Seeing the World

Today we fly.  Albeit stage one Manchester to Dublin isn’t exactly the centrepiece of the experience, it is the cog that ensures business class travel for several thousand pounds less than flying directly to the USA from Blighty.  A £70 hotel room tonight doesn’t dent the value of that saving.

A third go at this for me, but the first time that I’ve not been able to utilise American Customs in Dublin.  Tomorrow morning’s flight is straight back to the UK and Heathrow, before a lunch time flight to Las Vegas.

Despite being a regular traveller these days, day of travel stuff is more complicated.  Making sure phone and iPad are charged up, the charger is packed and the overseas adaptor travels used to be my priority.

Today I start off with my eye medication.  Drops and lubricant, small scissors and tape to cover the eye at night.  The lubricant tube is amusing at altitude, the standard blob I squeeze out normally becomes a snake of much bigger proportions.  Welcomed by my eye, but leaving me with a shiny right cheek!

My ongoing pain in the butt means a decent supply of my four different painkillers is needed.  They’re in the bag but I’ll check them again.  I’ll also stock up on Naproxen and paracetamol in Walmart as although I can get free prescriptions in the UK the twelve day supplies of drugs from my GP create an almost ongoing routine of phone call, collect prescription, head to pharmacy.

Next up, tissues.  My nose is prone to bleeding.  While business class travel tends to ensure a drink and tissued mat is nearby my own supply of blood blockers is in order.  Hopefully the BA vanity bag will also assist.

This morning’s big trip is back to Huddersfield to see Oncobabe.  Fortunately the pharmacy at the hospital have confirmed they have my afatinib.  Which is good, because I didn’t want to have to get into a discussion about FedEx and my route around the desert as a delivery option!  I run out in ten days!

More important is my scan result which I get at 10.30am.  My leg is still feeble.  It might be the cancer returning.  It might be damage I’ve done walking in Chile.  It might be damage done by the cancer last year.  If the nasty bugger is back I’ll need a biopsy.  That can wait until I get back from USA.  Even if Oncobabe disagrees.

The biopsy result, if I need one, has a 40% chance of telling me it’s the end of the road.  Find a medical trial or I won’t last long.  Chemo might be an option but not a very efficient one.  Wipe me out for a few days to extend my life for a few days.  If it’s near April 2019 I’ll take it.  There’s a key inheritance tax deadline to get past to benefit the kids.  But if I fall short this early, and can’t get on a medical trial, I think I’ll take the most appropriate pain relief and fade away earlier than I’d like.

When I leave the hospital later I’m hoping none of that will be on my mind.  An all clear from the scan and a drive to collect Rachel before doubling back to Manchester Airport to begin three weeks of great fun and magnificent scenery!  I love South West USA.

British Airways Fail

Having achieved BA Silver Status inadvertently while travelling to and from Chile last month I’ve been sat eagerly awaiting my special pack.

The status card.  Luggage tags that allegedly act as a priority mark (or a sign to baggage handlers that this case belongs to somebody with airline status so let’s rob it).  As yet, no sign.  Which is a shame, as my next flight is tomorrow.

The good news is that it doesn’t really matter.  The app and web site log in confirm I’ve got the status.  There’s the option to create my own paper membership card if needed.  And the flights are business class anyway, so access to the lounge is based on ticket, not airline status.

The odd thing is that Chris has already received his card and tags a week or so ago.  I paid his bloody fare and I have nothing!  And I’m the one that does all the flying!

Not to worry.  It’s just a bit frustrating that the simple concept of posting out some plastic seems beyond them.  And it’s not as if I’ll be taking advantage of the extra suitcase perk!

CT Scan? What CT Scan?

It’s three weeks to the day since my notorious Revels scan.  The drive to Huddersfield was arduous, with traffic at a halt in Halifax.  My vague knowledge of the back streets helped me get around the problem.  Joan Jett and the Blackhearts “I love sausage roll” drowning out any fears from the BMW hi fi.

Scan results are a big part of my journey from diagnosis to death.  Pretty important events.  This one was preceded by a standard blood test.  Usually I’m treated like a business class flyer.  Today it took half an hour to get called to provide my blood.  Time to read the exciting news that lung cancer survival in the UK, a year after diagnosis, has improved.  38% of us get to a year now compared to 31% in 2010.  Two months to go.

