Monday, 18 June 2018

Beyond the Bucket List

Liz Atkinson, the Head of Care Services at Cancer Focus, is about to take early retirement. This was heralded by a very well attended event in Belfast at which tributes were made to her work in supporting people suffering from cancer and their families. Liz leads the Cancer Focus counselling, therapy and advisory services. She also helped found the Sing for Life Choir. And I know only too well how important these services are, as I have benefited from them enormously over the past seven years.

When all the tributes were made and the presents given, Liz spoke about why she was taking early retirement. She said that she had been working with people suffering from life-threatening illness for forty years. This experience had shown her that life was short and precious, and it had given her the great privilege of spending time with people who were not going to recover. It had taught her that you should follow your dreams and not be distracted from them, but focus your time on what really matters for you. She said that her teenage daughter had come to her and said that she wanted to be an actress. Instead of telling her to become a teacher or a solicitor, Liz and her husband said, if that’s what you really want, then go for it. Her daughter is now at drama school.

After a long and successful career in nursing and the charitable sector helping others, Liz said that she now wanted to take on some new challenges. She told us that she had always wanted to learn to play the piano and now she would. She also spoke about doing plenty of gardening, spending more time singing with the choir and finally visiting places around the world that she had only read about. There was great applause and then we tucked into the cake.

I think Liz’s thoughts on what you learn from a life-threatening illness were very well put. I have been feeling exactly the same way. The past two and a half years have been very hard going for me: two cancer recurrences and three major operations. But now I have been cancer free for twenty months. And after the last operation, the dreaded thoracotomy some nine months ago, I have also been able to both breathe and eat normally. As the pain from this surgery recedes, I can at last begin to focus on things other than my fears.

Once a week, T and I have been going on little trips, afternoons out to different places, not too far away, such as Carlingford. We are also planning a holiday to Scotland in August and taking in the Edinburgh Festival. In the autumn we will have a trip to our favourite hotel in Mayo, the Mulranny Park, on the shores of Clew Bay. And when the dark and cold of winter returns we intend to get away to La Gomera.

What Liz didn’t spend much time on was the distractions from your purpose and how easy it is to become diverted. Every day there are problems that arise, many of these emanating from other peoples’ disturbances and inadequacies. What cancer has taught me is that life is also far too short to become embroiled in this sort of stuff. The best policy is never to suffer fools and always to speak your mind. On the journey of life there are many false friends. Far better to have fewer genuine ones.





Monday, 11 June 2018

The Perils of Dog Walking

I took Rex for a walk at Castlewellan today. It was the first time I had driven him in the car on my own. He has learnt to get into the front of the car, but normally one of us sits with him to hold and reassure him. Rex jumped in as usual and sat anxiously in the footwell. I tied him to the door by the lead and we set off. Rex shivered for a while, but soon settled down and rested. We parked at Dollies Brae and embarked on the round the lake loop, Rex on a flexi-lead. The walk turned out to be eventful and shocking.

The first incident was an encounter with two Yorkshire Terriers. They advanced yapping, encircling Rex rather like Red Indians attacking a wagon train in an old Western. Rex sat and kept careful watch as the terriers darted around him, barking and snapping. He was certainly intimidated and I was delighted to see an old lady appear to drag the terriers off. We resumed the walk.

We reached the other side of the lake without encountering many other dogs. Then a large black poodle appeared. They sniffed each other. The owners were some way down the path shouting to the dog. Suddenly a fight broke out. The dogs were rolling on the ground, biting and snarling. I pulled Rex away from the big black poodle but it jumped up and began biting him on the back until a chubby middle-aged woman arrived panting and dragged it off Rex by grabbing its hair. She produced a collar from her pocket and slipped over the poodle’s neck and put its lead on.

She snapped that my dog was very aggressive and I should have warned her of this.

I said that Rex wasn’t aggressive. It was her dog that wasn’t under control and had been the aggressor.

We had several exchanges about whose dog was the aggressor.

I told her she needed to keep her dog under control.

She shouted that her dog was under control.

By this time the husband had arrived, a large man in shorts with a beer belly; he glared at me.

I told her that her dog had been loose and wasn’t wearing a collar.

She shouted that he was wearing a collar.

I said, well he is now because you just put it on.

You’re not a nice man, she said.

He was wearing a collar, shouted the man in a broad Belfast accent, pushing my shoulder.

He wasn’t before, I said.

You calling my wife a liar, shouted the man, pushing me in the chest very aggressively.

I’ve had enough of this, I said, and began to walk away.

He followed me, shouting, where d’you think you’re going?

Then I felt a slap to the left side of my face; a light blow from the back of his hand.

Come on then, he shouted, d’you want to make something of it?

He was spoiling for a fight. It was just me and them on the far side of the lake. I kept walking.

In his shorts, he looked like a middle-aged schoolyard bully. I noticed he was working hard to keep up with me.

Then another light slap to the side of my face.

Come on then, he shouted again, d’you want to make something of it?

I sneered at him and kept walking away.

They soon receded into the distance and my heart-rate came down. I returned to the car with Rex. After this shocking incident, I decided not to come dog walking in Castlewellan on my own again. You never know who or what you might encounter.





Saturday, 2 June 2018

A Remarkable Man

My good friend and neighbour Charlie has passed away. He’d been in hospital for some weeks suffering from leukaemia. A week ago he took a sudden turn for the worse. And, a few days later, he died in the small hours surrounded by his family.

I last saw him about a week before he died. Despite his ill health, he was pleased to see me. He explained that the consultant had told him there was no further treatment that could be given to remedy the disease. He told me that he had suspected that this was the case for several weeks. In some senses it was a relief to him that this news was now out in the open. Typically, Charlie met this final challenge thoughtfully and unflinchingly.  

He was born on the farm at the end of our laneway and went to the village school. Despite passing the eleven-plus he didn’t go to grammar school, but left at 14 and worked on the family farm. He married Margorie and had three children. As the small farm was not bringing in enough, he began work as a bread delivery man for Ormeau Bakery. Intelligent, hardworking and with good judgement, Charlie tended to succeed at whatever he turned his hand to. Unsurprisingly, he worked his way up to Sales Manager for the whole of Ireland.

After retirement from the bakery he took up sheep farming again, delivered books to schools across NI and built houses for his children and grandchildren. He also spent a good amount of time helping me with any tasks that were beyond me. I knew for sure that Charlie would either have the answer to my problem or know who to turn to. His knowledge of the local area was legendary. He could describe the entire lineage of most families going back many generations. He knew who had lived in what ruined house and where they went when they left it. He knew who owned what land, how they had come by it and what crops or animals they had kept since his father’s time.

