The Writers' Circle

Our writers' circle meetings are now virtual or socially distanced. This month's excercise was to write a piece based on a horoscope - I chose this one, and seemed to have got carried away with using the dash:

Strong cosmic forces could sweep you off your feet this week. Whether that feels euphoric or dangerous or even both, you need to find a way to steady yourself. Meeting what happens in a grounded way means that you retain your earthy practicality. Even if your spirit wants to fly.

The wind was so strong! Who knew how much damage could happen in such a short time – and with nothing more than dust. I daren’t go out to change the sun filter – I’d end up sliced and diced in no time. But the views! Looking out of the 10cm thick viewing port, the swirling of the red dust was just spectacular – the landscape changing every moment. I wanted to be in it – to feel the wind pushing and tugging – but it would be suicide. These suits – good, but not that good. And as for my weight – on this planet? Oh boy, not only would I be torn to shreds, but I’d be up and away like a child’s lost kite.

But it was beautiful. It was tempting. It was gorgeously dangerous! I heard a grunt from behind me and my colleague muttered something inaudible and irritating. If only he could see what I see when I watch the winds, the dust, the amazing red murmurations that pattern this strange sky. But he just wants to do the next experiment, analyse the next bit of dirt, and test for this, that and the other.

Oh I know I have work to do, but I can’t pull away from the viewing port – not with this spectacular show outside. Deadly, delightful. The view now so clouded with dust that I can almost see the very particles as they spin at the mercy of this unimaginable force of wind. And then a window through the dense redness – the comms station – destroyed. It was designed to withstand anything this planet could throw at it – but nothing prepared us for the wind. I turned briefly to tell my colleague, but he was at the com desk – I guess he knew by now that the com wasn’t working, but he probably didn’t know why like I did.

It’s mesmerising. Even as it’s destroying our most important resources, I can’t tear my eyes away from it. And the weird thing is there is no noise. This supposedly indestructible bubble that keeps us alive shuts out the sound. But I can still see – and imagine the shredding noise as the skin of our home is slowly ripped and torn and turned into more shards so that it can fly like the red dust.

I think carefully whilst watching. This is probably critical for us, probably the last straw. There have been so many problems, so many challenges, but this unexpected wind storm and it’s destructive force – well, it’s likely to be the end of our occupation here in a reasonably short time. I feel distanced from the emotions I know I should be feeling. The view is too compelling. The storm has moved and I can now see the clouds of dust dancing in the sky further from us – and it’s taunting, hesitating as it moves around the landscape and hints, merely hints, that it will come back and finish us off.

A tap on my shoulder, but I can’t turn, I just answer with a vague noise of enquiry. But I know we have to do something. I tear myself away from the view port and see his anxious face. I tell him about the Comm tower. I turn back to the view port briefly – the clouds and dust and wind are disappearing from view. We need to plan. It’s a very long way home.

Mars photo courtesey of phys.org

Links:

The Mars Rover

Royston & District Writers' Circle

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Thesia

Crocodiles

The duck who couldn't quack

Stage one complete

On Friday I had my last planned radiotherapy treatment at Ipswich Hospital. I've been crossing each day off on the calendar, and it's amazing how quickly five weeks has gone. Lockdown has an odd way of skewing perspective and time, but the good thing is that I am done.

Done with having to travel an hour each way to the hospital every weekday. Done with laying on the machine and having my insides melted. Done with weekly blood tests and, thankfully, done with daily chemotherapy tablets. That should mean in a couple of weeks, as the side effects peak and begin to diminish, I should be done with the nausea and tiredness.

I have been given some exercises to do (that will be familiar to anyone who has had a baby) and also some other instructions regarding stopping my insides sticking together. I am by no means out of the woods, but as to how effective the radiotherapy has been, I will be scanned again in three months.

Three months seems like a long time to wait and see if Gertrude has been eliminated or at least shrunk, but given everything my insides have been through, they need the three months to recover and feel a bit more normal. There will have been damage to organs other than the targeted cancer which is inevitable.

But the last day - going in for the last time and seeing my chatty blood nurse, the helpful and always kind and pleasant therapeutic radiographers, and also bumping into Jan from the Wolverstone ward that we got to know when Sheena was having her chemo. 

