

The big wide world

Lovely, lovely Shrewsbury 

Well what do you know, I’ve been outside – and the world is still there.  This morning I went for a 5 minute walk round the block. And I have to say it made a change to be touring the neighbourhood without panic in my heart looking for an errant cat (he was safely at home). 

This afternoon we drove into town and had a mooch about buying birthday cards and the like.  It was a little bit tiring and I knew I wasn’t quite myself as I had no desire to nip into any of the trillions of pubs in Shrewsbury (I must be poorly) but it was nice to actually get outside.

Then it was on to the doctors to collect the note that signs me off work for the next 18 weeks.  When the oncologist heard where I’m employed he said that I shouldn’t work at all during chemo because the place is full of stinky-germ-bags.  Oh OK OK, he didn’t say that.  What he said was that the size of the place I work at is a problem given the number of employees and therefore the risk of exposure to infection (chemo plays havoc with the immune system).  He meant stinky-germs-bags though I reckon – and you know who you are! 

Oh for goodness sake!  The other-half has just read this and says it's rude to my workmates.  I say they wouldn't expect any different from me but just in case my work chums take it the wrong way and storm round to my place mob handed (possibly demanding the kindle back, it's too late for the Easter egg though) - I don't mean it.  You're all lovely and not remotely germy (no matter what the oncologist thinks).  

Nowt

See, even the cat has been boring today.

This is going to be an exceptionally dull post even by my standards.  As today fatigue has hit home.  My sum achievement was getting up, washed and dressed, sorting some paperwork and then sitting about.  I can imagine the people I work with saying “well that’s more than she ever did at work, apart from the sitting about bit” but I shall rise above it or maybe just lie on the settee under it.  Anyway, all this is par for the course according to the list of possible chemo side effects, so no huge surprise.

Sorry this is so very dull.  But both the other-half and the cat have been boring today too – so it’s not all my fault.  

Thanks to C and T for their welcome visits - sorry I wasn't my usual dazzling and scintillating self.

Grounds for divorce?

How's this for an exciting photo?  Come with me and I'll show you the world

 Surely it’s perfectly reasonable to assume that a washing machine which is, correct me if I'm wrong,  designed to wash things would also clean itself?  Well apparently not, or so I was told this morning at some length.  The other-half loaded the machine today and took the opportunity to inspect it.  Apparently the dispenser drawer and drum were thick with filth and I am in disgrace.  On the bright side I am hoping that I will be deemed too irresponsible to ever take charge of the washing machine again.

In other news the after effects of Monday’s chemo still seem to be fairly minimal.  I’m wary of typing that in case it tempts fate and I’m struck down by everything on the scary hospital list.  But other than some queasiness, not sleeping at night but dozing during the day I don’t (thankfully) have a lot to report. 

Whilst I’m talking scary I had to give myself an injection in my stomach today (one a day for six days to keep my blood count up).  I, true to form, worked myself up into something of a lather about it (just had to follow instructions I hadn’t had a trial run with a nurse or anything).  Anyway it seemed fairly straight forward, once push came to literal shove, and as soon as I’d done it I celebrated with tea, a hot cross bun and a snooze. 

Much as it pains me to write something nice about the other-half after washing machine incident, he has been hard at work all day on the Cyril Proof Fence.  This was apparently very complicated.  I know because it involved a lot of swearing.  Hopefully it’ll be completed tomorrow (weather permitting) and the three-legged cat can be released into the garden once more to practice some more escapology.  Can you bear the excitment?  I'm not sure I can.

The postman always rings twice

A lovely shot of me modelling my presents.

What an exciting day on the delivery of surprise presents front!  Two presents.  Yes two.  I am a lucky bunny (OK maybe not lucky in all departments but in the unexpected gift arena I reign supreme).

Just as I was about to leave for my first dose of chemo (more on that later, there is no escape) a lovely dressing gown arrived from the Gang of Four (A, H, J, and J).  I think they were so appalled by my description of my frankly revolting dressing gown that decided I needed a replacement.  They were right.  I love it!  Thanks.