Over the 17 years I had lived next door, in the house that Charlie had built for his eldest son (who emigrated to the USA), I spent many evenings at his home being entertained with stories about local people. He was my link with the past, my present helper and my pal. No challenge was too big or too small for him. He was a supremely skilled man (all self-taught) and extremely versatile. At the same time, he was goodhearted, considerate and modest. I will miss him very much.

Charlie’s body came home from the hospital and there was a wake. On the third morning about fifty family and friends gathered at the house for prayers led by the minister. Then the coffin was lifted and carried down the lane, one man at each corner. Slowly we travelled the three-quarters of a mile to the church. I was honoured to be one of those who carried him. And I hope, that when my time comes, I have a similar send off.

Throughout the wake, Rex had barked madly at each new visitor. But when the cortege walked down the lane he sat in silence and solemnly watched everyone pass by. The hedgerows were bursting with white hawthorn blossom and the verges were thick with cow parsley. The little church at the crossroads was filled to overflowing. Extra chairs were brought in and set in the aisles and vestibule. The service concluded with ‘Abide with Me’. We filed into the graveyard, which was bathed in strong sunshine. Charlie was laid in the earth beside his mother and father. May he rest in peace.




Sunday, 20 May 2018

Rex: A Suitable Case for Therapy?

We’ve had Rex, a border collie, for nine months now. He is a rescue dog. At first he caused little trouble (apart from his bad habit of chasing cars); we think he was just glad to have a home where he got regular food and he wasn’t beaten. But over recent months his psychological disturbances have become more apparent. He has become very demanding of attention and deeply jealous of anything that he perceives as a rival.

His primary rival is my bicycle. He cannot bear to look at it or even hear it (the rear wheel clicks distinctively). When he sees me going out to the garage, where the bike is kept, he flies into a rage. He howls and barks madly and does his best to attack my car. I’ve now had to park the car where he can’t get at it, as he has scratched the front and wing in previous rages. He also perceives the mower and the wheelie bin as love rivals. So when we are mowing the lawn or taking the bin out, he again flies into rages and tries to attack my car.

We do our best to calm him by stroking and reassuring him, but his hatred of these rivals is so deeply felt that he will only be temporarily pacified. And when our attention wavers from him and towards the mowing or the bin or the bike, he again flies into a rage. I first became aware of this about a month ago when I was fixing up my bike for a wee ride. It was a good day and I had the bike out on the lawn to do some maintenance. I’d taken off my watch and put it on the garden table. When I wasn’t looking Rex came up, took my watch from the table and began to chew it. Luckily the watch is stainless steel and I noticed what he was doing before he could damage it too badly.

A couple of days later, the relief postman (who is scared of Rex) left some parcels on the garden table. When I came home I found all of the parcels shredded and the chewed contents strewn across the driveway. The butt of his rage this time was a book of poetry by David Harsent; Rex may not be much of a critic, but he knows what he doesn’t like. I chided him for attacking my watch and my parcels and since then his rages have been directed towards my car

T, who reads counselling books, thinks that he has moved up Maslow’s hierarchy. Now that his needs for food and shelter are being regularly met, he has moved on to his needs for attention. Here there is a huge deficit from his first year of life with the abusive old farmer. We do our best to stroke and reassure him each day, but you could pet him for 24 hours every day and it still wouldn’t be enough.

It’s significant that he has selected my car as the primary target for his rage. Does he really want to attack me for not paying him sufficient attention? But I imagine that I’m not a safe target for his anger as I am also the person who feeds him and takes him for walks. So he diverts his rage towards a safer alternative. He never attacks the bike, the mower or the bin. My car has become the scapegoat. However, on occasions, I have taken Rex for a walk whilst also taking the bin out to the corner of the lane. It is interesting that on these occasions, when he was getting something he likes and my attention, he wasn’t disturbed by the bin at all.

Any helpful advice from dog owners (or dog therapists), especially those with experience of rescue dogs, would be most welcome.




Sunday, 13 May 2018

The Visit

I’ve been living in rural South Down for seventeen years. I moved back to the countryside as an experiment, after living and working in cities for many years. I bought a bungalow, surrounded by fields and farms, with views of the Mournes. My main fear was isolation. Instead, I got back in touch with the natural rhythms of the seasons and was welcomed by neighbours despite not having any family links with the area. There was one particular neighbour who I became close to. This week I was disturbed to learn that he was very seriously ill in hospital.

C had grown up on the farm down the lane. He inherited the land and kept sheep, despite having a management job in Belfast. He was one of those people who could successfully turn his hand to almost anything. In fact he had helped build my house. It had been constructed for his eldest son, who moved to America. I’m fairly practical, but this has limits. So when there was something that needed doing that was beyond me, to the house or to the half an acre that surrounded it, I turned to him. C would always have the solution to my problem and would sort it out promptly and effectively with a minimum of fuss. At first I tried to pay him for his time and trouble, but he would never accept anything. It took me a little while to realise that the neighbours’ economy was trade in kind. One good turn required another. I helped him out with tasks of his that required several hands, took my turn in the strimming of the grass verges of the lane and always mowed his lawn whenever I cut mine.

Some years ago he began to have bouts of tiredness and muscle aches. He put this down to ageing; he is a decade older than me, but a good bit fitter. So he gave up his job and lived on a pension and sheep-farming. These bouts persisted. He went to the doctor who diagnosed him with fibromyalgia and put him on steroids. The treatment didn’t seem to work and when he complained about this the doctor increased the dosage of the steroid.

Last year he was floored by a chest infection and was hospitalised for several weeks in Daisy Hill. His fatigue increased. Some months later the chest infection returned and he was again hospitalised. This time they began to test him for a range of other problems. After running many tests they could find nothing. They were again going to discharge him, but decided to refer him to a Haematologist at Craigavon. He was tested further and they eventually discovered that he had a rare form of blood cancer which attacks the bone marrow.

C was also told that if he had been suffering from fibromyalgia it ought to have improved on steroids in a matter of months. His early symptoms had probably been of the blood cancer and there was a clear failure on the part of the GP not to refer him for testing for other conditions (thankfully we are with a different GP). Because of this he had several years of deterioration before he got the correct treatment, which is a very expensive course of drugs that can only attempt to arrest the decline.

It was another chest infection that had returned him to hospital this time. His infection markers were high and his blood/oxygen saturation was dangerously low. He was being pumped full of different intravenous antibiotics and had an oxygen line into his nose. He lay on the bed in a side room, gasping and panting with the effort of talking. We spoke about the old days when he was fit and well and active. He realised that he would never be able to go back to them. All he wanted was to return home. But the prospect of that was remote.