When I'd had my final chat with the support nurse, had my final treatment and blood test, I was ready to call Sheena - she was allowed in for the final visit. With Sheena, Jan, and several of the staff with me, I rang the bell! It's a significant thing, and marks the end of my radiotherapy treatment. 

What next? A telephone appointment on 7 July with my oncologist to discuss what happens next. I would think that not much can be decided until after my scan in 12 weeks' time, but until then, I'm seeing this as an opportunity to get fit and be prepared for surgery. The healthier I am, the better the outcome.

Thank you Sheena for supporting me so amazingly. Thank you to our friends who have shown such support and encouragement, and thank you to the amazing staff at Ipswich hospital.

A quick reminder - despite covid and the restrictions in place, if you have anything unusual going on, such as blood in your poop, and unusual consistent pain, a lump or something that worries you, please do see your GP. Early diagnosis improves your outcomes if it should be something nasty, and if it's nothing to worry about, then even better. 

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Fundraisers are human too

Above the salt

Useful links

Testicular self-examination

Breast self-examination - men too!

Signs of bowel cancer

Colchester and Ipswich Hospitals Charity

Grandparents

When I was a child, my mother would get me to write to my grandparents, specifically 'Granny and Charles' (both my grandparent's on her side had divorced, hence Charles wasn't grandpa). I remember that my mother admonished me with 'You haven't written to Granny and Charles recently', and my youthful reply was, "well, they never write to me." Kid logic.

The days of writing to grandparents have disappeared, and technology has overtaken the pen and paper even to the extent of replacing thank you cards with texts or video calls, but the thing about grandparents is that you don't need a guilt trip to want to contact them.

Grandparents have the priveledge of having raised the parent of their grandchild and been through all the angst and worry that brings, and then observing that same angst transferred to their child that is now a parent. They have the opportunity to do all the things that their parents did with their child - the 'spoiling' if you like (whether that's being allowed sweets or allowed to get dirty, or buying expensive toys and games). Being a grandparent is a bit of a 'free' card - because you won't experience the consequence (back home) of the indulgence.

But grandparents aren't just for treating the grandkids, they are an opportunity to provide an example, to be that learned adult that isn't mum or dad (or step mum/dad) and who may actually be listened to - if the advice is given in the context of fun. Why can't parents do this? Oh they can, but kids are naturally resistant to parentgal instruction it appears.

But grandparents also have the opportunity to be eccentric, and in being so - unlike parents who embarass their kids - they are a novelty.

Sally, my mother

I've mentioned Granny and Charles, the converse is Grandpa and Peeps. I had four grandparents, but all on my mother's side (my father's parents died a when he was young). For a while grandpa lived with us, but then my mother (fed up with an elderly relative around the house, but I do have some lovely stories about him at home) said why not go and live with his ex-wife, who was also on her own. And in their declining years, they lived together again - two old folk rubbing along.

Peeps (her name was Primrose) was an unusual grandmother. She had a lot of insight that was almost spooky. She was a published author (weird ideas about Egyptian gods, Christianity and spacemen), and outliving grandpa, was still running her own cult religion at the age of 91.

She wasn't the greatest stepmother by all accounts, but I think she did her best having had no children herself. My mother was an only child, and when I asked her about her memories of VE day (she spent the war safely in South Africa with her aunt), she spoke about how difficult it was when she came home and her parents arguing over which house she should go to. Sad really.

River, my grandson

As a grandmother, my mother has come into her own in more recent years - when I first had kids she was in Mallorca most of the time with her new partner (Orlando), so wasn't the sort of granny you'd drop the kids round to. But visiting Mallorca to see her and Orlando wasn't exactly a hardship! So she was more of a grandparent in absentia, but she adores being a great-grandmother now and (lockdown notwithstanding) wants to see the kids and the grandchild as much as she can. Orlando died in 2000, when my kids were 9 and 7, but he did his bit as a grandad, playing football with Alex and telling Mel how beautiful she was.

