Seeing the World

January saw me making plans.  I was sorting out my will and pension.  I was booking trips eleven months ahead.  It was a good distraction that served its purpose.  Even if my month eleven trip proved to be a journey too far.

In my head the intention for now was to carry on travelling in 2018.  But not to book so far ahead.  Thinking next week, not months down the line.

Getting months out of an afatinib drug the should have given me over two years is a blow that still hangs over me.  Jeff Lynne’s ELO are touring next autumn.  Normal instinct would be to snap up the tickets.  Current instinct is not to bother.  How will I be with crowds that far down the line?  How mobile will I be?  A little bit of will I even exist?

Anyway, while Jeff plays his greats he’s only on stage ninety minutes.  It is an uplifting occasion that allows people of a certain age to get home long before bedtime.  It’s fabulous.  But not quite Springsteen.

I’m also stuck not wanting to carry out key tasks.  I’ve decided to leave my end of life care to chance.  I don’t know when the time will hit so I can hardly book two weeks in a local hospice now.  I do fear not being able to live in my rented room/home.  So far my landlord has suggested I could live downstairs which houses two bedrooms.  He’s a good man.

There’s also funeral planning and while I made a will earlier this year I’ve not given my sister any practical pointers as to where my declining stash of cash actually is.  These are conversations that are probably needed but I’m still keen to defer.  Like who’s going to update my Facebook status with “he’s a goner, TFFT” kind of message?

Planning anything beyond my next couple of months is pretty much a no. But I need to be careful not to have nothing planned.  Plymouth Argyll away by train, just before Christmas, is a motivator for me.   A long day out with Chris to a football stadium we’ve never visited.  Oh, and back to Anglesey with Rachel the week after my birthday in January.

I’ll make a big investment decision in January too.  Will I chuck £30,000 into a pension?  It moves the money away from my reach until I get to the unlikely age of 55.  But I was taxed heavily on redundancy.  So recovering that tax through pension relief will mean more for the kids to inherit.  And less for me to spend.

Finnair would be taking me to Helsinki on Friday.  Ahead of the flights to Sydney.  A little wave of regret over not making it.  At least I’ll get to the football this weekend.

Hopefully I can shift some of these minor ailments, reduce my medical appointment levels and get out on the road for another trip soon.

It Can Wear You Down

Today I return to hospital to spend just short of an hour on a drip in the chemo ward.  While my treatment doesn’t yet involve chemotherapy, my previous visit to this place was one of resigned acceptance.  It’s where I will receive my final life extending treatment as the medics try to squeeze an extra couple of months of life out of me.  While I try to cling on beyond April 2019 to avoid an inheritance tax bill.

But this morning is about bone strengthening and the drug zometa being pumped into me.  I’m dreading it.  While I’ll most likely sit there wearing down the battery on my phone, I’ll be surrounded by others at different stages of treatment.  And I’m not sure I’m ready to face people who are further down the road to the end than me.

That said, I suppose some could be facing into different cancers where chemotherapy can fix them.  I think I’ll be able to avoid coming across as a tad jealous.  “Bully for you, but I’m doomed” isn’t really the response to share.

Anyway, zometa.  An intriguing side effect last time, also a Tuesday treatment, hit me in the early hours of the following Sunday morning.  Sore hips.  Followed by agonising deep thigh bone pain.  And then some back pain too.  In a short period of time I went through my full array of painkillers from paracetamol through to morphine and everything in between.  I don’t know if others in the household heard my screams, but I think it’s fair to say I was vocal.

I didn’t care what the pills would do to the pain.  I just wanted them to send me to sleep and let me escape the agony.  They failed.  Nine hours later the pain subsided and I spent much of the day asleep or in a drugged up haze.  It was all thoroughly unpleasant.

The statistics tell me zometa has a 3% chance of extending my life.  I think that tells me six more people in a trial of two hundred people died from complications arising from broken bones in the sub group that didn’t receive zometa compared to the group that did.  I should probably stop reading statistics as all I seem to be doing is looking at death by tumour growth v death by falling over and breaking a few bones.  Maybe a quick dose of MRSA from bone reconstruction surgery is a better way to go?

In the short term, I’ll take the zometa.  Whether the deferred pain side effect will hit me as hard this time I don’t know.  I’ll make a point of lining up my myriad of painkillers and a glass of water by my bed just in case.  I don’t even know if the pain time differential will be the same.  I suppose there’s a risk of me experiencing discomfort at the big Oldham v Rochdale local derby game on Saturday afternoon.  There’ll certainly be howls of pain around me if Rochdale score.  I’d hate to have to share my own zometa agony sat in a half full football stand.