He asked me how I’d coped with my cancer treatment (he had visited me in hospital). I said that I’d had it easier than him. I did have four big operations, but my incapacity, although painful and difficult, had always been temporary. I’d struggled to get well each time, but I’d never been continuingly incapacitated. I didn’t know how I would cope with the situation that he was in. I told him that the only strategy I knew was to take things one morning/afternoon/evening/night at a time and try your best. Given the challenge of his situation, it seemed a lame answer.

An auxiliary nurse came with a tray of food. C slowly ate some soup with mashed potato in it. I opened his small tub of ice-cream and he scooped it up with a teaspoon. I explained that, as T was away, I had to go home to feed the dog. I promised to visit him again soon. We clasped hands. He told me he would be very pleased to see me.

As I drove home, I pondered on this visit. I knew that C had given me a timely reminder to make the most of life when you are able, and not to waste time and energy on what might seem important but which really didn’t matter very much. What he wanted most of all was to be at home again and do ordinary things. There was no dramatic bucket list of foreign destinations to see.

The Ghost of Cancer Future had visited me. I realised that this creature would come calling for me one day. I fed Rex; he wagged his tail and licked my hand. I made my own tea and read a little. The late sun shone on trees coming into leaf. Birds sang. The mountaintops glinted. I was well and I still had time.



Monday, 30 April 2018

The Scan and The Results

The first week of my eighth year as a cancer patient has featured anxiety from the past and worries about the future. It started with a CT scan, my sixth since a tumour was successfully removed from my abdomen twenty months ago. The pathologist found that this tumour had a very slim margin of normal cells around it; only one millimetre, a dangerously narrow margin and far below the recommended surgical limits. Allied to this is the fact that you don’t feel a slow growing tumour when it is small. And it also doesn’t show up well on a scan. I didn’t have pain from either of my tumours until they had grown to maturity and were over six centimetres across. At scan-time these worries cannot fail to prey upon your mind and interrupt your sleep in the small hours.

Actually having a CT scan is nothing much; on the scale of painful and unpleasant things done to you in hospital it is at the low end. You have to arrive at the Cancer Centre one hour before the time of your scan. You sit in a waiting room full of people coming for scans and drink a clear fluid filled with iodine (and other stuff) that enhances the images. You have to drink two litres of the fluid, one paper cupful every ten minutes. Despite the room being full, it is deathly quiet; nobody speaks, we are all in our private places of fear. The only sounds are new patients arriving, jugs of fluid being dispensed and patients being called. I sit, sip and read my newspaper. Others surf the internet. Some stare into space.

When called, you are taken into a changing cubicle where you remove your clothes and anything made of metal and put on a surgical gown. The radiographer takes you into the scanning room next door. The CT scanner is shaped like a large ring doughnut with a long slim bed that slides you inside it. The scanner costs about a million quid. A scan takes around ten minutes. The bed slides you through the scanner and an automated voice tells you to hold your breath for some of the passes and to breathe on others. The scanner whines and howls like a gale as it spins around you. Then it is over and you can go.

The first thing I do is get something to eat and drink. You aren’t allowed to take anything for six hours before the scan. I ride the lift up the hospital tower to the staff cafeteria. The food is cheap and fatty. It’s remarkable how bad the food is for people who are charged with keeping us healthy. Off-duty, hospital staff could well be far unhealthier than us. Like many others, I indulge in a greasy fry. It hits the spot. As I slurp baked beans and chew my sausages, the worries begin in earnest. I have entered the worst and most disempowered stage, the anxious waiting for the scan results.

Normally you hear the results at a review appointment with the Oncologist, which takes place a couple of terrible weeks after the scan. As it is hospital practice to send out appointment letters two weeks beforehand, you usually get the letter for the review appointment around the date of your scan. I went home. There was no letter from the hospital. I waited anxiously for a couple of days. Then I rang the Oncologist’s secretary. You always get the answer-phone. I left a message for her to call me. She rang back the next day and told me that my scan had been done several weeks early and no appointment had been booked for me yet. She told me she would request an urgent appointment, but that the review clinics for the next month were very full. My heart sank and my worries spiked.

Several sleepless nights and unhappy days later, the Oncologist’s secretary rang me (after I had again left her a message). The good news was that she had a got me a review appointment, the bad news was that it was in a month’s time. Again my heart sank. But, she went on, she had spoken with the Oncologist and they had dictated a letter to me. She read it out. The crucial part was that the Radiologist had concluded that my scan was ‘stable’ with ‘no discernible change’. My heart leapt. I thanked her profusely. She had understood my problem and because of the long delay in me actually seeing the Oncologist had found a way of breaching the hospital protocol about not giving results over the phone. I suddenly felt very relieved and extremely exhausted.



Sunday, 22 April 2018

Copper Anniversary

Seven years ago today I was in Belfast City Hospital. I’d gone to A&E the night before after becoming unable to pee. I waited for a long time in severe pain with assorted drunks and men with head wounds handcuffed to coppers. The doctor put in a catheter but nothing came out, so he got a large syringe and drew out bloody urine with dark clots in it. I spent a long and sleepless night on a trolley, worrying about what was wrong with me and wondering why my life was cluttered with stuff that didn’t really matter. First thing in the morning a doctor from Urology arrived and decided to admit me.

Later that morning I was taken on a trolley for a CT scan. I was back in the ward when a different doctor arrived and drew the curtains around us. I had cancer, he said. He was quite matter of fact. I went into shock. It was a large tumour that had taken over the whole of my left kidney and grown further. The world seemed to close in around me. Do you have any questions, he said. So I’m going to die, I mumbled. Not necessarily, he said, plenty of people survive cancer these days. So what are my chances, I said. I’m afraid I don’t know, he said, and left. It was Good Friday. I lay on the bed for a long time. I was sure my life was at an end. I felt completely alone and didn’t know who I could turn to. My younger brother had died of cancer less than a year earlier. Eventually I picked up my phone and began to tell the bad news. I started with my, then, partner Joanne.

To cut a very long story short, my tumour had grown from the kidney into the vena cava and up towards my heart. I needed a very big operation, open heart surgery, to remove it. I was in hospital for three weeks during which a series of preparatory operations took place, whilst I waited for the big one. Joanne, friends and family rallied round. I had plenty of visitors. I also had to cancel all the Irish and British dates on my book launch tour that I’d spent so much time arranging (my first collection of poetry had been published a few months earlier).