Then much later in the day, as I was lying on the sofa feeling slightly queasy, the other-half answered the door and guess what arrived.  A jigsaw.  Now a jigsaw is jolly exciting in its own right (obviously) but this one’s special because it’s a picture of the other-half and I on our wedding day last July.  This time (unlike the cat harness incident) I’m confident in saying that this is from MM.  Thanks MM, I never knew that you could get personalized jigsaws (I’ve lived a sheltered life) and am terribly impressed.

So the chemo.  Well, the actual process was OK.  I wouldn’t recommend it as a day out but it was OK.  I’ve been sent home with an absolute truck load of medication – some to deal with possible side effects and some to deal with the side effects of the medication given for the side effects (if you get what I mean).  So far I’ve been feeling slightly queasy but I’m aware it’s very early on for the development of side effects – we’ll see what happens over the next few days. Many thanks to all for the emails, phone calls and text messages.

However, I'm sure you won't be surprised to learn that the other-half managed to steal the show during chemo.  He sat with me while the chemo was administered and the nurse, at one point, was talking about veins.  She then turned to the other-half and waxed lyrical about how good his veins looked.  He loved it.  Typical!

Scary road ahead

I’m afraid I don’t have much to report today as once again (even without a sleeping tablet last night) I’ve been pretty lethargic.  I can only assume that the cause of this is a combination of now being on the full dose of anti-anxiety meds and/or natural laziness.  Please note that I’m not asking for opinions on which of the two it might be.  I think I can guess which way that particular vote would go.

So tomorrow I start treatment.  As mentioned in previous posts I kicked up something of a stink to get my first lot of chemo moved forward by ten days.  Had I failed in my attempt to get chemo sooner I would be moaning for Britain.  However, now it’s due to start tomorrow I am also moaning for Britain.  This is because I am complex and deep and also a big cissy-pants.  The list of possible side effects is so huge it would have been easier for the hospital to bin the reams of  info they gave me and just to have handed me a piece of paper bearing the word ‘everything’.  In bold. 

So there you have it, tomorrow, I start on the scary treatment road (note I did not use the word ‘journey’ – that would be unforgiveable).  Anyway my feeble road analogy is an excuse for starting this post with a picture taken on holiday in the wilds of Scotland last September.  It’s the Bealach na Bà – a quite scary mountain pass we drove over on a number of occasions.  I was a big cissy-pants when we were doing that too. 

And to finish on a more positive note, another picture this time indicating a more onwards and upwards frame of mind (which I know I need to foster, but requires the removal of my big cissy-pants which appear to be welded on at the moment).  This photo was also taken in Scotland last year but I’ve forgotten where.  I should warn you I have about 300 photos from that holiday and some more may well appear on this blog.  You lucky, lucky devils!   

The day the earth stood still

Yep it's another chance to stick in a photo of the Shropshire countryside - hurrah!

Guess what I’ve done today.  Sweet Fanny Adams, naff all and diddly squat, that’s what. 

I’ve noticed that a couple of people in America and further afield read this blog (hello!) and I’m not at all sure that the phrase ‘sweet Fanny Adams’ is in use outside of the UK so I’ve included a link to its meaning.  Now I knew it meant ‘nothing’ but had no idea of the story of how it came to be used that way, and once I investigated had second thoughts about including it here – it’s horrible, sad and depressing.  Sorry.  Therefore I will be avoiding using the common (in both senses) English phrases Fucking Ada and Bloody Nora in this post just in case their back stories are equally unhappy (and also I’m obviously far too refined to use such terms).

Last night I upped my anti-anxiety medication to the recommended dose (IE I doubled it) and took a sleeping tablet.  I can’t say it made a massive improvement to my sleep but the lethargy the combination caused in the morning did mean that I couldn’t be bothered to get super-anxious until about 1pm (a good 5 hours later than usual).  On the downside I have also lacked the energy to do anything.  If I tell you I’m willingly sat in front of the telly watching Sharpe you’ll know how low I’ve sunk.  But the remote control is a good four feet away, so what’s a girl to do (even one with a pathological loathing of Sean Bean – yes, yes I know I’m in a minority on that one).

However, my utter idleness has allowed the other-half to commence Cyril Proof Fence building in between bringing me fish finger sandwiches, cups of tea and hot cross buns.  See, I'm always thinking of others.

Anyway, must go, I've started getting interested in this episode of Sharpe after all.  Bloody Nora, what's happening to me?

24

Today's picture?  A sulking cat.

