You did have a plan B, didn't you?

See - just crying out for a table..

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But something must be done about the swamp outside (formerly, lawn).

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Frankly, I am rather proud of my ingenuity.

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Where was I? Where am I? Home!  Hospital receptionist called 10.10am, "Mr Trustworthy has just informed me he can't stay in clinic".  Dare not ask nature of grim emergency taking him elsewhere.  So, rescheduled for 21st;  diverted a very understanding GG (would-be escort du jour);  abandoned my waiting room bag (I've really mastered the art now - minimal reading matter, because I can't, small water bottle, because they have a dispenser, cut-out dolls, because they help me avoid eye contact with other outpatients, but keep me free enough to converse with companion).

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Time to unpack the Sainsburger's delivery very, very slowly.  And endeavour to do as little as possible for the rest of the day.

Onwards

In an idle moment, totted up this month's medical appointments - 21, and that's just the ones I know about.  October has scarcely begun, and I've excluded any complementary gubbins.  No wonder it's starting to feel all a bit relentless.  Still, they're being thorough with me, and as Nursey said, "You're getting value for your NI contributions".  

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Woke 5am, worritted for three hours before rising.    Bus stop home from synagogue yesterday the very same one I used to switch buses en route home from a decidedly left wing youth group, the finest Golders Green could offer.  It's a furniture show room now.  I used to stare out of the window upstairs, steadfastly ignoring the conductor's "Fares, please!", because I'd spent my pocket money on chips while waiting in the fish shop doorway for the lesser spotted 263.  The smell always drew me in.  This was all long before the heady days of Ken Livingstone at the GLC, and free travel for under 16's.

Other grim overnight ramblings:  that wretched hospital corner.  Up the stairs for breast cancer, down for pregnancy ultrasounds and straight ahead for the birthing suite.  Hackneyed, I know, but I climb up with a heavy heart each week as I choose breast cancer.  Some choice.  Have I acclimatised to infertility?  Do you ever?

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So to psychotherapy.  Can she do as good a job as last week at bringing me down off the ceiling?  Where's that taxi?  If Eid was yesterday, Hassan should be back at work, shouldn't he?

Well. Now what?

A slew of saturated notebooks (and only this year's, and only the ones I could readily lay hands on).  Ah me, O my.  Now what?  
Have tidied all eight desk drawers and poured a generous glass of wine.  Found Bob and Alf in a drawer, from years back, Greenwich Market, I think.  Had intended framing them, but blogging makes all other forms of display redundant.  Tom Jones 'Green Green Grass of Home' just segued into Amy Winehouse's 'Me and Mrs Jones'.  Ouch.  Will try making greetings cards.  Is there anything on tv?  B*gger, b*gger, b*gger.  Every Tuesday they change my world:  a week's (too brief) approximation of certainty - gallstones, no more cancer.  Replaced today with, what?  Fear?  Anticipation?  Exasperation, mollified only slightly by drugs and alcohol.  Whatever happened to yoga?

Lift off minus three

Ultrasound at 9;  NB will escort me.  No food allowed overnight, sitting here with a brutally black coffee.  MP & Little B asleep upstairs.  Sometimes, rarely, I get what I wish for:  I slowed down yesterday.  Rested on the sofa with my darling nephew slumped against me, clutching his milk bottle, watching the Tombly Womblies lose their trousers In the Night Garden.

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Innocence is ever bliss.  For Little B, a tube journey is an adventure with Underground Ernie of such magnitude, he's practically wetting himself.  I foresee crowds, heat and fighting for a seat.

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A second well-meaning innocent added my name to the bookworm chain letter currently doing the rounds.  Have you seen it yet?  Send a book to the two names at the top, add your name to the bottom, send to six friends...

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But won't I end up making 96 begrudging journeys to the sorting office to collect a representative sample of Britain's best sellers (chick lit, Stephen King and misery memoirs - all of which I loathe)?  Or will someone surprise me with a Keats calf-bound first edition, or a signed JK Rowling (good for cash-in value if nothing else), or all ten of my Amazon wish-list?  I am not pessimistic by nature.  But the statistics are against me on this one.  Letter straight to bin.

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Which twisted mind authored the 'how to' section of 'Get your Crochet On'?  All these years, I never knew a crochet hook could be broken down into its named constituent parts.  How am I to focus on Maltese lace making, knowing I'm balancing in my sweaty hand, not just a crochet hook, but its tip, throat, shaft, thumb rest and handle?

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Sometimes I sit in bed, forcing my eyes to stay open, head nodding, because I have to write.

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Looking forward to a decent lunch when it's all over.  That table-setting looks naked - where's the booze?