After three weeks I was discharged from hospital. I was waiting for a slot in one of the three cardiac operating theatres at the Royal Victoria Hospital. A call could come at any time. I was told that I was in a delicate condition and should take things very easily. Joanne encouraged me to live at her flat in Belfast. At first this was fine. Then she began to show signs of disturbance. After four weeks, she had a mental breakdown. I had to look after her and arrange for her to get professional help. Then I went home to my own house and waited. After a week the call came. I was admitted to the Royal, signed all the disclaimers; the main risk was death during the surgery from loss of blood. The operation took seven hours with three teams of surgeons and I had three blood transfusions. Thankfully the tumour was successfully removed. I spent a further two weeks in intensive care and on the ward. I returned home, very incapacitated and in severe pain (which would last for over a year) but I had survived this ordeal.

Not long after I was called to see an Oncologist at the Cancer Centre. They told me that my prognosis was poor. Many people who had the large tumour that I had would not survive the first two years. This was a heavy burden that dragged me down. Joanne had come out of treatment and visited me regularly, along with friends and family. After a couple of months Joanne abruptly left me and I was completely on my own again. I found myself in a very bleak place. Slowly I realised that I couldn’t cope and turned to a cancer charity for help. Cancer Focus arranged counselling. This was a lifesaver. I learnt that I wasn’t alone and that the complexity of emotions I had were entirely normal for a cancer patient.

This became the turning point. After a year of counselling and recovery I began to rejoin the world. I started to pick up a few of my activities again. The two year anniversary of the big op came and went. And I was still around; alive and doing my best to kick. Shortly after I went to the John Hewitt Summer School, where I first met my dearest T.

A crisis shows you exactly who and what is important in life. Plenty of activities and former friends have fallen by the wayside. But what remains is deeper and more valuable. I do my best to spend time on what matters and not to waste it on what doesn’t. Primary amongst all of this is my dearest T, who is the best thing that has happened to me. I met her at a point of growth and redirection in my life and we have travelled far and deep together. Seven years is called a copper anniversary. And copper is the metal of good fortune. I thank my lucky stars that I am where I am in my life now and that I am with T. We live happily together in the here and now. Long may that continue.



Wednesday, 11 April 2018

Cuddle Therapy

We’re not long back from an extended Easter break over the water that was full of good things. We started in the New Forest and then drove a couple of hours along the coast to Brighton for a wedding. I hadn’t visited Brighton for ages and T had never been there. It certainly seemed to have become a very alternative town. The groom was the only son of my best friend, Phil, who I’d first met at secondary school. The groom, Nathan, and bride, Laurie-Ann, had been going out for a decade and living together for six years. They very generously had arranged for us to stay in their home over the weekend.

On the first evening we walked into town with Phil’s brother Terry and had an amazing meal at a vegetarian restaurant called Terre a Terre; a cornucopia of flavours put together most attractively. On the way back we paused at an alternative therapy centre and marvelled at the range of treatments and therapists on offer. The most intriguing was Cuddle Therapy, where you could spend your time with the therapist either talking about obstacles to physical contact or actually having cuddles.

I wondered how long it would take for Cuddle Therapy to become established in NI. We agreed that who you were actually cuddling was the most important consideration. T and I cuddled regularly everyday and always before going to sleep. It was a crucial part of our life together. We had both lived on our own and understood how lonely that can be. On the other hand, there were plenty of people I would pay good money not to be cuddled by; Boris Johnson, for example.

The wedding took place in the village of Firle in the midst of the attractive South Downs. It is an estate village and looks little changed from centuries before. Virginia Woolf once lived there and it became a hangout for the Bloomsbury Group. The ceremony was humanist in style; I gave one of the readings, ‘The Summer Day’ by Mary Oliver. The vicar was Peter Owen-Jones, who is also a poet and broadcaster. We walked from the Norman Church past banks of primroses to the lawn of the Manor House for champagne. The weather was cool, so after photos we went into the stables which had been converted into a large hall complete with oak beams.

After the speeches we had an enjoyable Mediterranean meal of kebabs, falafel, salads and flatbreads. I tried a glass of wine; the first since Xmas when my stomach, after all the cocodamol drugs, had a bad reaction to it. I was delighted to find no painful reaction, so I tried a couple more. Unlike many of the guests, I didn’t indulge in the free bar. But T and I danced happily with them to the live soul band. It was a lovely day. And a poignant one. Phil’s wife Jean had died of cancer almost five years previously. Her absence was keenly felt by all those who knew her.

The next morning we wandered down by the Pavilion and along the pier. We saw several groups of elderly Mods in parkas with roundels, but no Rockers. Perhaps they now only clashed for the overseas tourists in a sham-fight, like at Scarva. Then it was back in the car to the New Forest. And the very next morning we drove through heavy traffic to Hungerford for a family lunch that I’d arranged. Meeting up at the excellent Mediterranean restaurant Eliane were my brother, sister and several cousins. All in all we made a table of eleven. I hadn’t seen some of them for four years or more. We had a great catch up, took photos of each other and hugged before going our respective ways.

The purpose of our time away was to meet up with close friends and family and be part of a happy celebration. I guess the whole trip had been a type of Cuddle Therapy. So especially we’d like to wish Nathan and Laurie-Ann many happy years of cuddling together.



Monday, 19 March 2018

Valuing the NHS

I’m surprised at how regularly I meet people who complain about the NHS. To many people I suppose it is a large and relatively faceless organisation. And it does have undoubted shortcomings, such as the waiting times to see specialists for non-urgent treatment. But my experiences of the NHS have been overwhelmingly excellent and I’m always ready to speak up for it. So this week I was very sad to learn of the death of Stephen Hawking, one of the highest profile advocates and campaigners for the NHS.

Despite being diagnosed at 21 with motor neurone disease and told that he had only a short time to live, Stephen Hawking continued to work at the highest level in his field of science for a further 55 years. And he was very clear about who to thank for his long life: ‘I have received a large amount of high-quality treatment from the NHS without which I would not have survived.’ It took undoubted grit and determination too, but he consistently made light of his disability. In his later years he was an active campaigner for the NHS and used his public position to speak out against underfunding and privatisation.

Stephen Hawking’s campaigning led to several high-profile rows with Jeremy Hunt. A government minister who perhaps should be renamed in terms of the famous Radio 4 interview in which he was introduced to the listeners by James Naughtie as Jeremy Cunt. A spectacular, but hardly inappropriate, slip. The essence of the row was about the nature of the evidence that Hunt was claiming as his basis for a new health policy. If you are going to have a public argument about the nature of evidence, it was certainly inadvisable to choose to have this row with one of the best scientific minds in the UK. Suffice it to say that Hawking duly exposed major factual holes in government health policy. And in the last few months of his life he had become involved in a legal challenge to Hunt’s plans for further NHS privatisation.