My last twenty-four hours have been so busy and tense I’m sure I could give Kiefer Sutherland a run for his money.

Firstly, last night, Cyril, the cat from hell (well Willenhall actually, but that’s pretty much the same thing, it’s even worse than Croydon) escaped again.  Only this time it was a proper Steve McQueen style escape (but with no motorbike, come on, he’s a cat).  Cyril was missing for five and a half hours.  This might sound wussy to those of you with cats that roam but Cyril, having only three legs and no road sense (hence the three legs) is supposed to be limited to the house and garden.  I was beside myself when he went AWOL.  I put leaflets through all the letter boxes in our road, the other-half and I toured the surrounding streets calling ‘Cyril’ until we were hoarse.  We were also shaking a box of cat biscuits – which gave us no luck in luring Cyril but saw us make friends with several other local cats who came to investigate.  We even met some new neighbours as we knocked on doors and asked to look in gardens.  The little monster turned up at 12.45am in our garden looking very pleased with himself.  He is now under strict house arrest until the fence improvements have been carried out.  He is not impressed.

This morning I went off to the hospital for my chemo pre-assessment appointment.  A lovely nurse explained all the completely unlovely possible side effects I might experience.  I’m torn between wanting chemo to start, as at least something will be being done to combat the shitty disease, and just being plain scared of the whole thing.  At this point of the day I quite wanted to do a Cyril and just jump over fences and run away from it all.  But I, unlike certain black and white cats, have a sense of responsibility and awareness of cause and effect (also I can't jump over fences). 

This afternoon it was back to wig lady.  I’d chosen three possible wigs.  One was out of stock, one was completely horrendous and one looked pretty good.  The other-half came with me and said that the horrendous wig made me look like I was on the game.  I can’t think what sort of clientele that would have attracted though.  Is there a niche market for people who like scrawny middle-aged women wearing massive acrylic ginger wigs?  If so, don’t tell me, I’m happy in my innocence.

I had intended to have my hair cut short but the hairdresser would do no more than give me a chin length bob.  I think she probably just didn’t want me crying in her salon as she scalped me.  Anyway I’ve now got about four inches less hair then I did so that’s something I suppose.

Well, I’m off to spend my evening with a sulky cat, a new wig and an other-half designing a cat-proof fence.  Pah, that Kiefer Sutherland doesn’t know he’s born.

Coming up trumps

My dears, I have spent a very sophisticated afternoon with the other-half and his very sophisticated chum discussing ‘trumping’.  Now I’m originally from dahn sarf (ie near London) where ‘trumps’ is simply a term used while playing cards.  But, oh my innocent  southern pals, I’ve news for you – in the Midlands ‘trump’ is another word for fart.  So we spent the afternoon sat around the chum’s dining room table scoffing hot cross buns and talking about people with the misfortune to have the surname ‘Trump’.  In fact a friend of a friend of mine is unlucky enough to be called Victor Trumper.  And I know of a street, I think it’s in Reading, called Trumper Way (you’ll need to say that aloud to appreciate it).  Suffice it to say much there was much mirth.  Rest assured though, the trumping conversation lasted five minutes.  For the rest of the afternoon we discussed politics, art and quadratic equations.

This morning though was truly trumpy (there is no other description).  I had to go to my GP to get a blood test for the pre-chemo assessment I’m having first thing tomorrow at hospital.  The chemo people (after the battle I had to get my appointment moved to this century) promised that I would have a letter from them by this morning explaining to the GP what blood tests were required.  (As the GP’s receptionist had been a bit iffy about booking me in without knowing exactly was required).  But, you’ve guessed it, the letter never arrived.  So I spent half a frantic hour on the phone this morning to the chemo unit hoping to ask them what to do – only no-one was answering the phone.  I may have mentioned my anxiety levels once or twice before on this blog – so you can imagine how I was feeling at this point.  Anyway, with about two minutes to spare before I had to leave the house to get to the GP I managed to speak to someone in Chemo and all was sorted.  But a bit more stress was just what I needed.  Once I got back from the doctors I consoled myself with a cuppa, malt loaf and some diazepam – all the major food groups there.

So, tomorrow is pre-assessment at the hospital followed by wig try-on and hair cut.  Stand by for fears, tears and advanced whinging.