Yay!

I saw the oncologist this morning and in his words 'the chemo is working'.  In my words 'yippee, open the champers and hang out the bunting'.

The crap in my lungs has shrunk.  I don't think it's shrunk much but this is the first time any treatment has seen a reduction in the cancer (previous CT scans have shown either stability or progression - progression being a Bad Thing when it comes to cancer). 

Just a note of caution here - I know I've probably gone on and on and on about this, but there is no cure for secondary breast cancer.  I will never be cured.  The best I can hope for is to hold things at bay.  But, hey, holding things at bay sounds pretty good to me!

The plan is to continue with three weekly doses of chemo and then scan again in three months.  I am a very happy bunny.  Many thanks to all those who've been in touch recently with best wishes and fluffy thoughts, very much appreciated. 

And just to show how jolly I feel, here's a previously unseen picture from the Shrewsbury Flower Show.  I spoil you, I really do.

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.

 

 

Ancient history

It seems a thousand years ago (not the more realistic four weeks) that I spent a sunny week in Normandy with the other-half, sis no 3, her other-half, nephew no 2 and four Australian reprobates pals.  It was brill.  I saw the Bayeux Tapestry, visited the D-Day landing beaches, mooched around beautiful countryside

and ate and drank like a king (a king with a serious alcohol and cheese problem that is). 

Food wise the only low point was the discovery of the Mysterious Inedible French Sausage (MIFS).  I’ve forgotten the proper name of this monstrosity (probably due to some kind of minor post-traumatic stress) but if you can imagine the smell (and taste) of animal innards that have been boiled for a week in rancid pond water you’ll have a faint idea of the vileness of which I speak.  Both the other-half and I accidentally ordered MIFS (at different times) and are now receiving counseling. 

The high point for food?  Was it the delicious fish?  The cider?  The wine?  The lovely gooey cheese?  All close contenders but the winner was:

Tim Tam Tastic

Thanks Aussie Pals for turning up with the goods.  I have to admit that Turkish Delight flavour was a step too far even for me, but the others (especially honeycomb) were manna from heaven.  Of course, I tried the Tim Tam Slam (biting off two diagonally opposite corners and then slurping tea through the biscuit) – delicious but deeply disgusting for other people to witness.

However, lovely as all the above was, most of the holiday was spent here:

 

On a previous holiday, three years ago with the same mob, we invented Speedo Snooker (© Me), and we continued the contest this time.  Speedo Snooker is a game of strategy and skill (obviously not to be undertaken when full of cheese, wine and cider) where each player has two minutes to pot as many balls (in any order) as possible.  I humiliated myself regularly at this game purely to make the others feel better about their own prowess.  My brother-in-law is a fanatical Speedo Snooker player.  He also adores golf (I know).  Anyway I won’t be going on holiday with him again as I have just realised he loves any sport which involves hitting a small ball with a long stick.  This can only mean that the next thing on the agenda will be polo.  The only thing I know about horses is that they can’t climb trees, and I’ve no wish to discover any more about them than that.

And yes I did go swimming in the special swimsuit with the weirdly absorbent false breast but I’m wussing out of showing you photographic evidence.  There are two photos.  In one I have my face all screwed up and the other looks like I’m having a good scratch (I wasn’t, honest).  So, instead, here’s a photo of me strolling around a French garden in my two euro sunglasses (second hand stall at a market), any likeness to Dame Edna quite accidental.

If you think this is bad just imagine what the swimsuit snap would be like

These glasses have a very yellow tint and make every thing look sunny.  The lady I bought them from called them ‘optimist glasses’.

Anyway, all that was ages ago.  I’m now back in England, the temperature has dropped and I’m back to tucking my vest in my knickers and turning the central heating on as soon as the other-half leaves the house.  I’m also just over a week away from getting the results from my latest CT scan – maybe I’ll wear my optimist glasses for the appointment.  Wish me luck.

Fruity tales

A few weeks ago the annual Shrewsbury Flower Show took place.  This is a Very Big Deal in sleepy Shropshire so, of course, I had to attend.  The show is full of flowers, fruit, veg, entertainment, shopping and endless opportunities to spot people wearing red trousers.