Hawking’s view of the current shortcomings of the NHS was that they had arisen from persistent underfunding and creeping privatisation. In a healthcare system that is under massive and continual strain not all treatment can be delivered well at the same time. So urgent care is prioritised, which leads to unacceptable delays in non-urgent care. This has been underlined by a series of reports that have argued that long waiting times for some patients can only be improved by an injection of new funding.

Over the past seven years, I’ve had four major surgical procedures and have spent ten weeks in four different acute hospitals. As a cancer patient I was a priority. The treatment I received was of the highest quality and in the main it was very successful. I have been all-clear of cancer for sixteen months and I will be scanned every four months to make sure that I continue along this road. Whilst my story is not as spectacular as that of Stephen Hawking, my treatment has been life-saving and I have nothing but praise for the work of the NHS. For despite being under great pressure they do a fantastic job.



Sunday, 11 March 2018

After Apple Pruning

The banks of snow that trapped us at home for five days have largely gone. Proof positive, if any more was needed, that March is a month which faces two ways.  Last week it was blizzards, snowdrifts and minus 10 C, this week it is daffodils, lambs and plus 10 C. So I took the opportunity to embark on a gardening job that had needed to be put off for a long while, pruning the apple tree.

Each winter I’d prune the apple tree at the top of our driveway. This is when it needs to be done, as the tree is dormant. Because of the surgery on my ribs in September, I had put this job off to January. But then I didn’t embark on it because of the troublesome pain in my hip and groin. With a cold and snowy slice of winter having only just gone, today seemed the last good opportunity to prune the tree this year.

Over the past year the apple tree had grown many long shoots, some about three feet tall, which were mostly growing straight up. The task was to remove all of these with my loppers, cutting the shoots down to just above the buds, where the apples would grow from. The purpose of the pruning being to concentrate growth around the buds. I noticed that these buds were beginning to show purple. The white blossom could not be far off from appearing.

In previous years I’d cut large branches from the centre of the tree, trying to achieve the preferred shape – like a wine glass. This had encouraged the tree to grow laterally; it is now about six feet tall and twenty feet across. In recent years the tree has produced some good crops of apples. The other determining factor was the weather during the blossoming time. If it was mild then there would be plenty of insects, especially bumble-bees rising from their winter hibernation, to pollinate the tree. If the weather was cold then there would be few insects, little pollination and few apples in September.

My smaller loppers are about two feet long. I collected them from the shed and sharpened them with a file. As I did this I realised that I would be working my arms and back for real for the first time since the surgery on my ribs. I began to prune tentatively and found that I was able to use the loppers without pain in my left side. But my upper arms soon became tired. I paused for a short rest after twenty minutes. Then I got the small steps and began to lop the higher shoots. I steadily worked my way around the tree. At the end of an hour of lopping I stopped. I’d pruned most of the tree. My arms and back ached and I could do no more. I was certainly out of practice, but I was happy that I’d been able to undertake this tough gardening job without any problems from my ribs. I returned indoors, T made me a lovely Sunday brunch and I sat in the armchair afterwards feeling pleased with myself.



Sunday, 4 March 2018

Snow Joke

We have been snowed in for five days now. There is a general covering of six inches of snow which has drifted in places to waist height. The lane below the house is impassable due to snow drifts. We have not been out of the house since Tuesday, other than to walk the dog during lulls between the blizzards. The snow on local roads has been compacted by tractors, the only vehicle safe to use hereabouts, even making walking extremely slippery. The forecast is for the thaw to set in tomorrow, but given how much snow is lying it looks like we may not be able to get out of the house by car until Tuesday at the earliest.

At first our confinement seemed rather exciting. We looked out at the snow falling and checked how deep it was. We cancelled outside commitments, turned up the heating and focused on things we had been putting off. I edited my poetry and T wrote her journal. Our fridge was full as T had taken heed of the warnings about the Siberian storm and had stocked up well (our nearest shop is a mile and half away on ungritted roads). The oil tank was filled too, as it had run down two weeks earlier and had been replenished. We were in our very own snowy retreat away from the world.

On the first day an inch or so of snow fell. Then, during the night, another six inches fell. This was whipped up by an icy easterly gale and drifted heavily. After this some worries began to set in. First we feared for Rex, who sleeps in a kennel in the garden. But the next morning he was frolicking in the snow. The kennel is filled with straw and in a sheltered place. Rex has long, thick fur and is very hardy. We gave him extra food and warm milk. He was delighted. Second we worried about the power going off, our cosy retreat would become Arctic pretty quickly without electricity to run the oil-fired central heating. Perhaps the phone and internet might also become cut off and then we would truly be on retreat from the world. And fresh snow has arrived every day.

We read reports of the great snowstorm of 1947, when the snow was up to roof level in many places. Some Irish villages were cut off for the best part of a month and the government asked the RAF to come in and drop food parcels. We also noted the great disparity in media reporting. The English and Southern Irish media gave due weight to the seriousness of the red-warning snowstorm. Reporting teams were sent out to cover the blizzards, road blockages and the excellent work of the emergency services to keep hospitals and other essential services going. There were reports of doctors walking in to hospital for hours in order to do urgent cancer surgery and mountain rescue teams delivering essential drugs to people cut off in rural homes.

And what did the NI broadcast media report? How much people were enjoying a snow day off with video footage of kids tobogganing on an inch of snow at Stormont. The tone of their snow reportage was trivial and light-hearted throughout. Why we wondered? Perhaps because the Belfast-based editors didn’t look beyond their own noses and only responded to the light snowfall they had at their suburban homes?  Perhaps because the heavy snowfalls mainly affected South Down and Armagh and these places were rural and their predicament was remote and did not merit inclusion? Perhaps because the film crews couldn’t be arsed to go there because they would have to experience discomfort in order to get these stories and there were much easier ones to be had close at hand?  Whatever the reason, the local broadcast media coverage seemed rather lazy and inept. And as you can see from this semi-rant, like in the Scandinavian winter, perhaps paranoia is beginning to seep in.



Saturday, 24 February 2018

Second Opinion

I’ve had pain in my groin and hip for five weeks now. Despite regular trips to the osteopath and consistently doing the range of specified exercises, the problem wasn’t improving very much. Indeed I was getting pain in other places too: I’d developed soreness in my right knee and in my right quadriceps. These limitations meant I’d had to cancel a holiday and a series of other engagements. I was feeling very down. I hated being incapacitated. It brought back so many bad memories of my time in hospital and in recovery from surgery. I decided that I needed another opinion.

I went to see a very good physiotherapist who had treated me before. Kieran is a sports injuries specialist and has an office in Belfast and in Newry. He is from NI, but after qualifying he went to work in England for a professional rugby league club. He returned home and set up business with a colleague who had worked for a premier league football club. Since then he had become the lead physiotherapist for Down GAA and for a series of Game of Thrones actors and stuntmen.