Why Do Other Drivers Have to Use The Same Roads as Me?

I have a basic rule when I’m driving.  My standards are correct and every other vehicle on the road is under the control of an idiot.

Today’s trip home from Anglesey backed up this theory and I aimed a series of expletives at multiple imbeciles on the daytime journey home.

I confess, I take the view that speed limits are there for breaking.  Unless you’re in North Wales where traffic enforcement matters neatly as much as the local constabulary’s concerns about sheep rustling.

In the rest of the UK I work on the basis of speed limit, plus 10% minus one as my standard speed.  32mph, 43mph, 54mph, 65mph and 76mph are my standards.  In North Wales I go 30,40,50,60,70 to avoid upsetting the local traffic gestapo who have an evil reputation for upholding the letter of the law.

And here begins the problem.  I can only assume the Anglesey locals are all on nine penalty points.  A perfectly safe road moves from 30mph built up area to national speed limit.  Level with the sign of the black diagonal line with a white background, marking a doubling to 60mph limit, the road has the words “ARAF” and “SLOW” painted on it.

Why the hell would you double speed limit at the exact moment you demand traffic slows in two sodding languages?  Beats me.  But the locals are very keen to drive ARAFLY and typically maintain a speed of 35mph in this 60mph zone.  I’m not talking tractors here.  Audis.  Mercedes.  Vauxhalls and the rest.  Shuffling along at a speed so hideously slow that they would surely fail their driving test if they were forced to resit it.

Joy in eventually reaching the Britannia Bridge to leave Anglesey.  Ecstasy at there not being a queue on it for the first time in living memory.  Still, confusion for the handful of cars heading east as, en masse, the responded to driving the 50mph limit by ceasing to use their accelerators at 40mph.  WTF is this all about?

The frustrations with other drivers reduced a little as the dual carriageway that is the A55 commenced and I could cruise through the outside lane without being needlessly delayed by halfwits.  There is a part of this 70mph stretch of modern highway that mysteriously reduces its speed limit to 30mph as it negotiates curves on the cliff.  It’s a pathetic choice of speed by the authorities but quickly corrected at maximum speed is restored until the English border.

The M56 starts.  Three lanes.  Busy, but not excessively so.  I find my steady 70ish speed works in the outside lane, occasionally pulling in to the middle allowing more adventurous drivers past.  And then a new game begins.

White van man in the middle lane has slowed to around 45mph.  I pull out to overtake him at a comfortable speed.  He chooses to join me in the outside lane ahead of me.  I slam my brakes on to avoid certain death.  He accelerates generously to 50mph maintaining his position in the outside lane.  Only matching the speed of the cars left in the middle lane.

Despite my BMW manual saying I should now be flashing my headlights, waving him maniacally out of my way and maintaining a gap of no more than two feet from his tail I retain a more composed approach of cursing him loudly within my car, which he obviously can’t hear.  Eventually he returns to the middle lane and I lead a large party of other cars past him.  I resist the temptation to let loose an appropriate hand gesture.

As we progressed to M6 and the M62 we experienced the evils of the average speed check.  But outside these zones multiple other numpties approaching my car at a faster speed than me.  This is normally fine and each time I willingly pull over into the middle lane to let them past.  Their speed appears to be 1mph more than mine.  They inch past.  Pull back into the middle lane in front of me.  And then reduce their speed forcing me to overtake them.  It’s a bewildering habit that must have affected my journey on at least five occasion today.

Those wide and empty American highways seem a long time ago now!

No Aurora, But …

It was always a long shot, expecting to see the Nortern Lights from Anglesey.  And they duly failed to appear.

As we headed outside on a cold, clear evening, another treat opened up above us.  The night sky.

Initially, just lying their enjoying the warm water on my slightly improving shoulder, just a few stars appeared.  But as I stared harder, more seemed to shine hard out of the heavens.  And then, with more looking and perhaps the drifting on of some thin high cloud, the Milky Way became partially visible.

Now it fair to say I’ve been lucky enough to see clearer views of the night sky over the years.  But Death Valley, Grand Canyon, some place in Utah that I forget the name of.  These aren’t exactly on my doorstep.

A short trip from San Pedro de Atacama delivered a wonderful view of the Southern Hemisphere skies in July.  The dry atmosphere a gift.  That was probably second to none.  But this is my sister’s holiday home in North Wales.  A little bit easier to get to than those other locations.