My grandpa was a birdwatcher and an RAF pilot, and there's a whole blog post devoted to him, but as a grandparent myself I am trying to do my best and be the 'fun granny' to my little grandson. He has four grandparents, plus extras - lucky lad! There is myself, and my partner, and my ex-husband and his partner, and both of his dad's parents.

I hope that he will want to do things with me and my partner Sheena, and given time we have promised (just to scare my daughter really) that we will teach him to ride a motorbike (we have a four quad bike that he will fit when he is about four), and to do lots of crafty things in the forest. We are lucky that Sheena has two grandchildren too, plus some add ons (her son's step kids) and they are old enough to already do fun things with.

My father died when I was just 13 so he never saw my children - my ex-husband's parents both died before the kids were born too, and I know all of them would have loved being grandparents. So I am going to grandparent the best I can, because I know it's a priviledge.

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The birdwatcher in me (thanks grandpa)
The Family Sheppard
What I learned from the Wiggles

Big machines

If you are going to have radiotherapy, you might be interested in what happens during treatment. Even if you aren't, you may be curious.

I have to lie on the flat bed in the required position (for me, it is legs in a slightly raised position on a rest, feet in a rest, and then head in a rest so my body is flat on the bed). Different treatments need different positions - Sheena had to have her arms over her head so they could access the right area for her cancer, for me they need to access my abdomen.

Side view - the bed is the other side of this 'arm'

I have to drop my undies and trousers and roll up my shirt so from 'hairline' to belly button I am exposed (but there is a paper modesty cover). I bring my hands up on to my chest, elbows tucked in (a bit like Rameses) and then they get my pelvis into position. This involves the lining up of my three tattoos (one on each hip, one on my belly) with the lights on the machine.  Then I am pushed and shoved a little (gently) to get me into the exact position whilst the radiologists check with eachother the position, numbers on the machine (set up when my original scan was done). The radiologists (or radiographers, I am really not sure!) then retire and the two large robot arms come out, doing the initial scan.

End on view

The staff are always helpful, check how I am, and are very concerned that I am comfortable and are friendly. Considering they are all in PPE with face mostly covered, I am learning to recognise them by their eyes (and the names written in felt tip across the top of their shields).

The first scan is just that - no radiation, just a quick look to make sure that the insides are lined up too. Half an hour before treatment I have to have an empty bladder and then drink 250ml of water. This ensures that my bladder is the same size as last treatment, and also helps it 'flop' to one side, out the way of the radiation.

Then it goes quiet as they check the scans to make sure everything is fine. The bed gives a little judder (I assume to move into treatment position) and the big round radiation emittimg blob on the machine circles one way, then the other. The set up takes longer than the treatment, which is only about 20 seconds each way I think. I don't know, time is a different concept when you are on the bed, thinking, waiting, not moving (but breathing), and trying to stay relaxed in the position you have been put in.

For me, so far, it is OK. I am not getting any skin sensitivity yet, and only mild tireness as a side effect. The oral chemotherapy makes me feel a bit sick, but I have sickness tablets too. I am sure things will change as treatment progresses, I have only had 8 out of 25 treatments so far.


Useful links

Radiation Therapy from the National Cancer Institute
How do I check for cancer? From CRUK

Starting treatment

Yesterday I had my first radiotherapy treatment. It's early days, so it wasn't 'much', but side-effects usually come into play after seven to ten days, so watch this blog for an update on that!

The ceiling light in the radiotherapy
waiting room

I went to the hospital at 10am (after three changed times) to get my chemotherapy presecription talk (this is, after all, a toxic substance), my anti-sickness pills and my anti-poop pills. Oh, and I'm taking Senna - so this could get interesting!

After the meeting with the nurse I needed my bloods done (they will be done every week to monitor my immune system under chemo) and - after the results came back (clear, hooray), I went in for my first zap on the bench.

The radiotherapy machine is like a science fiction robot that is swinging round you, ready to dive in and ... well, it doesn't dive in, it just spins round slowly one way, then the other, gently bathing you in radiation. It makes a humming noise (nothing like CT or MRI), and the ambient music played is almost louder than the machine.

Today's visit was shorter, as most will be except for my weekly blood tests and some consultations in between. I have five weeks of this ahead of me.