I sent him an email with the history of the problem and Kieran began by asking me questions about it. Then I changed into shorts and he checked me over. He has that ability to find a sore spot you didn’t know you had. He tested my hip by rotating my femur from the knee, there was mild impingement. Then he tested my hip flexors, they were fine. Then he began to test my adductor and found a very sore spot on my inner thigh towards my groin. There was a sprain in the adductor tendon and that was causing my groin pain.

He massaged the tendon quite forcefully. It brought tears to my eyes. I asked him if he had a piece of wood I could bite on whilst he was doing the treatment. He laughed, but carried on for a wee while. He said that the tendon would be quite sore for a couple of days, but then it would settle and improve. Then he turned to my hip and lightly massaged the outside of the greater trochanter. It was sore but not as bad as I expected.

He told me that he agreed with the diagnoses that I had already been given. He thought the reason why my progress had been poor was because I had been doing the remedial exercises too early on. Instead of helping my recovery, the stretching exercises for the outside of the hip had been adding to the inflammation. He gave me just two exercises to do along with regular icing of the groin and hip. I would see him again in a week.

I went home with the hope that this new approach would bring benefits. I’ve had far too much pain and incapacity in recent years. That is why I value my ability to be active so very highly. Any threat to this takes me to a bad place. Fingers crossed that I am now firmly on the journey back.




Sunday, 18 February 2018

Rest is as Good as a Change

Perhaps it is an age thing, but T and I are not unhappy that we had to cancel our trip away this week. We were due to go to our favourite hotel on the shore of Clew Bay in Mayo. But I continue to be very sore with my hip injury and T is exhausted from commuting, working and studying. Despite the undoubted delights of being there, we decided that the five hour journey to Mayo was too much for us in our depleted states. We grumbled a little at first, but then relaxed into a week of rest at home. The only member of the family to actually be delighted was Rex who no longer had to go into the kennels.

I’ve been spending plenty of time doing my stretching exercises and icing my hip. But the pain remains very stubborn. Indeed it seems to have spread to my right knee. According to the osteopath, this is not surprising as I am concentrating on stretching the muscles all down my right side. The stored up imbalances are being worked on and they refer pain up and down the leg and into the groin. I’ve begun to take extract of Turmeric, called Curcumin, which is a natural anti-inflammatory. I’m not sure whether it is having a positive effect yet. But I know that I cannot take Diclofenac or any other NSAID because I only have one kidney.

Sitting for any length of time is one of the things that always exacerbates the pain. I’ve taken to using a small padded cushion at home and taking it with me when I go out. We went to the Mourne Seafood Bar in Dundrum for my birthday. The food was excellent as usual, but the plain wooden chairs were very hard on me. I try and go for regular easy walks, accompanying T part-way down the lane. She is now in charge of dog walking.

One of my presents was a Fitbit, a device which records how many steps you take a day. I was surprised how many steps I took just around the house. But the distances that it calculates for you are problematic, as the type of steps you take around the house and when out walking are very different. The Fitbit calculates the distance on a constant stride length. I’ve found that I have to set an average stride length that is significantly below my normal walking stride in order to get anywhere near an  approximate reading of how far I walk in a day (which currently is much less than I would be doing normally).

The most interesting reading that the Fitbit takes is its recording of your sleep patterns. Each morning it tells you how much time you spent awake, in light sleep, in REM (dreaming) sleep and in deep sleep. I believe it calculates the stages of sleep from pulse readings and the episodes of wakening from the motion sensor. So if you are awake and unmoving it will record that as light sleep. Each morning I look forward to seeing its calculation of the types of sleep I had. And its calculations of how little or much REM and deep sleep I had seems to correlate well with how tired I feel on waking. 

Over the week we have both been catching up on our sleep. T has been sleeping in and reading in bed till noon. Although I would tend to get up rather than lie in, I’ve taken to having afternoon naps again. There is an old saying which goes something like, when you begin to rest you find out just how tired you actually are. This week we’ve both discovered that we have been pretty run down.  We could both probably do with another week of good rest.



Friday, 9 February 2018

Greater Trochanteric Pain Syndrome and Frozen Peas

I have the results of my MRI scan. The source of the excruciating pain I’m getting in my right side is inflammation in the muscles, tendons and bursae on the outside of my hip. I’m delighted to find that my hip joints are normal. Also my lumbar spine is worn but not too much. I’m very glad about this, as over twenty years ago I was told to give up running because of a chronic back condition. Since then I’ve been very careful to do stretching exercises for my back every morning and to focus on cycling and low level hillwalking. And my back feels better now than it was decades ago. I’m shocked to learn that soft tissues can cause such terrible pain around my hip. But having an accurate diagnosis, which rules out other complications, is a good starting point.

The inflammation is in the complex of soft-tissues that surround the greater trochanter, the bony protuberance you can feel at your side. This is the knobbly top of your femur, where the leg bone turns towards your groin to form the ball of your hip-joint. And this is where the muscles from your leg, buttock, side and abdomen all converge. It also gives an insight into how my problem probably came about. Around two months ago Rex ran full pelt into my right leg, just as I was stepping forward. He caught me under the knee and forced my leg back, so much so that I toppled forward like a sprinter lunging for the line. My side has not felt right since then. I imagine that this accident pushed some of these tissues out of alignment and the inflammation has been building up.

The treatment for greater trochanteric pain syndrome is icing, stretching and gentle exercise. The osteopath tells me that he hopes I will get better in four to six weeks. He’s given me a long list of exercises to do to stretch the soft tissues around my hip. So now my morning exercise routine takes around twenty minutes to do, instead of the normal five. And he suggests that I do these all again later in the day. He also advises that I do a selected few of these before bed. I’m pretty stiff because I’ve not really stretched very much since my surgery four and a half months ago. But I am getting better at the exercises and they are helping to reduce the pain somewhat, although it is slow progress and I can see it will be some time to get everything back into healthy alignment.

Icing is to help reduce the inflammation. I can’t take anti-inflammatory medication (NSAID) as it is very hard on your kidneys; I only have one which I must look after. Instead I bought three bags of Tesco frozen peas. You don’t need fancy gel packs, the frozen peas are the very best for the job. They mould easily to your body and work quickly. You need three bags to be able to rotate them in the freezer. The recommended way is to put the peas on for ten to fifteen minutes, then let your body warm up to normal temperature for an hour or so before repeating the treatment. Just remember not to make them for tea.

