Fruit, falsies and fame

Thirteen days into Lent and I'm still being saintly and not playing Fruit Ninja.  I have found myself doing more juicing but sadly chopping up real fruit isn't the same at all.

A very poor Fruit Ninja substitute

The other half has given up chocolate and puddings.  This has led to some heated debates as to what is and isn't included.  Apparently it's alright to eat cheesecake and chocolate flavoured biscuits.  Yeah, me neither.

Opening the post today was massively exciting.  My knitted knocker arrived.  I tried to take a photograph but just couldn't do it justice.  Knitted Knockers knit or crochet prosthetic breasts in an amazing range of colours (mine is stripey!) and, best of all, charge nothing whatsoever for the service (not even postage).  What a bunch of good eggs they are!  Find out more about them and their fantastic knockers by clicking here.

Also today fame came knocking at my door.  And me, being the shrinking violet that I am, have been Facebooking and Tweeting about it all day.  So, apologies to those of you who've heard it already endless times, but I'm now writing a blog for Vita, the online magazine for the Breast Cancer Care charity.  I'll be writing one blog post a month for them for the remainder of 2014.  To see my March effort click here.  And to think you lot knew me when I was nuffink!  I'll still be blogging here though so, one way or another, there is no escape from me.

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. 

Reasons to be cheerful

Picture from here

I saw the oncolcolgist on Wednesday and I'm a Stable Mabel.  There has been no marked change in my lymph nodes or lung lessions since my previous scan in November.  Also there are no new appearances of the little cancer bastards anywhere.  So while not as thrilling as last time (when the lung crap had shrunk) it's still very good news.  

Also good news is that the oncologist, Dr Oily, is retiring.  When he told me of his impending departure I think I was supposed to express regret.  Pah!  However, I was restrained enough not to leap around the consulting room punching the air shouting "see ya, wouldn't want to be ya".  I am the model of decorum.  Anyway, I'm hoping to see a less smug and self-satisfied doctor in future.

Other things that I've found cheery of late are:

• An advert featuring a cat and budgie, click here
• A biscuit advert with a huge aaah factor, click here
• Channel 4's Sochi advert, good on 'em, click here  

And on that jolly note I'll say ta-ra for now.  Normal whinging to be resumed next time.

Is it really that time already?

picture from here

The chemo trial I’m on calls for CT scans every twelve weeks to check how/if the swamp juice (TDM1 in my case) is working.  That’s fine by me.  I’d much rather run the risks inherent in regular bursts of radiation from the CT scanner than not know what is going on with my insides.  But it seems only five minutes ago that I was last scanned and bleating away about scanixety (the horrible waiting to hear what the scan has found).  But here I am again in scary land.  I celebrated my two year cancerversary last week (two years since diagnosis) with a CT scan.  Some time ago I was told that the average life expectancy for someone diagnosed with spread to another organ (lungs in my case) was two to three years.  So you can see why I am chewing my finger nails waiting to see the oncologist in two days time to find out the latest.

While I try to remain optimistic the fact is that at some point the chemo will stop working.  That’s the deal for those of us with secondary (aka metastatic) breast cancer.  If we’re lucky there’ll be another chemo or hormonal treatment that will hold things at bay for a bit but eventually we run out of options and the cancer comes out on top.  So, for now, I’m hoping and praying that my current chemo is continuing to give the cancer a bloody good slapping, and meanwhile the boffins in research labs develop more treatments or, dare I say it, even a cure.

While the above paragraphs sound pretty miserable (cancer is sodding miserable) I’ve actually been too busy of late to dwell on things too much.  I’ve been gadding here and there, resisting temptation and being insulted.

Gadding

I spent a couple of days in beautiful Oxford.  I love old stuff so it was just my cup of tea.  Look away now if you prefer modern architecture:

There were stacks of gargoyley things but these were favourites:

The donkey from Shrek?

The stuff of nightmares

Is it my lurid imagination or is this one poohing down a drainpipe? 