My particular highlights were:

More gladdies than you could shake Dame Edna (or Morrisey) at

Some serious veg displays

Phwoar, get a load of those whoppers

 The children's veggie/fruit art entries

As far as favourites go, I was torn between the gruffalo pictured above and the disintegrating owl below

I also overheard some valuable fashion advice which I feel duty bound to pass on to you so you don't make a mistake next time you are purchasing waterproof footwear.  

A woman was trying on some posh wellies at one of the clothing stalls.  Her friend, watching her with a critical eye, said "don't have the ones with the diamond patterns on, they make your arse look fat".  So there you have it.  Certain styles of welly increase the visual impact of your derriere.  I will be informing Vogue and Farmers' Weekly as a matter of urgency.

A few days after the flower show I met up with a couple of ancient friends (I'm talking about the length of the friendship not their ages, although come to think of it ...)  Anyway J and H had decided to escape the madness of living within spitting distance of London and come to stay in Shropshire for a few days.  They brought their gorgeous dogs, Hugo and Lottie, with them.  As a confirmed cat-lover I never thought that I'd put the words 'gorgeous' and 'dog' together but there is no other way to describe them, look:

We sat in the garden of the cottage they had rented, drinking coffee and talking the hind leg off a donkey (as my old pa used to say).  Anyway all of a sudden there was pandemonium as another dog appeared at the fence.  Hugo and Lottie who had, until that point, been models of decorum went bananas.  In the process the table went flying and the other-half ended up with a a lap full of hot coffee.  Our chums immediately set about finding something for the other-half to change in to so his trousers could dry.  While this was going on the other-half looked at me with an expression of genuine panic on his face and mouthed the immortal words "I'm not wearing any pants".  I immediately shot back "WHY aren't you wearing any pants*".  I really don't hold with a free and easy approach when it comes to under garments. His excuse was that as we'd been late setting out he had leapt out of the shower and dressed as quickly as he could.  It's still a rum do if you ask me.  Anyway it was worth it to see the look of real fear on his face and also to wonder at whether he really thought that he was going to be expected to change in the garden in front of everyone.  I sometimes think I married someone very odd indeed.  Yeah, I know, a match made in heaven.  

*(hello people in America, you probably already know this, but just in case, in England pants=underpants).  

Anyway to draw the incident to a close here is a picture of a dog in disgrace:

Well I've gone on and on and on and haven't even got around to 'What I did on my holiday' yet.  I will spare you that until next time.  

On the cancery-front I've got chemo tomorrow and then a CT scan the following day.  This is scary as the results will show if the trial chemo I'm on has been having any effect or if the cancer is still up to its old tricks.  I can't think about this too much without resorting to strong drink and industrial strength tranquilizers, so for now I'll just stick my head in the sand and carry on enjoying the last bit of summer.

AWOL

I've been sunning myself in Normandy.  I'll bore you with details shortly but for now I'm drying out and recovering from burning the candle at both ends and indeed the middle and sides.  I had a fantastic time which included:

We got home last night.  Cyril (the three-legged monster cat) had been in Cat Camp, Cat Prison the cattery.  Did he miss me?  Here's a picture from this morning taken while I was still dozing in bed.  What do you think?

Somebody loves me

Stayed tuned for more - included photographic evidence of me swimming in my delightful swimsuit (make sure you take anti-nausea medication before reading the next post).

Del's diary

Darlings, my life has become a giddy social whirl.  Lunch here, dinner there and a trip to Monaco since I last posted.  Call me Jackie O.  Oh alright, if you're going to be picky I suppose I could point out that the meals have been in pubs and I might have accidentally typed Monaco instead of the more honest Anglesey, but you catch my drift.

Anglesey.  Better than Monaco any day of the week.

And what's more this leisurely life is set to continue, how on earth I'm going to squeeze in chemo next week I just can't imagine.