Gentle exercise is to help disperse the inflammation. I’ve found that sedentary activities: sitting for over an hour, driving in the car to Belfast and sleeping all increase the pain as the inflammation builds up. I go for short walks down the lane with our mad dog and try not to sit for too long. Sleeping is at best a problem because it's hard to find a position that is comfortable. I'm afraid it has become normal for me to wake in the small hours in pain. However, I’ve taught myself not to reach for the morphine, but instead to get up, stretch and rummage in the freezer for a trusty bag of peas.




Friday, 2 February 2018

The Hard Stuff and Winter Pressures

I’m back on the morphine again. This is not because I’ve become an addict and can’t resist it; indeed, only a few weeks ago I went through the cold turkey of withdrawal. Nor is it because I have done something bad to my hernia repair, but because I’ve got a hip injury that has been excruciating, particularly at night. I tried all the normal painkillers but they just didn’t work, so I reached for the bottle that had been on the bedside table since I came home from hospital and took my first 3mg dose. After a further pain-filled and sleepless hour or so, I took another dose and then another, until I began to feel the pain receding a little and I sank into sleep for a while.

The pain in my hip had come on steadily. At first I felt an ache when lifting my right leg in and out of my trousers. Then the pain became more widespread across my hip and buttock, which felt swollen and very sensitive to touch. I went to see an osteopath who manipulated me and gave me some exercises to do at home. I followed them carefully and iced the hip, but the pain didn’t reduce. It was always worse at night. Then I woke with a severe stabbing pain in my right hip. I leapt out of bed and began to rub my side, I could hardly walk. It was a spasm; my hip was throbbing as if it had terrible toothache. I took plenty of morphine, but I was in agony for the rest of the night.

T was away, so I had to drive myself to A& E. It was Sunday. The waiting room was full already. It steadily overflowed with new patients as few were called to be seen. Eventually I was called into the clinic. There were only a couple of doctors on duty. One examined me briefly. He told me that my injury wasn’t serious enough to be treated today. He gave me a short course of anti-inflammatory tablets and sent me home to see my GP. I asked what was causing the pain? He said that to him it wasn’t that important. He was only concerned if the problem was sciatic or it stopped me peeing. What about an X-ray, I said? He said I needed a MRI to determine the source of the pain, but I probably wouldn’t get that on the NHS.

I had waited for four and a half hours in Craigavon and was seen by the doctor for less than five minutes. I drove home thinking that all the reports which said that the NHS was stretched to breaking point in A & E were indeed true. The problem was exacerbated by people misusing A & E with trivial complaints, so that doctors had to sort the long queue of patients into those that needed emergency treatment today and those that could be returned to the GP. Considering the level of pain I was in, I was very disappointed to have been put in the latter category.

I spent another painful and sleepless night. If I took enough, the morphine would knock me out for an hour. But I would always wake up in agony. I went to see the osteopath again. He said that the pain in my hip could be coming from my lower back, my sacro-iliac joint or my hip. He said he would refer me for a MRI privately at a clinic in Hillsborough. It would cost £500 but would probably be done by the end of the week. I didn’t think twice, I had to find out where the pain was coming from and what could be done about it.

After several pain-filled and sleepless nights I got in to see the GP. He reiterated the osteopath’s view on the source of the pain. But importantly he restocked me with morphine. I was now taking around 30mg a day, mostly at night. This was almost two thirds of the dose I was on in hospital. The morphine combined with severe lack of sleep left me burnt out and in a very dopey state during the day.

I got a call from the clinic and went in for my MRI. It was brand new and had been opened by Rory Best. After paying up and answering the long list of questions about metal in my body I was put inside the machine. An MRI scanner is rather narrow and noisy. They put headphones on me. Throughout the forty minutes of the scan I was assailed by the gushy and rather puerile warbling of an unrecognisable boy-band. I wasn’t able to take the headphones off as my arms were strapped down by my side. When I was released I asked if they had chosen the music especially, no they said, it was the only CD they had. I drove home with a DVD of my scan. I didn’t think I would be playing it at home this evening. But I would get the radiologist’s report the next day. The luxury of private medicine.

It was disturbing to see, at first-hand, how the underfunded NHS only really works for acute problems and how the private sector has been encouraged to expand and take up the demand that is not able to be treated. I am very lucky that I can afford to pay for a MRI privately to help diagnose my injury. Otherwise I would be in extreme pain with no prospect of finding a diagnosis or appropriate treatment anytime soon.




Friday, 26 January 2018

The Anniversaries


It has been a week filled with anniversaries: three birthdays, one arrival and one memorial. All five are family, but only two of these are still living. It sounds like a conundrum, but it is not. Let me elaborate a little.

The first two birthdays are of my late father and late brother. They were born on the same day in mid-January, thirty six years apart.

Raymond Jeffcutt was born in 1918, although his later records put it as 1917 because he lied about his age in order to join the army at 15. He ran away from home, joined up and was soon posted to Egypt. His father was badly wounded in the First World War and returned home an invalid, so all of the children, there were nine, had to leave school at 14 and work. My father got a job as a shop delivery boy: he hated it. After he joined the army he always sent money home. His favourite memory of army life was a series of long expeditions through the Western Sahara map-making. He worked hard and was promoted rapidly during wartime to Captain, commanding a squadron of tanks at the battle of El Alemain. Sent on a suicide night-attack by Montgomery, he was wounded and captured while most of his squadron were killed. He spent three and a half years in POW camps in Italy and Germany. Returning home he married, had three children and worked in a series of mundane jobs. He died in 2000 aged 82.

Robert Jeffcutt was born in 1954. Like my father, he left school as soon as he could at 16. And again like my father, he worked his way up to become a civil engineer and the head of a highways contractor. He married young and had two children. He was a good athlete and won prizes for cross-country and road racing. Like my father, he was very practical and spent much time improving and extending the family home. In 2009 he contracted a fast-growing cancer which was diagnosed too late to be treated. He died in 2010 aged 56. Had he lived, he would have seen three grandchildren.

Gillian Banks was born in 1959 and became my first wife. She was cosseted as a child because her parents believed she had a heart defect. She became a medical secretary in the NHS, got her heart checked to find that she had no problem whatsoever. She began to cycle and joined a hill-walking club in Manchester, where I met her. We moved together to Southampton in 1984, my first lectureship. Buying our first house, we moved in at Xmas 1986. A few weeks later we went away for the weekend to Snowdonia. Gill had some sort of blackout and fell to her death from the Snowdon horseshoe ridge. She was 27. I barely survived the ordeal that followed.