Also I spent time admiring the thoroughness of the road markings

Definitely no parking then

Resisting temptation

Sis no 1 dragged me back to Shropshire Cat Rescue but I managed not to bring any cats back home with me

even though there were cute shy ones

 

and Cyril look-a-likes

relaxed ginger poster boys

and, oh my goodness,

a sad three legged kitten in a jacket

Being insulted

I have been insulted by a complete stranger.  While I was out shopping a woman came up to me and said "ooh I do like your boots".  I smirked, lapping up the praise, only to be brought back down to earth with a bump when she added "I'd really like to know where you got them from, I've got wide feet and chunky calves too".

So that's my life at the moment, on the one hand anxiety and chunky calves but on the other poohing gargoyles and three-legged cats.  So, it's not all bad.

I am revolting

The National Health Action Party.  Picture from here

Recently, and very belatedly, I’ve been reading about the way the current Government is sneakily and disgracefully dismantling the National Health Service (NHS).  Chances are you’re better informed than me and know the sorry story already but just in case you want to know more try this, this and for a very enjoyable sweary version, this.  

If you've been reading this blog for any length of time not only do you deserve a medal but you'll also be aware that I have had my share of problems with my NHS treatment.  However, those problems have been due to individuals within the NHS rather than the NHS as a whole.  No-one would be daft enough to claim the NHS is perfect but that's no reason to be selling the profitable bits of it off to private health care companies.  I am hopping bloody mad.  I'm having chemo tomorrow and so will be getting my blood pressure checked.  If it's sky high it'll be David Cameron and Jeremy Hunt to blame.  Bastards.

On to other things.  I've been feeling pretty well lately so have been whizzing about doing stuff.  Including:

• Getting all cultured at Birmingham's Art Gallery and Museum, 

Police struggle to hold back the crowds enjoying the museum

• Going all the way to Lancaster to buy a lovely picture from Sue Barker, look at her fantastic work here

• Going to the panto (featuring the other-half's nephew) at the quaint Theatre on the Steps in Bridgnorth.  I went with the massed ranks of the Wiggins Clan (the other-half's family) and had a great time (Oh yes I did)

• Seeing '12 Years a Slave'(moving),

• Seeing, but not being able to follow, the lastest 'Hobbit' film (still it was visually spectacular, apart from the very long section featuring huge spiders during which I concentrated hard on the floor)

• Seeing 'The Butler'.  It was a good film but I was a bit disappointed by how very, very loosely it was based on a true story (I did some googling when I got home).  I'm not sure if this disappointment is justified or if I'm just being a bit of a twonk (it has been known).

So, of late, I've been rushing about enjoying myself and also getting angry.  Next month sees another CT scan so I'll be able to add some anxiety to the mix.  If you like a bit of whinging and ranting do stay tuned.

Cold turkey for New Year

Picture from here

I can’t be trusted to get anything right.  Remember the cock-up I made ages ago with steroids?  Well I’ve messed up with two other prescription drugs since I last posted.  I feel I should get some sort of medicine mishap medal.

Firstly, way back when I was first diagnosed with secondary breast cancer I was prescribed citalopram, an anti-anxiety/anti-depressant drug.  Finding out, very unexpectedly, that I had terminal cancer was, to use a medical term, a complete bugger of a bloody, buggering bastard.  My anxiety levels went through the roof.  I couldn’t even stroke Cyril (the three-legged monster cat) because my palms were permanently sweaty with fear.  My feet were permanently sweaty too and more than one pair of slippers ended up sealed in a hazardous waste bag in the bin.

Anyway, citalopram, time and a treatment plan helped me return to something of an even keel (as much as my keel has ever been even) and, over the last few months, I’ve been feeling pretty chirpy and have managed to cut down on the amount of citalopram I take.  (If anyone reading this is in the unfortunate position of just having been diagnosed with secondary breast cancer I would say, take heart, there’s a very good chance that you will feel intermittently less devastated given time and, if need be, prescription drugs.) 

Now, cutting down on the citalopram with advice from my GP is one thing.  Having such a high time over Christmas that I forgot to take it at all for several days is another kettle of bananas altogether.  It wasn’t until shortly before New Year, when I was sat in a puddle of misery (that’s a metaphorical puddle in case you’re worried about my new-ish sofa), that I remembered the untaken tablets.  I’m back popping the pills now and feeling a lot better for it. 