Late!

. .but somehow still turning the laptop on.  It's an addiction.  Listening to Bob Azzam & his orchestra playing Tintarella di Luna (1950-something), and if anyone else knows what I'm on about, I'm well impressed;  followed by Richard O'Brien singing the Time Warp, innocent of all irony.

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Must go.  Appointment at 10.

xx

On shpilkes

And for my dear friends not of the faith, it means I've been rather twitchy & unable to sit still all day.  Just wanted it to be Tuesday (results day);  got grumpy;  fell asleep; woke and made carrot cupcakes;  felt better.  Those are my fridge magnets, but as the fridge isn't magnetic, they're on the microwave, & are pretty much the sole purpose for the microwave's continuing presence.

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Downloaded an entire album of our lovely Larry.  I can feel a little recreational expenditure coming on - Lakeland for more bun stuff, perhaps.

Tired tonight, team

Grateful for acupuncture and sane conversation at my wonderful Haven, keeping my head above water.  Pretty weary, truth be told: taking painkillers.

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But, hey, a whole day not at hospital, and hopefully four more entire days before they get their hands on me again.  Don't get me wrong, I do want my results - but I also just want to live a life, not a medicalised existence.

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Have you tried Google Chrome yet?  It's definitely faster..

Curses

Have post-operative fluid build-up. S*ddit. Sounds like a bottle of water slooshing around in my chest. Awaiting hospital call-back, but am almost certainly having to have it removed today. Wasn't meant to be doing anything independently for a few hours yet, so MP & little B will come into town with me & play with the animals at Coram's Fields while I get done.

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Really hope I can be seen at my usual clinic - don't fancy A&E at all.

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And to think, I had such a pleasant early morning; researching in-service training events to get back up to speed with yoga teaching; trying to remember John Peel's favourite song (Teenage Kicks, Undertones); wishing S~S best of luck in her fancy-shmancy new job at her really special new school today; trying (but failing) to look up how to make corn dollies out of lavender; taking blurry photos of a window box.

A fine lunch, and rain

Lost myself in cooking, and it was thoroughly enjoyed by all.

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Then to Alexandra Palace where we were caught in an almighty downpour.

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A good day.

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Now, I'm due in hospital at 7.30am, and as I'm having a general anaesthetic, I don't quite know when next I'll post. Tuesday?

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Wish me luck. xxx

Steady as she goes..

.. plenty of sleep, but pain too (strangely better this morning if I keep my arm marginally apart from my body, an unusual look). Woke intermittently to enjoy my fanciful imprint of 'A Picture of Dorian Grey' - it's an A3 softcover version, illustrated with gloriously camp 1970's Gitanes adverts - the models look, without exception, to be friends of Dorothy. Would love to show you, but my scanner insists on telling me that its cable is disconnected, and I really must dash.

To hospital with J for reassurance; and she comes equipped, armoured, with a lengthy list of questions, should we find anyone willing to answer them.

This camel is (intermittently) struggling

It's the weight of that last straw that did it. I was absolutely fine (well, bonkers, but fine) all morning, popped up to Muesli Hill for a little recreational expenditure (3 picture frames, a wide variety of cake decorations - silver balls are only 9p a tin!, ironing board cover, tomatoes). It's amazing what you discover you need when really you need nothing at all other than certainty, which isn't anywhere close to arriving, and which never will.

And then, just when I had convinced myself to leave the computer alone, and had the rasam recipe safely underway, the hospital social worker phoned. "I've just been talking to HBC about you. Would meeting on Tuesday be convenient?" I immediately put 2 & 2 together and made about 29: clearly, I'm doomed, they've all decided I will never work again, and this woman is going to help me fill financial support forms in before they traumatise me with a diagnosis & I forget my own middle name (mind you, just the other morning, I couldn't remember my job title, well I've been doing 3 jobs for the price of one for some years now, and they haven't been in the forefront of my mind lately, still, I was oddly stunned by the gap in my memory).

Luckily I'd put an entire casserole of rasam on the hob, because it was about 2 hours until I got back to sorting it out. It's a sort of precis of rasam, Campbell's condensed rasam, now. I just fell to bits inbetween. S opposite, MP & JS all on the phone trying to calm me down.

If I make a concerted effort, I can return to all the things that made me smile earlier: a safety warning on a tin of pencils, "Product contains sharp functional points. Please retain this information for future reference", and the unmistakeable smell of stockpiled rubber plimsolls in Woolworth's, harbinger of the new academic year.

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Gary Glitter has knocked Jade Goody right off the tabloids, hasn't he? Max Clifford must be steaming.