The technology at play is amazing. They line the machine up to the three tattoos on my thighs and belly, and then do a 'test run'. They took longer examining the test run images today as my insides were different to yesterday. 'A little gas' said the nurse. And when I slipped off the table after treatment, said gas escaped. Oops.

I feel fine. I feel slightly 'weird' is all I can. It's probably more psychological than physical at this stage. I can still function and am volunteering for a local cancer support charity, and still gardening. I'm building a free standing raised bed tomorrow (the wood arrived today). I sort of feel I have to do the bigger jobs now, as I don't know how I will feel as time goes on. Hopefully I will continue to feel OK and can keep working on the garden - thanks to lockdown it's never looked so good.

Blasts from my past
In a field in Suffolk
Here come the pagans
In a pigeon hole

Useful links
Ipswich and Colchester Hospitals Charity
Cancer Research UK general cancer information

Why is writing so hard?

I am on furlough, on lockdown - I have the internet, a computer, and all the time I need. So why is writing so hard?

I've been trying to figure out why my creative juices are stuck and that is equally confusing. It's not even writer's block, because I haven't sat at the computer to write apart from this blog.

I could reel off a long list of excuses, but what is the reason? I'm trying to work that one out still. I haven't written a song, or a story, for ages. I've written plenty about cancer though, darn it - but that's not creative.

I am being creative though - in wood, in gardening, story telling for the kids (online) and in helping Sheena build things, but my literary creativity is stymied.

So, to prompt myself, here's a poem I am going to write now, with no preparation:

Beech

The tall tree is covered in lime coloured keys
They dance in the wind, long branches bowing and swaying
Oak stands steadfast aside, whilst all are sprinkled with blossom.
Hawthorn, cherry, their white petals snatched by the easterly.
In the forest an oak cracks and tumbles.
Ivy clings as the tree descends, but it cannot stop the fall.
The ivy killed the tree. The tree died. The ivy has lost it's home.

Full bodied ash are catching up with the oak, beech and birch.
They are fighting their own battle, whilst the pines grow
And the cones pop in the warmth and tumble to the ground.
So much life and death in the trees. So much new growth
So many changes, as each season sends new sap rising
Or old sap drying. And beetles making home in the fallen.

Not sure where I was going with that - just looked out the window. With a bit of work, it could be something decent.

Right, back to the garden...

Lockdown

Empty tank

A CT scanner. 

Well the senna tablets worked! I had my mapping scan today and my insides were as desired (ie not full).  The quick scan said all was good, so it was time to set me up for the full scan. They inserted a canula in my right arm and ... OW! For some reason it was very painful. So they tried the left arm, and that was fine.

The marker fuild went in - it's a weird feeling, your hands go hot, it tingles as it goes into the vein, and it also makes you feel like you have let loose your bladder. You don't, but that's how it feels. Weird. I lay still, knees up, pants down, hands on my chest, and the machine buzzing around me.

The scan didn't take too long, but once the mapping had been done, I needed my tattoos. Three small black dots (in the centre of two felt pen lines crossed) - one on each hip, and one on my abdomen.

The new cold frame

The scan took shots of my insides at 2mm intervals - so the area they covered must have meant a lot of 'slices' of scan. Each one of those has to be looked at, and the treatment plan developed accordingly. Then it has to be signed off by the team (oncologist, radiologist, and maybe others), before my treatment can be booked.

In about two weeks time I will get notified when my treatment will start, and then I'll need to take the oral chemo as well as undergo the therapeutic radiotherapy. I can't say I'm looking forward to it, but I am looking forward to it starting so that the end will be nearer.

Still being positive, and whilst I have to wait, I am doing a lot of gardening and been building things out of wood.

Photo of CT Scanner (C) Cancer Research UK

Useful links
About CT Scans - from CRUK
Radiotherapy - from Bowel Cancer UK

More from my blog:
Crocs in the Fens
A proper gander
Food security

Too full

Yes, it really is me in here

I went for my planning scan at the hospital. This is where they map out where my tumour is, and line me up (including some marker tattoo dots) to make sure that the treatment hits the same spot every time.