Medication mistake number two.  I’ve been taking slow release morphine since last summer when I experienced horrible pain.  The horrible pain, I am very glad to report, has since been under control but I have continued with the morphine mainly because I’m a sacredly cat and didn’t want to run the risk of experiencing such pain ever again if I could possibly avoid it.  However, one of the side effects of morphine is that it, erm, gums you up somewhat.  Oh for goodness sake stop looking so puzzled, I’m talking constipation here, it’s no good trying to be delicate with you lot is it?  Over Christmas, probably due to over-indulgence in all things yummy, I was well and truly gummed up to the gills.  I decided, in my dimwitted way, to stop taking the morphine in the hope it would ease things.  Sure enough my insides became un-gummed and thankfully the horrible pain did not return.  So far so good.  But then I began to feel well and truly grotty.  The grottiness continued so I belatedly read the leaflet that came with the morphine.  It advised patients not to stop taking the drug without the advice of a doctor because of the risk of suffering withdrawal symptoms.  Oops.  So I went back on the morphine pronto and am now feeling much better for it.  I’ve seen my GP and have a plan for weaning myself off over the next few weeks, so stand by for future moaning.  I assume that the grottiness I experienced was about a million-trilloneth-zilloneth of what somebody going through real cold turkey feels like.  All I can say is hats off to anyone who undergoes the real McCoy.

So there you have it.  I’m only on two prescription drugs at the moment and I managed to mess up on both.  Thank goodness the swamp juice (chemo) is administered by nurses.  I dread to think what I’d do left to my own devices.

Despite the whingy tone of this post I had a good Christmas and New Year, although there was one very traumatic moment when the other-half unwrapped the CD shown below

Oh the horror

If any non-UK readers think that this is a CD of howls from the wild, then you are pretty much right.  Except this is songs sung at Wolverhamptom Wanderers Football Club rather than the cries of noble beasts.  Maybe I should double up on those anti-depressants after all.

Delighted Del

I had good news today.  I went to the oncologist for my latest CT scan results.  The chemo is still doing it's stuff, there are no new metastases anywhere and the lung crap is continuing to shrink.  So I can carry on with the trial chemo for now with another review in March.  I am a very lucky, very happy bunny and am ready to get all Christmassy.  I've even done the annual Christmas twig decorating (being too mean to buy a tree)

 

However, while it seems my insides have been behaving themselves, Cyril (the three-legged monster cat) most certainly hasn't.  He's been in yet another fight resulting in a torn ear and a visit to the vets.  He's well on the mend now but not before he managed to splatter the spare room with blood, it looked like a scene out of CSI.  Here he is looking innocent but the tatty ear tells another story.

Now I'm off to make a start on the Christmas cards.  I may be some time.

Wildness in Wales

I've been rushing around like a long dog of late, having a fine old time with barely a chance to wash behind my ears let alone put fingers to keyboard.

Firstly, I headed down south to see my new great nephew who weighed in at walloping 10lbs at birth and, at three months, is a beautiful big chappie.  

I also saw some old friends, had a good laugh and stuffed my face with lovely grub.  I spent some time in Ware as part of my travels.  It's my kind of town with cat statues,

helpful red arrow as I know some of you are a bit slow

excellent (albeit disused) cat flaps,  

and even tombs with paws

Then, no sooner had I returned to Shrewsbury than we set off for a few days in Pembrokeshire.

We'd arranged to stay in a tiny and remote cottage with no TV or mobile signal, thinking we'd have a beautifully peaceful time.  As the holiday approached we realised, with some horror, that this meant we might actually have to talk to each other.  Thankfully, as you'll see from the pictures, we were able to survive this trial with the help of red wine 

Compact but cosy

Red wine saves the day (yes, those are the other-half's legs)

View from front door

The cottage was set in 6 acres of stunning (even in November) gardens

I have got a zillion more photos like this but if you'd like to see more about the house and garden the best place to go is the official website Dyffryn Fernant. 

While we were in Pembrokeshire we went to the small but pictureseque city of St David's.  It being November we almost had the place to ourselves, in fact we did have the old ruined and atmospheric Bishops Palace entirely to ourselves

 

As we walked around, despite being the sole visiors, we sometimes got the impression we were being watched

Lest you think this was a very staid and boring visit let me assure you it was danger packed with tall towers to climb 

sometimes I preferred to remain on terra firma

and every manner of peril, as the signage made all too clear

See I know how to live on the edge, I do

My favourite is the sign on the bottom left.  I think it's meant to warn people of the danger of bumping their heads but, to me, looks more like someone realising they've locked themselves out or left the bath running.