Then off to see Oncobabe.  She appeared in the waiting room and asked if I’d had my X-ray.  I replied in the negative, citing the Revel scan as being the most upto date information they needed.  A perplexed look and she disappeared.

Eventually she called us in.  I shuffled to my sister’s right, ensuring my deaf ear was strategically placed away from the voices.  Shockingly, no scan result.  No image for Oncobabe to take an unqualified view of.  Nothing.  At least she was able to give positive news of the July X-ray and blood test.  But nothing of any use for this meeting.

I described my ongoing right buttock/leg difficulties.  She used the phrase “if it is the cancer returning …” which sent a shiver up my spine. I clarified my imminent holiday dates.  And pretty much determined that if I do need a new biopsy it won’t be happening at the expense of my Vegas vacation.  Whatever the implications!

While I wouldn’t want to slate the NHS too much, I’ve become an obviously small cog in a disappointingly inefficient wheel.  The concept of chasing up overdue reports before the patient consultation hasn’t quite reached this part of the world yet.

Irritated.

Online Check In

The online check in process appears to be fairly harmless.  But practices that differ wildly by airline can confuse things.

Ryanair scare the life out of your phone battery.  Because if your phone fails and you don’t have a self printed A4 boarding pass covered in printed adverts that wiped out your annual supply of printer ink, they want £50.  Each.  To print a boarding pass on a piece of toilet paper.  I bet they save their own ink too!

British Airways, Iberia, Flybe, Sky Chile, LATAM don’t give a dam about your electronic boarding pass.  Yes, you’ve checked in.  But then they issue you with a new scrap of paper whether you want it or not with the all important bar code to access the security queue with.

These airlines don’t exactly work to standards on check in rules.  We’re checked in for our Ryanair return flights on 27th September.  It’s another two days from now before I can check in for British Airways flights almost three weeks earlier.

Ryanair are less generous if we’ve not booked luggage as part of their flexi fate (or some such similar name).  The return flight check in is restricted to four days before the flight.  Panic if your hut near a foreign beach lacks wifi.  I assume hoards of holiday makers arrive at Spanish airports desperately seeking wifi to enable a last minute check in before sneaking their oversized hand luggage into overhead lockers.  Otherwise they’re screwed for the inevitable paper printing fee.

I can’t recall how Easyjet and Wizzair went about it.  Other than still having my Wizz boarding passes is some sort of online wallet app on my phone.  LATAM had a 24 hour lead in time for their flights.  Getting wifi on Easter Island to achieve this was nearly impossible.

But having your wits about you and a properly charged phone seems to be the best way of managing a process that adds about three seconds to check in time at bag drop if you don’t bother.  As long as there’s wifi!

Thinking My Bell’s Palsy Eye Had Fixed

This one fell off the list on a previous trip.  A choice to spend more time at the North Rim of Grand Canyon, and take a break from long drives.

It’s first on this tour.  Making sure it happens!  The online reviews talk of its wonder, beauty and greenery – the latter a rarity in this part of the world.  Presumably climatic differences in play.

The other note is “you should spend days exploring”.  Well we’ve got a few hours so that isn’t going to happen!  But it’s a part of the world where so many things deserve days.  And even a three week tour struggles yo give more than hours to places of immense natural beauty.  And, despite reservations, I’m still happy that a few hours snap shots of lots of places is the way to go rather than spending several days staring at the same beautiful rocks.

It’s  an in investing call for anybody planning such a trip.  While the driving is part of the fun there can be a dreariness to finding a new motel every night and lifting the heavy cases out of the car boot.  Only to return them a few hours later.

But it gives me so much more of a buzz than the sunbed I probably need!

Who’s the Person of Questionable Parentage in the Green?

It was good to see Louise and Emma in their new home.  And be well fed from their new barbecue.  And sit on their new settee.  They seem happy.  Which makes me happy.

The day went pretty much as planned.  I’m now the proud owner of a foot spa.  Pondering how the hell to move it to somewhere I can empty it after over filling it.

Walking remains awkward.  After a few hundred paces I get to a point of genuine discomfort and hobbled into Boundary Park dreading yet another Oldham game.

The good news is that they’ve improved.  It took them over twenty minutes to go two goals down this week which is an improvement.  The bad news is that it’s now seven defeats in a row, out of two cups and not looking very good.