But first they do a little scan just to make sure they can see everything. And they couldn't. I was 'too full'. So I did a little emptying and then returned to the scanner. Still too much.

I went into the booth and looked at my scan on screen. I could see my insides, my upper intestine and the lower gut. The 'dark matter' was the problem! The more matter in there, the wider they have to do the scan to make sure they hit the right area, and the wider the area, the more radiation contamination. So the smaller the area, the better. That meant they didn't want to do the scan this time round. It happens quite often, I was told. If I had known I would have perhaps eaten less the day before, but they don't want people to change eating habits. Instead I will have to make sure I am 'empty' before I go next time.

Last week when I saw the consultant he gave me immodium. This week the radiologist gave me senna. I am going to have an interesting few weeks, for sure!

My rescheduled scan is for next Wednesday. After then, hopefully, I'll know when I start radiotherapy.

I will have to watch my diet

Once I have completed my treatment, I will still have my tattoos - just small dots - but a permanent reminder. Sheena has her three tattoos from her radiotherapy too. We are both going to get one of our tattoo dots turned into a dragon tattoo. They'll be in different places, but when we look at them, we'll be reminded that we both went through hell, and came out smiling.

See also:

Scans

Treatment planning

Today we went to the hospital for my first proper consultation with the oncology team - in this case, radiotherapy.

I know that surgery is not an option at the moment, but the reassuring news is that the radiotherapy treatment regime would have been what happens first anyway, regardless of Covid-19.

We know the hospital well from Sheena's treatment last year - but it was so weird. The whole of the Wolverstone Ward area was empty - no chairs, no staff, the chemo ward itself closed and dark. We made our way through to radiotherapy - the last time we were there was when Sheena rung the bell. I hope to be doing that in due course too. The chemotherapy patients and others who need cancer treatment have been moved to a local private hospital.

Home made PPE 

Some of the staff wore PPE, some didn't. We took our own basic precautions - the face masks protect them, not us, which is just as important.

The Senior Registrar was very good at giving us time, and detail. He answered all our questions and explained things clearly. I saw the MRI scan of my insides - oops, that much fat?  I also saw my bladder, small intestine and - in the bowel - the denser shadow that is the tumour now known as Gertrude.

The initial plan is for five weeks of radiotherapy - Monday to Friday (I get weekends off, hooray). There will be some side effects, such as tiredness and possibly nausea, but from the sound of it nothing like the burning or pain that Sheena's radiotherapy caused. Different part of the body, different type of radiation I guess.

Along with the radiotherapy I will be taking a tablet form of chemotherapy. This will improve the result of the radiotherapy by10%. There may be side effects from this too, but if they get too bad, I can stop taking it.

After radiotherapy finishes, there will be a period of recovery. And then, if the national situation permits, I will be scheduled for surgery.

All in all it looks like I will be in for a pretty long haul of treatment and recovery, but I am optimistic. The outcome of this programme is 'cure'.

So, off to the hospital again on Thursday for the 'mapping scan', and perhaps some little marker tattoos, and then I hope to find out early next week when my radiotherapy will start.

Thank you for your support, encouragement and watch this space for more news on Gertrude and other things too.

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Little Lifts
Thesia
The City of Cats

Little lifts

Having cancer myself has, of course, sent both Sheena and I into a slightly more reflective frame of mind, especially when we think about the last 18 months. In October 2018, she was diagnosed with breast cancer and we went through a hell of a journey together. We have moved on so much - she is so much stronger and returning to her normal self. Her final treatment was in January, so it's still a recent memory, but we felt we were back on track.

We were to become very familiar with
the Wolverstone Ward (C) Ipswich Star

My recently diagnosed cancer is different and it will affect me in different ways. I'm very happy that there is no indication that I'll need chemotherapy (at the moment); I went to every one of Sheena's treatments, and although we tried to make them a positive experience, the physical, mental and long-term effects took a lot of getting over. For her, of course, but partially for me as observer too. Partners of loved ones going through chemo will know what I mean.