To add to the excitement, my new false breast for swimming (mentioned in my previous post) has arrived.  It cost ten pounds and, truly, I got what I paid for.  It appears to be a piece of sponge, super absorbent rather than water-proof.  So I will have to wring it out as I emerge from the water, very elegant.  Also the helpful washing instructions say 'do not iron'.  That's a bit of a shock as obviously my major requirement of all prosthetic breasts is that they be flat as a pancake.

Anyway I'd better dash, got to polish my diamond tiara for my next social engagement.  Toodle-pip.

Not for those of a nervous disposition

Picture from here

A word of warning, this blog post contains Too Much Information.  Read on at your peril.  However those of you brave enough to face the challenge will be rewarded with cat pictures at the end of the post, and where else on the internet will you get to see pictures of cats?

I really am quite wary about saying this but I am continuing to feel not-too-bad-at-all-thank-you-very-much, and that’s even after my third cycle of the trial chemo which I had last week.  Fingers crossed this continues. I walked into the town centre and back by myself today (a round trip of a couple of miles) something I haven’t felt well enough to do for five months. 

Although I was very pleased to be able to undertake the arduous trek, the trip wasn’t entirely successful as I failed in my quest, which was to buy a sarong.  Silly, silly me.  It’s nearly August so, of course, the shops had all their new autumn stock in.  Great if you wanted a padded jacket or polo-neck jumper but crap if you wanted anything vaguely summery.

At the risk of really tempting fate and the evil cancer goblins I am toying with the idea of going on holiday and have been a reckless little devil and bought a post-mastectomy swim suit designed not to reveal lots of rubbery false boob.  I’ve even ordered a waterproof prosthesis in the unlikely event of me actually getting in the water.  As this will not be used very often (maybe less than once) I have bought the cheapest model on the market – could be a disaster in the making.  At the very least, given my utter uselessness at swimming, I’m hoping it might act as a flotation aid, although seeing as it’s just on the left-hand side I could end up swimming in circles.

The choice of mastectomy swimming costumes is (in my opinion) very 80s.  They all seem to have massively high cut legs (some sort of compensation for the wearers’ lack of bosom perhaps).  I’m not much of a one for tampering with nature and/or pain and/or itchiness and the idea of waxing anything anywhere (much less in the front bottom area) is enough to make me pass out.  However some sort of action will have to be taken as, when I tried the swimsuit on, it looked like Chewbacca was trying to escape.  To make matters worse, when I turned round and looked at my rear view in the mirror instead of seeing my bottom and legs there seemed to have been some sort of explosion in a mattress factory (probably due to my belief that ice cream is a major and vital food group).  Anyway I have solved all my swimsuit problems with the purchase (on-line) of an industrial strength sarong.

If you’ve got this far, well done.  You’ve read all I have to say (today) about false bosoms, hairiness in unmentionable places and out-of-control arses and, although you’re probably a bit green about the gills, you’ve lived to tell the tale.

Now your reward.  I went back to Shropshire Cat Rescue last week and look what I saw, heaven!

Help ...

Picture from here

Lor love a duck I’m sweating cobs.  Or, to put it another way, it’s a little bit on the warm side. 

With my special powers (courtesy of Blogger) I’m able to see how many people look at this blog and whereabouts in the world they are.  Don’t worry, I don’t get any further details than that, so sadly I am unable to stalk anyone on an individual basis and turn up on doorsteps demanding sherry and pickled onions.  However it’s very interesting, and also quite thrilling (hello people in Russia), to see where in the world this blog is being read.  I’m sure a few readers (hello Aussies) would scoff at my describing 28^oC (or 82^oF, hello Americans) as unbearably hot, but for we delicate English people it’s sweltering.  It’s particularly hot, so I’m told, for anyone taking any form of exercise.  So hats off to Julie and Frances who both took part in the Race for Life at the weekend raising money for Cancer Research UK.  I was honoured that both Julie and Frances chose to put my name on their competitors' bibs.  I’m a soft old thing these days so I was really touched by their thoughtfulness.  Here’s a picture of Julie’s back (warning – she’s almost a potty-mouthed as me):

I say a lot of other things to cancer too, but let's not lower the tone

I’m glad to say that not only did they both survive taking part in the event in temperatures pushing 30^oC but also managed to complete the course. What a pair of tough cookies!  Thanks also to those who sponsored Julie.  What a bunch of good eggs you are.