As I entered the stairway to commence my half time walk to the gents I was particularly wobbly.  A soft, warm hand reached out to mine, helping steady me.  A brief moment of love in my eyes for a young policewoman who had clearly seen my incapacity.  I smiled, as best I can, thanking her, and walked up the four steps to the concourse before she released me.  Ah, if only I was twenty years younger …

The second half of the game was great fun.  Oldham scored lots of goals.  Alas, Charlton still won by virtue of scoring more.

When I was a lad referees wore black and goalkeepers wore green.  Yesterday the referee wore green.  I recall his performance at Bradford last season where he seemed keen to please the home fans.  No such luck yesterday.  He pranced around waving yellow cards at Oldham players for innocuous nothings, produced a red card for a substitute’s second minor foul, and then spent injury time realising he hadn’t been particularly even handed and dramatically produced three yellow cards for Charlton players which involved running towards them, having a chat and then dramatically reaching for his pocket to wave his card camply in the air.  Sarcastic cheers from the ever declining Oldham faithful.

I doubt I’ll watch the match highlights to assess his performance and further.  The home crowd muttered about parentage, female genitalia and other rude words to describe his performance.  Perhaps we’d have even won the game had he not sent a player off.

The USA trip gives me a month off from football.  I’ll miss it!

A Break From the Old Routine

I love my Saturdays.  I’m lucky because Chris, who’s knocking on twenty, seems happy to merge match day with Dad day still.  And there is something of a routine involved.

Collection.  Wetherspoons breakfast.  Fill up with petrol at Tesco, utilising my 4% discount card, head to the portacabin on stilts that doubles up as the Oldham Athletic pre match bar, endure the usual insipid defeat and then take on the excitement of the Toby Carvery Experience.

Last week we mixed it up and had a Toby Breakfast and Wetherspoons tea.  But that costs a fiver or so more.  Pricey, but there is an increased volume of bacon scenario that means breakfast has an advantage.

This week Toby loses out all together.  My step-daughter Louise and her wife Emma moved home recently and have invited the pair of us over post match to see their new home and enjoy a barbecue.  It’s also a chance to hand over the multitude of fridge magnets I’ve gathered for her over the past few weeks – one from every significant location I’ve visited.  Perhaps something to help her remember me by when I’m gone.  And a “make the best of what you’ve got” message to live life by.

The other big change to routine is sneaking in an Argos visit to buy a foot spa.  It impedes on drinking time pre-match, but as I only tend to slowly down a solitary cider I don’t think it’s a major issue.  Must buy some salt too!

A Day of Rest

The last two days I’ve chosen to do very little.  Take painkillers.  Relax.  I’m now several episodes into the fifth series of The Next Generation and wondering how Lt Worf keeps his job when the only tactical advice he ever gives his captain is to blow the hell out of anything they encounter in space.  Advice that is always ignored by Captain Picard.

The reason for my laziness is to try and get my right leg fighting fit for a driving holiday.  For the last few weeks I’ve been dragging it around behind me, suffering pins and needles in it and, worse of all, struggling with an apparent trapped buttock nerve and sciatic reaction.

Last night it niggled for hours before I finally succumbed to the blitz technique.  Two naproxen, two paracetamol, two tramadol and an amytriptoline.  It’s a combination that gave me ten hours sleep and a bit of a drowsy start to the day.  Not ideal if I’m planning a four hour drive from Las Vegas to Grand Canyon.

Indeed, after an hour of being awake the niggle returned.  Pain in the butt.  Occasional electric shock in my ankle.  I switched to my daytime medication of ibuprofen and paracetamol which gave me four hours of relief.

Better still, for four hours after those pills had worn off I discovered a pain free freshness.  I could walk easily down the stairs.  Mobility almost fully restored.

Then, after watching Picard and his crew get addicted to an electronic game, threatening the very existence of The Federation, I fell asleep on my front.  A position chosen deliberately to minimise impact of bed on pinched nerve.

When I awoke, the pinched nerve roared in all its fury.  The ankle sciatica kicked out.   And I was forced to break my drug curfew with more ibuprofen and paracetamol.  The tramadol remains on standby.  One surge of discomfort might force them down my throat.

That could mean being asleep when Malta v England kicks off.  There is a temptation…

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