Gah

A cold crisp blue-skied morning means only one thing to you - snowboarding.  It's that time of year when traditionally, you start to think about making plans.  You check the snow reports, work out where to go, who fancies it, think of Val Thorens, your all time favourite resort.

It is galling then that, without doubt, boarding is off the agenda from here on in.  At one point, you had thought that if you took it really easy, just went out in the mornings and rested in the afternoons, you might be able to manage it.  But  reality has set in, and your body is sending you clear signals - if you can't get up the stairs in your house without breathing heavily, a ski resort is no place to be.

There are other little annoyances too.  Not the big stuff, which I've covered in this blog pretty comprehensively - the whole dying early, missing out on half a lifetime, lots of pain, unluckiness thing, and the distress it causes to people around you.

But the little things, silly, silly stuff.  Like, you're settled with your mobile phone company, you know exactly the right package for you.  You're happy with your bank, your internet provider, your house.  More rationally, I suppose you're saying that after years of not being there, you've got to a good place in your life - and with that in mind, it is the sickest joke of all that this should happen to you.

Realism

You get into a conversation with H about the future.  She says - you have to have hope.  You have to believe that there is a miracle cure out there for you.  And you think, and say, no - that's just the wrong way to think about things.  The medical advice has been clear.  There are no miracles around the corner.  It helps you to be realistic about this, to live your life knowing that time is limited - not short, maybe, but limited.

That's not to say that you're pessimistic.  There are things to be optimistic about - there is, to use that horrible phrase - "quality time" left, plenty of life to be savoured and enjoyed.  But there is no point in deluding yourself.  This is a terminal illness.  Fact, end of.  You got unlucky, and grim as that may be, it's the way it is.  Like John Cleese famously says in Clockwise - It's not the despair, I can take the despair - It's the hope I can't stand.

There are no Angels dancing on the head of a pin, magical crystals, or Red Indian spirit guides on your shoulder.  It's all about realism, and learning to live rationally, free of delusions, and self deception.  It's about not living in a fools paradise.  It's about not wasting time.

Kaff

Int tinternet brilliant?  You decide to find an old, dear friend, thinking it will be a long and arduous task.  But after five minutes with google, you have a potential email address, so tap away at the keyboard and send out a hopeful missive into the ether, cross your fingers.

The next day, you get a response, and Kathy is as delighted to hear from you as you are to have found her.  You send messages back and forth, drop your cancer shaped bombshell.  But it is lovely to be back in touch, even if the reasons for the shove in the right direction are grim.

You think, everyone should have a period like this, where they seek out old friends, although of course without the reason that spurred you on.  Cancer aside, it is a joyous thing to talk over email with, and sometimes see, lots of long lost pals.

Meanwhile, tomorrow is Chemo2.2.  Off we go again.

Hair

Two and a half weeks after your first dose of Docetaxel, and there has been no hair loss.  You think, maybe I got lucky on this one.  This is the one side effect you have been dreading, and when you analyse it you realise it's because it makes your condition so public, which is difficult to take for an essentially quite private person.  Mostly people are very nice and don't say anything silly, but to the odd thoughtless asinine comment, your old quick temper can flare.

Then, in the shower in the morning, you find little clumps of hair in your hand and think - oh.  It seems you will not be spared this indignity after all, and you sigh to yourself.

In the hospital, for pre-chemotherapy, you go for bloods, and the nurse says - you look well.  You smile at her, grateful for the affirmation.  She is quick, efficient, friendly, sending you on your way with a sympathetic pat on your shoulder, and once again you are touched by the supportive gesture, the kindness of strangers.   Then there is an X-Ray, and, waiting, you text Gav and your brother D, each with their own troubles today.  It does you good to remember that life goes on, that the world doesn't revolve around you.  You walk - slowly, otherwise you get out of breath - to the restaurant.  You know all the shortcuts around the hospital now.  Wandering repeatedly has taught you the routes.  It feels like when you were learning to navigate around Cambridge, the shortcuts through your college or to lectures, but this time with a different, much less pleasant, purpose.  You sit with a coffee, amongst the families and groups of nurses, until it is time for your appointment.  It is nice to be lost, anonymous, for a while.  

H joins you and you see Dr G's registrar.  She says - your X-Ray shows you are stable, and catching your quizzical look, she says - stable is good.  We'll know a lot more from the CT.  Otherwise, she says, things seem ok, we'll see you on Friday for Chemo.  

On the way out, H bumps into a friend you haven't met before.  The friend says - I'm sure that they can make you better.  And there it is, the old temper, as you snap - I doubt it somehow, then amble away, leaving a trail of greying strands in your wake.

Don't stop movin'

H says, you're so upbeat, it's amazing.

The worst thing about this new treatment is how well it's working.  For little parcels of time, whole minutes even, while occupied with some task, you forget about cancer, before reality creeps back.

At S's party, all the kids love the disco, have a great time.  They dance unashamedly, squeal with delight when S Club 7 come on.  There are no lessons to be learnt or meaningful, philosophical points to be made - it is just wonderful to see their joy.

Only love can break your heart

You see Mrs M.  She says, oh, you look well.  You know, when I saw you in July, I didn't think you'd last the summer - and you are grateful for her honesty, rather than telling you what you might want to hear.

You say, I think the treatments I'm getting are doing a good job, and you talk about the NHS, and the different system in the US.  Mrs M says - they dread getting sick over there you know.  If you don't have the right insurance, you don't get treated.  And you think, actually, that's right.

You have lots of friends from the US at work, and healthcare is a big issue for them.  Insurance is expensive, but without it you don't get treatment.  If you were in the States and didn't have the right insurance, there would be no Dr D, and no Dr G.  There would be no GP, chemotherapy, radiotherapy, pain control, the list goes on.  Or, if you understand it correctly, there would, but you'd be looking at remortgaging the house, and leaving debt for your family to cope with.  It doesn't bear thinking about.

You say goodbye and walk slowly back to the car, cocoon yourself inside, press play on one of DJ Viv's CDs.  On the way home, kept company by St Etienne, you feel bad for ever having complained - about public wards, or waiting, or an early morning CT scan.  You count your blessings, and think, thank God for the NHS.  For all that it is, not unlike yourself these days, a bit shabby, and frayed round the ages, you have been taking it for granted.  But actually, like the support network of people around you, when you think about it carefully, you run out of superlatives to describe it, and as you turn onto your road, you realise that you have the stereo turned up to 11, and are singing at the top of your voice.

Docetaxel - 3

We go to see Dr D for our regular chat.  You say, I'm feeling really chipper.  The pain is under control.

She says great.

There is a long pause.  You make another appointment for two weeks.

You only think short term right now, but today feels...positive.  Maybe, just maybe, docetaxel is doing some good.

You go out and have a very, very nice lunch.