I don’t proclaim to be any sort of expert astronomer.  But I do like staring at the beauty of the skies.  Not really wondering about life elsewhere.  Not reappraising my role as a cynical agnostic bordering on atheist as I take in the heavens.  But there is a beauty that you can find once you get yourself away from lit streets and cities.

Enough to make me miss Life on Earth.

The Key to Paradise

Okay, describing my sister’s Anglesey retreat as paradise might be overplaying things.  But it’s private.  Surrounded by woodland and farmer’s fields.  Has a hot tub. And it’s free.  I also really like the place.  It’s pretty cool.

Friday evening’s trip from West Yorkshire was fraught with traffic issues.  Bag backed.  Food packed.  Rachel collected from cosmopolitan downtown Halifax station.  The M62 and M60 were unkind.  And an hour into a  challenging drive towards north Wales the thought struck.  I’d forgotten my key.

Two hours extra driving if I turn around and collect it.  The farmer who owns the land has a spare, but can he be contacted?  The site warden only works to the end of October.  A calm Rachel refused to shout at me!

I turn off the motorway at junction 19, pull over and call my sister.  Fortunately she’s at home near Stockport.  And kindly sends my brother in law on an errand of mercy to a clandestine meeting place just off the M60.  Well, Tesco near where I bought my first home in 1990.

Andrew arrives with key.  Instructions on the new hot tub straps installed after Storm Brian has released the existing arrangement last month.  Even some toilet rolls too!  Crisis averted, albeit nearly an hour added to our journey.  But a much appreciated rescue mission after a fairly basic error on my part.

The A55 was kind.  The rest of the journey smooth.  The weather cruel.  Friday evening hot tub time cancelled by rain.  Pizza and wine.  England v Germany.  Good company.

Saturday brought slightly better weather.  Cooked breakfast.  Hot tub time.  Eyes peeled for non-existent red squirrels.  Genuine relaxation.

I have developed a new ailment.  My shoulder is in severe pain.  While it could be the cancer this seems unlikely while at such an early stage of the osimertinib and noting its success with my buttock.  So I’m assuming some sort of rotater cuff injury.  And suddenly standing up is difficult again.  Sleeping impaired.  Life just a little less fun.

But the hot tub soothes.  Time isn’t under pressure.  I’m ok!

Stocking Up

The GP visit ended with a diagnosis of ear wax.  Two weeks of olive oil drops, syrunging and if I’m still deaf they’ll have another think.  I know the doctor who identified my deafness is an eye specialist, but I’m feeling rather let down by him right now.

Today there are no medical appointments.  More medicine, in the form of olive oil drops and a new frustration.  I’ve done something to my shoulder.  It hurts when I cough.  Maybe using a walking stick has caused it?  Or perhaps my lymphatic nodes are swollen with cancer.  Who knows!?

My sister has arranged for the hot tub to be turned on by the farmer who owns the land her holiday retreat is on.  So if we arrive in good time I can remove my toe bandages and clamber in to the warm illuminated water.

Before that there’s the big shop.  While a supermarket visit used to be part of my weekly routine, in my more recent months I’ve not needed to visit as often.  My job is bacon, eggs, mushrooms, ham, butter and prosecco.  I might get sausages too.  Rachel is bringing the M&S meal for two.  Out for a meal on Sunday.  Home on Monday.  My sister’s bread maker will get a working over while we’re there.

But it is basically a weekend in the hot tub with interruptions for meals.  It might not be business class to Doha and Sydney but I’ll take it.

Now My Partial Deafness in the Right Ear is Total

In May my Bell’s palsy was giving my right eye a tough time and I was referred to the eye clinic.  The nice doctor picked up on hearing loss in my right ear.  When he scraped his fingers together next to my ears, right was about 25% as effective as left.

Over the last couple of weeks I’ve struggled more. And on scraping my fingers next to the offending ear I now realise the deafness in it is total.

I’ve hit Google.  My Bell’s palsy might not be Bell’s palsy.  It might be Ramsey Hunt Syndrome.  Or Horners Syndrome.  In truth my symptoms don’t quite match any of these.  It reads like some sort of hybrid of the three conditions.

So I’m going to call it Rhymes With Hunt Syndrome because wonky face, sore eye, seismically shifted bleeding nostrils and total deafness on one side is a bit of a rhymes with hunt of a situation to be in.

They’ve got an MRI scan on file.  They eye doctor never suggested  see anybody else.  After all, these palsy conditions just go away on their own.  If I don’t die first.

GP time at 2pm.

Could Anglesey Outperform Iceland?