Seeing the World

Thirteen hours in the air from Madrid to Santiago. That will be my record and some, before November brings up Doha to Sydney at 14 hours and five minutes. December will deliver a ten minute longer flight from Melbourne back to Doha.

It’s a lot of time to spend in the air. And while I won’t be having a bath in the skies my aches, pains and twinges have become more apparent after my tub experience the other night.

So the painkiller accrual is in place and in my hand luggage. The idea of drink myself stupid on business class spirits remains an option. And once landed I’ve now got enough painkillers for three and a half weeks of constant use, rather than the 25% risk based supply I’d originally set aside.

In other words, if I’m in pain I can deal with it. And the comfort of a business class seat will hopefully enable a decent rest and minimise my moans and groans causing disruption to the four dozen big fare payers on the A340 aircraft.

What is probably the least advised trip of my travels is looking well set for success. I just need to master my Latin American phrase book next!

It Was a Treat

As experiences go, a day out at Wimbledon incorporating the ladies’ final is pretty good going.  And one that wouldn’t have happened without my sister’s help.

Negotiate train, bus and security and you’re in.  It’s a free for all except for the two main courts.  We headed straight to court two to see what was happening.  An invitational event.  One of those “old fogeys who used to be quite good” matches.  Ex-champion Michael Chang was teamed up with former British number one (when it meant second round defeat was success) and TV presenter Andrew Castle.

Opponents from my youth were Jeff Tarango, who used to have the strongest serve in the world and McEnroe.  Well, McEnroe’s brother Patrick to be precise.  As well as being competitive it was fun.  McEnroe inviting the whole crowd to take a picture of him in front of a 101mph serve indicator.  “You will never see this old man achieve that again!” he exclaimed with a mixture of shock and immodest pride.

Laughter continued as the ball boys were teased, their strict instructions exploited for comedy value but, above all, both sets of players wanted to win.  The sportsman will often never lose that desire to be best, even when their bodies eventually let them down.

In this challenge it was the Brit, Castle, who stood out.  Perhaps the poorest of all four in their prime but now just a touch sharper, a touch smarter and, eventually, a winner alongside Chang.

What stood out at the end was these players taking so much time to be there for spectators.  A selfie.  A group selfie.  Repeat X 1000.  Patience that appeared genuine. Time that they were so happy to give.  This was seen again on other courts throughout the day and included today’s stars as much as those of yesteryear.

I saw two finals.  The men’s doubles was the one that I thought would give most entertainment but, without doubt, Venus Williams losing to Muguruza was well ahead.

Both ladies are immensely strong.  Williams has a low cross court shot that flies at unstoppable pace beyond an opponent.  Muguruza the ability, as the court opens up in front of her, to deceive her opponent like a penalty taker sending the keeper the wrong way.

After a tight first set there was only one possible winner as the second progressed.  And for an underdog to win the title in straight sets with a 6-0 finale is pretty impressive.  It was also noticeable how the Duke of Kent, having made the headline awards, made time for the “lesser” people on the court who contributed to the efficient running of a great British and international event.

We did the day properly.  Pimm’s and lemonade.  Strawberries and cream.  Some rain.  Everything Wimbledon is meant to be!  If you ever get the chance, do it.  Even if it’s just day one and no finals.

Advantage Miss Muguruza?

With just one sleep to my only chance of seeing a Wimbledon final, I’ve managed to dismiss the disappointment of the Hungarian Australian English lady losing and started my in depth research on tomorrow’s ladies’ final.

Venus was very nice about the partisan British crowd during her semi final win and actually has quite a nice smile.  She’s also won a lot of tennis matches over the last couple of decades.

I’ve never heard of her opponent Miss Muguruza.  It seems she’s six foot tall, Venezuelan, lives in Switzerland, has won $11m in prize money and scrubs up well in a bikini.

On balance, I think I’m backing youth over experience.  Bikini over smile.  Hispanic over Yank.  But whatever happens, I’ll eat strawberries and cream, apply factor 30 and clap politely.  It’s the right thing to do!