The danger theme continued into the following day when we went for a walk.  First the good news, I was able to walk much further and higher than I thought I could (in early summer I could barely walk 400 yards without puffing for breath, thanks to the cancer in my lungs).  While I was hardly mountain goat-like in Wales I was able to walk a good four miles and take on some steepish inclines, albeit slowly.

me, striding manfully upwards

We'd walked uphill from the pink building.  You may now gasp in admiration.

However, it would be remiss of me to claim that I didn't have some help in getting to the top of the hill. As we neared the top we saw several horses around the rocky outcrop including a foal.  We didn't go near the horses but just skirted around the edge.  This didn't stop Devil Horse from trying to kill me though.  A huge black horse came snorting towards me with murder in his eyes and evil in his heart.  

Here he is.  Have you ever seen anything more scary?  The stuff of nightmares

I walked away as briskly as possible, wishing there was a tree to climb, but could hear his horrible hooves and nasty snorty horse breath getting closer and closer.  The other-half turned looked at him and said, with some feeling, "that is NOT a nice horse".  Apparently he was also doing the kicky thing with his back legs too.  We managed to scramble over a fence and up, up and away from the mad, demented beastie.  When we were a safe distance away we turned and waggled our bottoms and then stuck our fingers up at the horse, not wanting to let him have the last snort.  The horse gods in the sky must have been watching us though as from then on the foot path signs disappeared and we ended up going on a much longer walk than intended and, for the last half hour, in a substantial downpour.  But what did I care, for I had escaped from the jaws (and hooves) of doom.

The rest of the stay was calm, tranquil and horse-free.  Even though I got heaps of exercise I suspect I put on lots of weight as I ate like a (shudder) horse.  And here's the proof, do you think my bum looks big in this?

 

A quick health update before I go.  I've been continuing with the TDM1 chemo trial and all seems to be going OK.  I have yucky scans at the end of the month and see the oncologist for the results in the middle of December by which time I will be almost as anxious as if I were being chased by a homicidal horse, but for now I'm trotting along not thinking about it too much, which works for me.

Oh, and just when you thought I'd finished, a final cheery note.  Two days ago I became a great aunty yet again.  Congratulations to all concerned.  The dynasty continues!

Look at the time ... and not a nappy washed

It feels like an age since I last posted but I have been Doing Things and Going Places, mostly Pembrokeshire, which was chocolate box pretty, look:

Yes, Wales can be sunny, oh ye of little faith

I'm in the process of writing a long and tedious blog post so make your excuses now if you wish to avoid it.  Otherwise stay tuned and prepared to be underwhelmed. 

Something's afoot

With apologies to sis no 3, who is a bit phobic about feet (and frogs and felt, she's a bit wussy really)

Even though, for the past twenty-odd years, I've lived just half an hour away from Wolverhampton I had never set foot inside the art gallery there.  I rectified this error this week when sis no 1 and I went to see the Ron Mueck exhibition.  It was amazing.  It's only on until 2nd November so if there are any Wolvo residents reading this get yourselves down there pronto.  The pieces are fantastically life-like.  At the risk of coming across like some kind of weird foot-fetishist (I'm not, honest) look at this:

You can see the whole piece by clicking here

There are only five pieces of his work at the gallery but by jimminy they are worth seeing.  None are to scale.  They are either smaller than life or like, 'Wildman', absolutely huge:

One of the gallery workers said that this work gave him the willies late at night.  Make of that what you will.

Sis no 1 and I also stayed for the curator's talk which was fascinating.  If there's a form to fill in I'm requesting to come back as a curator in my next life, that or a wombat (cute) or maybe a camel (I'd like the uninhibited spitting opportunities).

Health wise I seem to be doing OK, continuing with the drug trial and keeping my fingers crossed.  Today I went to the local GP for a general once over (cholesterol, blood pressure that kind of thing).  Turns out I'm a picture of health.  Apart from the sodding advanced cancer of course.  

Anyway, buoyed up by the news that I'm not in too back nick all things considered, I bounced into town and made a start on the Christmas shopping (don't hate me).