Seeing as it’s blazing hot I have taken up the knitting needles once more.  Yes, woolly items are obviously the number one priority in summer.  Anyway I’ve decided that patterns are for wimps and so I am inventing my own thingummy.  I’m choosing to be a bit mysterious about it for now, but if the thingummy turns out to be even vaguely OK I will tell you about it another time.  If not, I may discreetly let the matter slide.

I’m bouncing back nicely after my stay in hospital a couple of weeks ago.  The pain seems to be well under control now (fingers crossed) so I was able to meet up with my sisters (yes they were all in the UK again, couldn’t you hear the shouting?) and some of my cousins too.  It was great to see everyone.

I saw Mr Oily (the oncologist) today and, although there won’t be much to report until I have scans sometime next month, he seemed fairly happy with the way things are going.  He also pointed out that one of the ‘swellings’ I’d been worrying about was, in fact, muscle.  This not only put my mind at rest but also made feel all svelte and athletic, which isn’t bad in anybody’s book.

Did you think I was going to get through a whole post without mentioning Cyril (three-legged monster cat)?  More fool you if you did.  Here’s another picture of him in action, using his carpeted cat tunnel.

See you around

Until next time, stay cool daddios.

Ow!

Since I last posted I’ve had an owie - and that’s putting it mildly. The pain in my side, possibly caused by cancer in the ribs, went ape shit crazy and I went in to orbit. I have never known pain like it (although admittedly I’ve not had children).  On Saturday I was admitted to hospital and, much to my joy, they sorted out decent pain relief.  I was discharged the following day and since then things have been much better.  I have developed side-effects from the chemo, nose bleeds and a need to rush to the loo at short notice (too much info?), but these are as nothing compared to the pain I was experiencing.  Here’s hoping my assortment of pain killers continue to do the trick. 

This weekend, in the blazing heat (yes, summer has finally arrived here in the UK), my friend and fellow curly-head Julie is running in a Race for Life, with all money raised going to Cancer Research.  What’s more she’s going to be running with my name on her back and, race organisers permitting, also a selection of choice swear words.  If anyone has spare cash (unlikely as that is in these straightened times) she can be sponsored by clicking here.

Cyril (the three-legged monster cat) continues to shoot in and out of his cat tunnel at all times of the day and night, coming home covered in dirt.  Here’s a picture of him embarrassing me by lounging around on my next-door neighbour’s garden table.  Kids eh!

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. 

Hot stuff

Picture from here

I started on the drug trial, TDM1, last week.  As it's a trial I had special treatment in the chemo unit.  There was a lot of attention, questioning and watchfulness from an assortment of nurses at regular intervals during the infusion.  Of course this is a Good Thing but, being an unreasonable git, I still found it annoying as it interrupted the intensive research I like to carry out while I'm on the unit.  That 'research' being the cover-to-cover reading of the type of celebrity gossip magazine I'm too snooty to buy but will happily consume in private if given the opportunity.  It also meant I had to be crafty about discarding the boiled sweet wrappers from the communal sweetie jar.  I think patients are meant to have one or two sweets not, like me, chomp their way through a hundred weight of the things and then come out with a sandpaper tongue, a major sugar rush and wonder why the NHS is short of money. 

Anyway, part of the irritating  info from the nurses involved possible side effects.  I did pay attention but have to admit I was thinking 'yeah, yeah, whatevs' as warnings were given, after all this chemo is known to have less side-effects than many others. 

It wasn't until a couple of days later when I stood simultaneously sweating and shaking in the supermarket that I wondered if the ice-cold/clammy combo was entirely normal.  There followed two days of grotty bed-bound  flu-like symptoms including an iffy temperature, a pounding head and everything aching.  

Fingers crossed that the cancer cells are feeling even worse than I did.

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!