Amongst other things, I suffered depression and lost my job. I was glad to find another, but it was in Stirling. So I moved five hundred miles away to Scotland, a place where I knew nobody. I rented out the house in Southampton and lived in bed-sits. Within a year I met another woman (also an academic) who persuaded me to come and live with her in Glasgow. I was reluctant but still did so. I was very emotionally confused and in plenty of pain. We competed rather than supporting each other. I became workaholic, got promoted and became the head of an international research network. I began to apply for Professorships and on my third interview was appointed at QUB. I arrived in Belfast in mid-January 1998, another place where I knew nobody. She then phoned to tell me our marriage was over.

Oddly enough, Northern Ireland has been the place where I have sorted out all the problems from my past. It was a lot of hard work over the early part of the twenty years that I’ve now been here. But I’m very glad that this happened, because four and a half years ago I met my dearest T. This was at a difficult time for her; she was leaving a bad marriage. But there was that indefinable something special between us, which we both recognised. We have since thrived together, despite the many challenges we’ve faced: her messy contested divorce, my cancer recurrences. We are now stronger, closer and happier than we have ever been. I just couldn’t imagine being with anyone else.

I am writing this on T’s birthday.

Many happy returns my dearest love.




Wednesday, 17 January 2018

The Results

We drove through several inches of snow to the Cancer Centre in Belfast and sat in the waiting room. We stared at the electronic board which tells you which room you have to go to for your appointment, then out of the window at the blizzard. T was wearing her wellies, it looked to be a sound choice. Suddenly my appointment was announced. We walked rather agitatedly to the designated room to find a new doctor. We sat down side by side and held hands. She introduced herself as the new Registrar and went straight to the bottom line. My CT scan showed no evidence of recurrence. I squeezed T’s hand and we both breathed a huge sigh of relief.

This turned out to be the most thorough review I’d yet had. The new Registrar was talented and extremely capable. We were with her for about half an hour. It marked quite a change from the Consultant, who often dealt with me in five minutes. The new Registrar was younger, on the way up in her career and not yet burnt out by the demands of the job. I’m very glad of this because we learned a great deal and were told some important information that I’d never been given before.

First we talked about my history: a primary cancer in 2011, with a metatastic recurrence that was found four years later. The initial surgical removal of the new tumour did not have a clear margin, so it regrew at the same site within six months. A second surgical procedure removed the tumour, but with a very fine margin of just 1mm. I’d had four clear scans over a period of 16 months since then. Each time I’d been worried about the tumour regrowing at the same site. So was it now unlikely that the tumour would regrow there? This was my biggest fear and I was hoping for some reassurance.

She told me that my cancer, Renal Cell Carcinoma, was different in its behaviour to many other types of cancer. She said that time was not a key factor for this cancer, as it had been known to recur up to 20 years after the primary. My heart sank. She went on. I was still designated ‘high risk’ and would be regularly checked by CT scans for years to come. My next scan would be in four months. Over time they would balance the risk of the interval of the scan with the accumulated radiation I would be exposed to. I thought to myself, as I’ve already had loads of CT scans since my initial diagnosis (more than 15), plus a series of MRI’s and PET scans, not to mention all of the X Rays, I was probably glowing in the dark already.

She also told me that I ought to be examining myself regularly for lumps. I was shocked; no-one had told me this before. She said the neck, armpits and groin were the most likely sites. She also said that as I’d had a bowel resection I should also be particularly vigilant regarding changes in my digestion and the nature of my stools. She gave me the card of a nurse specialist in the Cancer Centre to whom I should report any problems. And if necessary I would be brought in early for my next scan. Again this was important new information and marked a pro-active approach that was reassuring and most welcome. The card said that the specialist nurse was designated by the Friends of the Cancer Centre (a local charity) so perhaps this post didn’t exist previously.

Finally, we spoke about my recent surgery to repair my diaphragm. I explained that my recovery had been going steadily until a month ago when I had twisted back awkwardly and pulled muscles in my left side. Since then the left side of my ribs adjacent to the surgical scar had been very sore and I was worried that I might have damaged the repair. She turned to her computer and looked up the pictures from my latest scan. The scan gives a series of sections though your body and you can move finely between each section of the image with the wheel of the mouse. She examined the scan closely, pointing out features of my anatomy to us. Eventually she turned to me and said she could see no evidence of a tear in the repair. I breathed another sigh of relief.

We thanked her for her considerable help and set off for home. The blizzard was still going and lots of new snow had fallen. The motorway south was crawling along and the road into the Bronte Country was treacherous. I drove as carefully as I could but the car skidded twice on the way back. We were delighted to actually get home that evening. We closed the door and sat down, thoroughly exhausted. 


Saturday, 13 January 2018

The Wrong Trousers?

I’ve been home from hospital for just over three months now. For the previous two years I’d had strict limits on what I could eat and how much I could eat. I was regularly crippled with bad gastric symptoms. After my stomach was successfully repositioned into my abdomen, I’ve been eating well and trying all sorts of foods that I couldn’t eat before. I’ve discovered that I can pretty much eat anything again. This is a delicious new freedom to enjoy and I have done so with little restraint. Before Xmas I had to go out and buy new trousers as none of my old ones fitted me. But when I went to put on my trousers today I found that I couldn’t do them up. I double-checked. Were they the wrong trousers? Unfortunately not, I’ve put on 12lbs and four inches around the waist since September. Even my new trousers don’t fit me anymore.

T says I shouldn’t worry. In a few months when I get back on the bike I will slim down again. I’m not so confident. The joy of being able to stuff any sort of food into your mouth without having to worry about the intense pains I used to get in my guts is very seductive. I have a particular weakness for German gingerbread pastries, called Lebkuchen, traditionally made in Nuremberg. They come in all sorts of varieties, with different shapes and fillings. Lidl have a good selection. They were selling them off after Xmas and we bought twelve packets. At the current rate of consumption I may need to send off to Germany for more soon.

In other news, my cold turkey seems to be finally over and I’m sleeping relatively normally again. The agitation and insomnia were quite an ordeal for the best part of two weeks. I’m going to be very wary of taking opioids for anything other than the short term in the future.

I’ve also just had my cancer surveillance scan. These are happening at four monthly intervals this year. The last one was in September, a couple of weeks before my surgery. Now I am again waiting for the results. Most people try and minimise this anxiety, saying ‘don’t worry, you’ll be fine’. But when you are waiting to hear the news your mind plays tricks on you and any strange pain becomes the throb of a new tumour.

I’ve had years of practice at this anxious waiting, but it doesn’t seem to get much easier. I’ve found that you have to grit your teeth and not ask too much of yourself. A date is set for your appointment with the Oncologist in the Cancer Centre. So you look towards this date and, one at a time, you tick the days off. I find myself trapped in a terrible emotional mix of hope and fear. Little by little I do my best to get through it. I growl, walk the dog and reach for another Lebkuchen.