But I want to take you back to a moment that was pretty huge - when we first had the nature of Sheena's cancer confimred. We were taken into a family room, and sat down. A nurse entered, and left a bag by the vacant chair that faced us, and said she'd be right back. Sheena made a joke about seeing what was in it. In due course the nurse returned and told us the bad news, and also outlined what would happen next. This was so important for us - there was so much to take in, but the nurse was kind, patient and explained everything as clearly as she could.

(C) Little Lifts

At the end of the conversation, the nurse took the bag and gave it to Sheena. It was a box in a tote bag that said 'Little Lifts'. This was for Sheena, and provided by a local charity. The box contained many helpful items for someone who was going to have chemo - from an ice lolly mould (keeping the mouth cool helps), to little treats like chocolate and cordial. There was a soft plastic cutlery set (again for the sensitive mouth), and a number of other bits and pieces - all of which were a delight. Seemed odd to be getting a present for having cancer, but it did exactly what it said on the box, and gave Sheena a little lift at a difficult time.

I just wanted to take this opportunity to say thank you to Little Lifts, they made a difference then, and are still doing so now for others. Cancer hasn't stopped because of Covid-19. If you get a chance, donate to your local cancer charity (or Little Lifts if you can). Thank you.

Useful links:
Little Lifts
Ipswich and Colchester Hospitals Blossom Appeal
Breast Cancer information
Bowel Cancer information

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Missing people

In other news...

The plan for my treatment was originally indicated as surgery. But I spoke to my consultant today, and he has put me forward for radiotherapy.

Normally I'm sure surgery would have been the first step, but as there's a 5% chance of 'leakage' when they stitch your tubes back together, and that would mean a move to ICU, for now that kind of surgery is not first choice. I don't think I'm getting 'second choice' treatment though - my consultant has looked at my scans and decided on a treatment plan that will offer me the best treatment at the current time.

If in future I need surgery, so be it, but I am not too concerned. Although radiotherapy will have some effects, not the least of which will be making me tired, I am likely to recover much quicker than if I had surgery. So, apart from having a ray gun up my backside, things are looking OK.

Photo (C) Clkr.com

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Day 21 in the jungle
Under the knife
Kiss away time

Going on holiday

So Sheena and I have been in lockdown for several weeks.
We decided to take a break...


 After our first attempt to get away, we had to try again.



Watch this space for future updates, including 'Postcards from the caravan'.

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Chipmink Madness (one of my songs) - Youtube
Three strikes
Situational Awareness

Videographer: Sheena Stebbing

Desktop birdwatching

Working at home has some advantages, such as having my desk by the front window, next to the bird feeder. Today I put my camera on my desk, and thought I'd see what I might catch with a quick snap or two.

Here's some recent garden visitors:

Male greenfinch

Male chaffinch

Long tailed tit

Blue tit

Robin

George

Coal tit

Gus

Day 21 in the jungle

Well, maybe not day 21, and maybe not a jungle, but sometimes the posts and messages you read on social media make you feel like people out there are in dire straits. As in - they only have enough loo roll to last 17 months, or enough pasta to feed all of the Czech Republic.

I'm not being nasty, it's evident from food and produce shortages that panic buying has impacted the supply chain, and the result will be  they'll have loads of products going past their sell by date.

Wood from the fallen ash

My partner and I are self-isolating - we are both at risk for different reasons. Luckily for us at the moment this is not a problem - we live in a forest and our neighbour is away, so all we see are walkers with dogs passing by and the diligent forestry workers - cutting and transporting the pine (to make into toilet paper perhaps!).

I've hardly been out apart from walks when all the walkers have gone, but we are so lucky that we have a beautiful garden to occupy ourselves, and the biggest pile of wood to chop and stack ready for next winter.

We had plenty of food in stock, and we've  had a delivery from Sheena's son (yes, we'are all sanitised and cleansed from his 2m visit now), so we are pretty well set for a while if needed.

I built another wood store

I am still working from home - work has not stopped and in fact now more than ever we need help; our amazing NHS still rely on the air ambulance services around the country to help save lives every day, we can't put heart attacks and falls and crashes on hold because of Covid-19. I am very proud to be a fundraiser, and very lucky that I can do my job from the middle of a forest.