Origami of the mind

I seem capable of preparing for endless handicraft projects, but never sitting still long enough to undertake any of them. Still, thoroughly absorbed by JB's 'Origami Giftbox' guidance ~ appparently, I can fold anywhere, "you could be in a lineup... on a bus... or at the dentist's", now that could certainly impress people, though, "try not to fold when you are stressed or if you have an appointment in the near future", well, maybe that's why I should stick to reading instructions for now.

There's a crochet tortoise that looks rather interesting (from a $2.50 perfectly illustrated book from Carmin's perfect under-the-stairs sized bookshop, which I just want to live in, hobbit-style). And I really must do something about my family tree, and prune the roses, and pick up the tapestry (but it waits uncomplainingly for my attentions, sometimes for years, so forgiving), and why are there never fewer than 24 novels waiting to be read.

It's the not knowing that is so mean ~ give me a clue, o medical team, a direction at least, and then I can get some logs in for the winter & get on with it.

Partial results

CT Scan results by phone - 3cm tumour in my breast, surgery & chemotherapy recommended. Lungs and liver clear. Hang on. What? But there's a lesion there "which looks benign". Suddenly, I don't trust these people as far as I can throw them. I find myself demanding everything in the book: blood tests, ultrasound, biopsy & a liver specialist, please. Don't give me false hope. I'm not a scintilla more relieved or relaxed than before the phone rang.

Queries

Why was that young man carrying a six foot pole with a tap on the end on the tube? It just looked so odd; he was so wrapped up in his book, and so oblivious to the extraordinary object balanced against his leg.

If they said you only had a year: what would you do differently? How would you live? But if they said five, would you still abandon work to explore the Russian Steppes, the fjords, Easter Island, not to mention all those places I've adored & must see again; and what about the fantasy job running Carmin's bookshop, no bigger than the cupboard under my stairs. And what if they said ten years, would I relax back into my usual life, just go back to work on Monday morning and apologise for causing such a fuss? And what if they said they were frightfully sorry, but they really couldn't tell me with any accuracy? What then? Bet it's the last one.

You see I'm such a drama queen: some people boldly strike forth, despite the cast on one leg, or the wheelchair, or the unexplained dizziness. I don't, I curl up on the sofa under the cat. Something tells me that I would not lead a full and active life on chemotherapy, just a slightly longer one, moaning for England, boring myself to tears. I just want painkillers & to get on with my life. Is that allowed?

Sulking

Don't want to go, don't want to. S will knock on the door any moment & I will have no choice at all.

Milk boiled over.

Well, at least I slept (except for the usual 2.30am wake-up call thanks to the pain. No change there then). Convinced I'm losing weight, but the scales disagree.

She'll not be amused if I'm not ready. Bye.

Overnight rain

Beautiful smelling world after a night's rain, but 'unsettled outlook' doesn't bode well for my spirits or Saturday's wedding - what possessed me to buy a sleeveless, halter-necked dress? I already know the answer - there was a sale at John Lewis, I had two weddings to attend in one summer, and I was thrilled that it was a) cheap, b) fitted, c) who knows when I'll next get to wear something that reveals so much skin without showing scar tissue.

Porridge is cooking - but 'eat breakfast. NO lunch', the instructions said - but just how late can I eat the breakfast without messing the system up? I've set myself 9am as the latest point. Reasonable?

It's getting closer all the time. Of course, naturally, this morning, I feel no pain at all. Does that mean whatever it is won't show up on the CT scan, after all this fuss? Bloody hope not. Want proof that I'm not entirely mad. Then again, proof that I'm entirely well would surely be preferable.

All that time on holiday thinking 'are these my last mountains? last summer?' such melodrama. I've probably got decades of life with belly ache ahead. Confusion reigns.

Can't go to bed

Or perhaps it will be like the chest x-ray (which revealed a mysterious cracked rib - but I didn't do anything to crack it - some gremlin is in there, cracking them for me).

When I walked back out of the room, past the technician's desk, I sneaked a peek over her shoulder (how stupid was that), and sure enough, two egg-perfect glowing shapes, staring back at me. How extraordinary: perfectly symmetrical cancer. It took about two minutes to think, "hang on, they're my kidneys". Poor, supportive J, sitting through my melodrama three weeks ago, and again tomorrow. Oh, it's not even tomorrow. It's a few hours from right now, today. Am I going to spend all of it typing and typing? It helps. Does anyone read this stuff? Does it matter? And thank you, Ipod Shuffle: neatly timed, Richard Ashcroft 'The Drugs Don't work'. Well, you're spot on there, mate.