Being Infirm

Qualifying for the blue disabled parking badge has actually been a matter of personal amusement for me. While my bones have been weakened by cancer and I am less mobile than I was, the ability to park on double yellow lines for free and avoid paying at pay and display street meters cheers me up no end. In part because I still like to think of myself as able bodied and like a freebie.  I even have a code of honour where I won’t park in the most convenient disabled space, leaving it for someone in greater need.  Unless it’s the last space!

But, last night came a painful reminder that I am more physically limited than I like to think. I had a bath in a hotel.

On my drive down to London I’d paid a visit to the gents at a motorway services. When I came to stand after doing what needed to be done it became immediately obvious that there was nothing to lean on to get myself from sitting to standing. It took more than a moment to achieve this simple manoeuvre.

While I’m not the kind of person who would be rude to a slow moving elderly individual walking in front of me I’ve certainly thought irritable thoughts to myself about wanting them to get a move on or get out of my way. Now I realise I am that old person. I’m slow and lack mobility.

My pre-Wimbledon hotel proved that point to me last night. I enjoyed a bath. As my time in the tub drew to an end I started to think about how to get out of the thing. A vertical handle behind me was out of reach unless I turned over onto my knees. I realised I couldn’t. Opposite was another vertical handle. I couldn’t safely reach it.

Using my feet I turned the plug to open and let the water out. Then I decided to lift my bulk from the floor of the bath, right leg over the side, balancing precariously. Nearly out. Not very safe. Then I slipped. I was able to control my fall back into the bath without injury, other than slightly twisting a few pained muscles that have been giving me grief for days.

I lay there, cold. Feeling stupid. Then I lay there feeling angry. A simple side handle and I’d have been able to haul myself out in seconds. But there’s no compulsion on hotels to incorporate such a thing. My funky room included an expensive coffee machine. But no way for a frailer person to exit the bath safely. I’d have a guess that the Tassimo device costs a lot more than a safety handle.

In the end, I somehow managed to reach the front rail and find the strength to lift myself to a standing position from which I stepped out of the bath. Shivering. The planned soothing benefits of the bath lost. Dignity removed.

But at least my new strains were minimal and I was safe.

The Finnair Conundrum

Since I booked my Qatar Airways flights to the Ashes in Australia this winter a few things have happened.

1. Qatar has been cut off by many of its neighbouring countries.
2. The Aussie cricketers have looked at Joe Root and are currently on strike with fear.
3. Finnair have changed my flight time home from Helsinki to Manchester.

You might be sat there wondering where on earth Helsinki comes into the equation.  The answer is £2,000 business class air fares from Finland or just short of £5,000 from Manchester.  I opted for £2,000, stumped up £150 for return flights to Helsinki and burned some hotel points for a free night in the Finnish airport’s Holiday Inn.

I did take something of a risk with the final flight from Helsinki to Manchester.  My Qatar flight lands in Finland at 6.40am.  The Finnair flight to Manchester departs at 8.25am.  Miss it and I’m buying a new route home on the day.  Won’t be cheap.

While it’s a decision that will probably be fine, it’s not one that I’d have taken if I was flying with company.  Too tight.  Too much that can go wrong, especially if my hold luggage can’t be checked through all the way from Melbourne to Manchester.

But the only alternative flight is nearly eight hours later.  And while I like an airport lounge that sort of timescale will drive me loopy.  I also have the other insurance that if Finnair vary their flights I can opt out and change my plans without charge.

An email from the very clever MyFlights app tells me that there’s been a change on my flight.  Finnair are yet to tell me.

I dived into the app hoping to see the plane is departing an hour later.  After all, that would be splendidly perfect.  But alas no.  My return flight is now ten minutes earlier.

In other words, more time pressure after a long journey back from down under.  I could ring them and will doubtless get moved to the later flight.  But that long wait still doesn’t appeal.  If I don’t make the flight I could use Avios to get home.  Although that might be via London.  And they might not have same day availability.

Or maybe I could add on an impromptu Helsinki city break.  Another chance for the Nortern Light to come out and play.

Atacama Desert

Suddenly this Chile trip is very close to happening.  And I’ve done so little specific work for what we’ll be doing on the ground.