My main concern is that my upcoming cancer treatment may be delayed - and who knows by how long. Although I'm not overly worried at the moment, the thought of even going to hospital, where the beleagued NHS are struggling to keep themselves and their patients safe, is a little disconcerting.

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Fear
Nature's gift
East Anglian Air Ambulance

Photos (C) Carolyn Sheppard / Sheena Stebbing

Under the knife

This may be a greusome thought, but I'm actually really pleased to know that I have an operation coming up. Having seen Sheena go through chemotherapy, radiotherapy (the burns were so much worse than we had anticipated), and surgery, I know I'm getting off lightly. Well, as far as I know, that's all I'll need.

The cancer has not spread, the scans show no problems with my major organs. If bowel cancer spreads, it usually goes to lungs or liver, and they are confident I've no problems there.

The margins of the cancer are clear too, so the removal of it in my tubes should be relatively straightforward as well. This all bodes well for an excellent outcome!

But, of course, we are amid the most extraordinary healthcare crisis this planet has seen since the 1918 Spanish Flu epidemic, or even since the plague. Well, cancer surgery is going ahead but less urgent surgery (such as the plan for fixing my dodgy finger joints) are being cancelled.  They are also cancelling gall stone surgery - which I am sorry to hear. I remember that was so very painful!

So all in all, a good news day for me today. Next week I should get an appointment with my consultant, and then schedule in the surgery. After surgery at least six weeks off work, and probably six months before I'll be weilding the chainsaw in anger again, but I think that's a small price to pay.

Reminder - if you have unusual bowel symptoms, please get them checked. Don't wait until it may be too late. Your health matters. You matter. Take care.

Photo (C) The Simpsons / Matt Groenig

Useful links
Symptoms of bowel cancer
CRUK - about cancer
Ipswich Hospital Blossom Appeal

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Learning new skills
Ghost Stories
Adelong Morning

Scans

Fashionistah - not!

A Friday night - what better way to spend it than in the Radiography Department of Ipswich Hopsital.

My first scan was the MRI - this will determine what Gertrude is made of and how embedded she is in my gut. The MRI machine was quite comfortable but loud, as expected. I had headphones but not music - so I made music myself.

There were different scans, and different scans made different noises:

The 'underwater hurdy gurdy' - a repetitive thrum on a single note, I made up tunes that leapt around the base note.

The 'sewing machine' - a higher less musical note, a lot faster. I imagined a room full of sewing machines.

The 'food mixer' - this one shook the bed and was a lot lower in tone - I imagined myself being spun round as part of a very lumpy pesto.

Back again to a higher note, and slightly out of tune 'amateur hurdy hurdy' and I made up some more tunes. What a shame I'll never remember them!

I think some of my imaginative interpretations of the sounds may have been down to the intravenous Buscopan, which was rather relaxing. All in all I was in the scanner for around half and hour.

Still gowned up (ain't it a great look?) I was taken down to the CT scanner, and and IV drip put in. The scans were a lot quicker (and a lot quieter) but when they released the liquid in the IV into my veins (so that they are easier to see on the scan), it gave a weird sensation of a warmth all over and - that of having released fluid unintentionally (I hadn't, but they did warn me it would feel like this).

The CT scan will show whether Gertrude has any sisters anywhere else. I'm seriously hoping she's an only child.

So after the scans we headed back home (via the chip shop), and now I have to wait. I am hoping for an appointment soon so we know what happens next and can plan.

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So long and thanks for all the...
The people who went before

Useful links:

Bowel Cancer UK
Colchester and Ipswich Hospitals Charity

Fear

This is me.

Well, actually, I should have titled this post 'unafraid'. But I've used 'fear' because Richard Wilkins, the amazing man who runs the Ministry of Inspiration with Liz, has sent out a video on facebook called F*ck Fear. And it's been shared over 12,000 times, because there is a strong and real message in there.

Fear is tool ruthlessly used by our inner voice, our insecurity, that inner 'script' that tries to make us jump, quiver and generally not be who we truly are. That voice in your head is a liar. It is made of things you've done true, but it is also written by what has been done to you, what your loved ones, friends, colleagues and even random strangers say to you - it's written by others. It is not the true you.