Our few days in Santiago at the start of the trip gives us not just the chance to see our first South American city but also a reliable wifi service to plan the rest of the trip on.  I’m fairly sure the wifi in the more remote parts of Chile that we’re visiting will be ropey.

To me the Atacama meets a lot of needs.  Remote.  Desert.  Geothermal.  Then I look at the roads and ponder if the Honda Civic was the right car rental booking.

To Chris it means a whole lot more.  He’s doing a Geography / Geology degree and the Atacama is unique.  The rock formations will thrill him.  The geothermal stuff will be above and beyond what he’s seen in the American south west.  But it’s a place that he’s learned about off the telly.  Brian Cox pops up there from time to time.  It has extremes, not of temperature but of low humidity.  His camera should be able to produce sensational night sky pictures.  And he also gets to drive.

Since I changed car he’s not been insured to drive anywhere.  Europcar Chile let a 19 year old take the keys.  Easter Island car hire is an uninsured horror show that also lets him drive.   Might be sat there scared witless but I’ll take the risk and let him share the load.  If the road is safe enough.

Worst Pain in Months

I’m not a fan of pain.  The two steps that reduced the levels of pain I was suffering last year were moments that I recall with happiness.

The neurosurgeon who charged me £900 over and above BUPA rates to cement my decimated L5 verterbra.  Massive reduction in the multiple back and leg pains that had been making my life hell.  Aerosmith’s “dude look like a lady” crashing out of his loud speakers into the operating theatre as the anaesthetist plugged me into her drugs.

Then a few weeks later the afatinib took just six days to leave me completely pain free.

Thats not quite true.  I still suffer pain and discomfort if I sit down for over an hour or do.  Driving short distances is fine.  But longer distances require me to “uncurl” my spine.  My phrase.  But it does feel like something is actually unwinding as I walk around gingerly.

Recent days have seen a return of some of the discomforts pre-op and pre-afatinib.  Not as severe.  Nowhere near the pain levels experienced previously.  Typically treated with a simple anti-inflammatory and paracetamol.

Last night I reinstated the big boys of my remaining pharmaceutical supplies, built up from repeat prescriptions provided following multiple conversations by telephone with my GP.

Firat out was a 7pm naproxen (anti inflammatory) combined with two paracetamol.  Shortly after 11pm I topped up the paracetamol.  Two hours later and the pain had really got hold of me.  So I wheeled in the tramadol and amitriptyline.  Slept the next six hours like a baby!  And then stirred, checked my emails and zonked for a further couple of hours.

I am cautious about using those last two drugs.  They are addictive.  I won’t be using them if the pain levels are low.  But they were kind to me last night and I’d rather be high as a kite than suffer extensive pain.

Fingers crossed a couple of days rest will fix the leg and the drugs can return to the darkened corner I keep them in.  I really don’t want to have to reopen my pain relief hotline to the local GP.  Not until the inevitable happens.

The Oncologist Appointment Without the Oncologist

Last week the hospital called me asking me to rearrange my oncologist appointment.  On the basis that I was in the country, not seeking work and very much unemployed I agreed to their proposed time.  After all, I’m costing the NHS a fortune so being flexible in appointment times is the least I can do.

I’ve nicknamed my oncologist “oncobabe”.  Not that she’s a babe at all.  But it does make me think vaguely more positively about a sequence of meetings that started with “You’re a dead man”, progressed to “Here’s a pill to keep you ticking over for a couple of years” and will, inevitably, return to “you’ll be dead quite soon” at a yet to be determined point in time.

The appointments invariably involve blood test, X-ray, meeting to discuss the quickly analysed results and me throwing out a couple of questions about pain and different treatments I’ve read about.

Today I entered the Harold Wilson opened Huddersfield Royal Infirmary and headed to the bloods section.  Because I’m not sure how to spell phlebotomy,

I handed in my fast track form and waited.  For forty five minutes.  The room was packed.  The corridor was packed.  I assume NHS Direct had been busy over the weekend and sent most of West Yorkshire in for a Monday blood test.  When I was finally called I pictured rivers of blood flowing around somewhere in pathology seeking quick test results.

My samples were extracted with minimum fuss.  I’m fascinated by the NHS ability to collect my blood with minimum effort when my private sector experience involved hacking at elbows, wrists and even thigh – often by multiple staff – to get what was needed.  At least I got wifi when I went private!

Then over to X-ray.  My regular chest snapshot.  “Why are you here?”.  “Who sent you?” … I’m getting the feeling oncobabe hadn’t updated the new computers with this!  Eventually I’m asked to say cheese and hold my breath as some radiation goes flowing into my upper torso.

Right, it’s Oncobabe time.  Check in at the ward to be weighed.  Lost 1.5kg.  Good.  Waiting room.  A slight woman wanders in and calls my name.  This isn’t Oncobabe.  Today I get the registrar.

This is a little bit of a surprise.  But I roll with it.  Dr Richardson gives a good summary of my history and even demonstrates some chest X-rays in time lapse fashion explaining where the nasty bits were and how they’re not even visible in May.

She then goes on to tell me that the results from the bloods and X-ray aren’t available.  I’d always been quite impressed with the hospital for getting this information to the consultant faster than I could use a lift.  No such luck today.  I assume they’ll call me back if there’s any bad news.

I went on to discuss ongoing discomfort around my right leg, hip, pelvis etc.  She said she’d arrange a CT scan for me to have on return from Chile.  Given I’ve had these pains for a couple of months it’s no bad thing.  I’m assuming some sort of fallout from the knackered back is to blame rather than an unexpected return of tumours.

I left happy.  Until my sister rightly pointed out I knew nothing more than my May appointment had told me.  Sometimes not knowing can be beneficial.  As long as you’re not worrying.  I’m beginning to understand those who bury their heads in the sand when it comes to health matters.

The Knockout Blow and Duvet Disaster

My back operation at the end of October last year reduced a lot of my pain.  But not completely.  It was December before my afatinib cancer medication zapped the tumour in my pelvis or back that was, presumably, still making life uncomfortable.

As a result, I was stocked up on painkillers.  Naproxen.  Tramadol.  Paracetamol.  And, thanks to my physio’s recommendation, amitriptyline.

On the whole, I’ve not needed to utilise this cocktail much since.  Pain does occasionally creep along and go away and I usually dive into the naproxen and paracetamol.

Over the last couple of weeks my upper thigh / pelvis has given me some minor problems.  Not every day.  Not all the time.  But a bedtime naproxen, topped up with a couple of paracetamol, have helped.

Yesterday morning I woke around 8am.  Decently late for me.  The pain was back.  Again, nothing as severe as I’d felt while the cancer attacked me last year, but uncomfortable.  I reached for the magic naproxen, headed downstairs to make a cuppa and on my return noticed my quilt cover sat outside my room.  I’d washed it the day before after a raspberry jam disaster and, after an unexpected drying contribution from my landlord, it was now dry and ready to wrap around the duvet.

Over the years I have established four key methods for getting a cover onto a quilt.  These are varied and the first three seem particularly acceptable.

1. Mother does it.
2. Wife does it.
3. Landlord does it.
4. I wrestle with the bastard for half an hour and end up with a lumpy shaped pile of quilt on my bed which, after a couple of uncomfortable nights, somehow seems to take a fairly reasonable rectangular shape without the lumps.

This time it’s on me.  As a modern man I googled “how to cover a duvet YouTube” and discovered a series of American housewives completing the act with finesse in about two minutes.

Turn the duvet inside out.  Put the quilt on top.  Roll both items together.  Perform a magical act of witchcraft to somehow turn the cover the right way round and hold it aloft with duvet completely inside.

I failed at the witchcraft bit.  Something in that split second process is lost on my male brain.  So I resorted to option 4 above.  Something I last implemented in 1993.

On completion I was quite excited.  Lumps were minimal.  Time used only about twenty minutes.  But my leg hurt.  A lot.  Shooting pains.  So for the first time since last December I took an amitriptyline to ease the sensation.

The next thing I knew it was Sunday afternoon.  Five hours had past and I felt groggy.  After thirteen hours sleep I should be fresh as a daisy but this was a real slow motion “where am I, who am I?” wake up scenario.

I think I’ll be cautious before taking one of those pills again!

Preparing For A Thirteen Hour Flight