With cancer now a part of my life, not just my partner's, I am looking forward positively. I am unafraid. Even before I understood that this disease is not likely to kill me (though I still don't know that for sure), I'm still unafraid.

I've never been afraid of death, and cancer has no power to scare me either. It does not have the power to 'redefine me' as a cancer victim or sufferer. It does not have the power to change my positive outlook and my love for life and living. Cancer is not my identity, it's just another page in my script.

With the covid-19 coverage causing fear and anxiety at unprecedented levels, it is a good time to remember and consider all the good things in live. Forget fear, be unafraid (but don't be stupid). Love who you are, and believe in yourself.

Useful links:

Ministry of Information

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Kindness is a strength
Attitude and examination

The results are in

Well, we already knew, but the histopathology results have confirmed the cancer in my bowel. Nasty little thing, I shall call it ‘Gertrude’.

Gertrude was found about 15cm into my insides (from the arse end), which is a good thing position wise. It is far in enough for surgery (which is a given) to be able to snip and stitch – so Gertrude and surrounding tissue will be excised, and the two ends of my innards reattached – a slightly shorter run than before.

I had my colonoscopy last week (this is when I met Gertrude – on screen) and the procedure itself

Preparing for colonoscopy

was not much of a drama. The night before (those of you who have had this will know) was worse! So, having established that there was a cancer in my bowel, the colonoscopy nurse took some samples, whose results were what we went to discuss at the hospital today.

I don’t know the stage or the grade of Gertrude yet. We don’t know if it’s aggressive, or easily intimidated, and we don’t know if it has spread at all. These options will be determined by:

• CT scan to see if the cancer has spread anywhere
• MRI scan to get a more detailed idea of where Gertrude is and which parts of my innards it has attached to (wall, nodes etc)
• Surgery to remove Gertrude and stitch my pipes back together
• Dissection – once Gertrude is surgically removed, it will go back for further pathology investigation.

The important thing now for me is the timeline, which is something on the lines of the scans (not on the same day) within the next two weeks or so, then the earliest surgical appointment that can be had. Possibly up to another month after the scans, if I’m lucky, earlier.

The reports on the deported Gertrude will determine whether I need any other treatment. Radiotherapy is unlikely due to the location, but chemotherapy is a possibility. It totally depends on what they find with the scans and post-surgery.

With any luck I could be having my operation sometime in April or May, and then it will be recovery time. Even if I have the surgery laparoscopically (keyhole) it’s a pretty big rework of the old insides, so I will need quite a bit of recuperation time.

I’m being positive and upbeat because that’s the best way to knock Gertrude into submission. Cancer is an ugly, unwanted intruder, but needs to be treated with care so it doesn’t cause more problems. Gertrude is an inconvenience that will make my life pretty difficult for several months, but I am aiming for the minimal impact scenario where I will be up and about and my usual self in time to enjoy the summer months.

Meanwhile there is nothing I can or need to do other than keep healthy and carry on. I will post further updates as and when things happen/change.

Finally, Gertrude doesn’t have a chance, because there is so much love and support around me. Thank you.

Woodland walk

After a rather unhappy start to the week, I went for a walk in the woods last Wednesday morning. The birds were starting their special spring songs and loudly proclaiming their eligibility, and the rising aroma of drying winter leaves, warmed by a light sun, permeated the air.

The dogs were trotting happily, sniffing and shuffling about, noses to the ground around some particularly interesting smell, and ears pricked up and listening to the startled flap of pheasant or pigeon wing, or the tell-tale crack of a bracken stalk under the tread of a timid Muntjack.

The walk was restorative. The air, the sound of the wind in the trees, the sunshine trickling through the pines. It was a beautiful morning and a beautiful walk, with nature around me and the sights and sounds of the natural world flowing into me like a healing elixir.

I'll need more than a walk in the forest, I know, as I embark on a new journey, but living in the woods, walking here and enjoying everything that nature has to offer is going to be very important to me as I enter the next phase of this condition.

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Suffolk lullaby
Two walks

Photos (C) Carolyn Sheppard


And just for fun because I don't want to put a whole new post in just to fit this vid in - here's me playing the weirdest bass ever at the final Shave the Monkey concert back in January.