Out with the old

2010 - a year of leaking oil and leaking secrets, cruel cuts, and deep relief for 33 trapped miners.

A year in which an Icelandic volcano cast a three week shadow over European air travel; it snowed, and snowed again; and the students were revolting.

A year when more than 12 million people were diagnosed with cancer. 

In which two friends have died of the disease, four more were diagnosed and five received the all clear.

I'd like to raise a glass to those who've crossed my path who have done battle with the disease.  So here's to the cancer cast of 2010:  Jane I, Jane T, Sue, Margaret, Suzanne, Lisa, Maria, Hilary, Jenny, Cindy, Maureen, Maria, Beverley, Stuart, Lynette, Vicki-Jean, Michael, Joanne, Annette, Liz, and the countless others I've met whose names I never knew.

JP doesn't like New Year. He wants to drive a pin through the world to stop it spinning, or turn it round the other way. I have always believed in it. To me it spells hope and promise, because 'tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms further...And one fine morning...'

When you've had cancer, you travel hopefully...

Radio silence

The last radiotherapy session today was oddly anticimatic. This cancer journey, which started out with a big bang and high drama, and is now kind of fizzling out.

Now treatment is over I am left to assess the damage - a mutilated boob that still looks like a boob, at least from the outside; an annoyingly aching back; general tiredness - but no worse than I normally experience at this time of year; and a very short haircut.

But I mustn't grumble, because whatever the hangovers of the treatment, it's better than the alternative! And I am truly glad to be here.

Today I've had my head shaved - which may sound barmy given that there's hardly any hair there anyway - but I'm told it helps it to grow back thicker. It's coming back dark!!

I shall probably wind this blog up in the new year - it will then be a complete record of treatment from start to finish.

These are strange, grey, in-betweeny days. Usually I go back to work in between Christmas and New Year, it's a good time for tying up loose ends, when it's quiet. We will probably see out the year as we saw it in, watching a band at our local pub. But this year no Jane. It seems impossible that someone so vital can be no longer here. It hasn't sunk in yet, like she's just away, or something. Like I will be seeing her next week, next month, next year....

Jane I'Anson R.I.P

To Jane, who died this morning.

Goodbye beautiful friend. The world will be a much duller place without you....

 

Doctor's orders

Thursday will be the last radiation session, marking the end of cancer-zapping procedures, but not the end of treatment. After that we're into prevention. Because mine was an oestrogen-fed cancer, to stop it returning I must take hormone tablets for up to five years. Some people don't like this medication because it brings on an early menopause. At my age I'm not too bothered as that's where I'm heading anyway.

All these months of treatment have left me knackered, so I'm not going back into work till February - although still working a few hours from home. I will use the time to build my strength up. My back, where they took the muscle out, is weakened and I get intermittent backache. The physio says I should swim in a 'posh pool' (where the water is warmer). So today we've been out looking at private gyms.

I used to frequent an old municipal pool in town, until last April when Nottingham City Council in their wisdom closed it. It had a small but loyal clientele. Often there would be only a handful of people in the water. That's why I liked it - and probably why they closed it. In this age of austerity I doubt whether the promised all-singing, all-dancing replacement will ever materialise.

The physio also says I must not sit for more than half an hour, but should get up and walk around. What a perfect excuse for getting out of meetings!

Merry Christmas everybody

Good will has followed me around all year but now it's the official season for it.

Even Colonel Sensitivity was nice to me earlier.

Here's a couple of  Chrimbo creatures spotted recently.

Have a good 'un..

Made for walking

Best buy of 2010. I got a pair of these at the start of the winter and have hardly taken them off since.

They're docs, so they've got the non-slip airware sole. They don't slide around on the ice, and they're the most comfortable footwear ever!

AND they look good!

Management-speak b*****ks of the year

(From a government communiqué)

"..sunsetting low-impact functions....."

WHAT??

I think it means stopping useless work. Worthy of a Plain English Campaign golden bull award, I'd say.

Talking of sunsets, here's a sunrise snapped over Sherwood. Solstice tomorrow ..

Befuddled

Trying to organise a fuddle to take to Jane in hospital over the weekend  (if she's well enough),  but getting bogged down with logisitics and variables to do with people, timings and snow.

For the uninitiated, 'fuddle' is a Nottingham word meaning a gathering where everyone brings food. I'm guessing it's a fusion of the words 'food' and 'huddle'. There will doubtless be lots of these going on in offices across town at the moment. I don't think fuddles exist outside Notts (but correct me if I'm wrong).

Nice idea but can be a nightmare to plan - who's bringing what where when why etc etc. Maybe it should be called a muddle...

What a lovely dentist!

He took a real interest. He asked loads of questions, none of them about teeth! He wanted to know how, where and when I found my lump; how big it was (precise dimensions please); what operation I had; which bits of me are being irradiated and who I'm spending Christmas with. Oh and he also cleaned up my teeth. They look a lot better now.

Nobody told me

Chemotherapy affects teeth. Just when I'm starting to feel human again with hair and fingernails returning,  I've noticed bits of teeth have gone black. I look like a 'before' model in one of those cosmetic makeover programmes, or someone with a 40-a-day habit.

And this really pisses me off because I've always looked after my teeth. I only have two fillings and these I've had since I was ten.

Google led me to a forum full of horror stories about molars crumbling and front teeth falling out - the internet is a dangerous thing!

Hoping it's just plaque which a few trips to the hygienist will sort. Booked into the dentist later so I'll find out the worst. Funny how despite being cut open, poisoned and irradiated this year, a visit to the dentist can still induce such dread. It's a primeval thing.

A toast to absent friends

Feeling festive after putting the tree up earlier, and looking forward to the usual round of celebrations.

But this year this is tinged with sadness because there'll be one party-goer missing and that is Jane, who is currently in the Macmillan Centre in Derby Royal.

Jane, who could always be relied upon to come out and party; who would brighten up a room just by walking in; who can liven up the dullest of proceedings.

She has fought off cancer so many times in the past and bounced back more vibrant than ever. And despite her grim prognosis now she still faces up to life with immense courage and good humour.

This year, we will have to take the party to her....

They don't give you the 'all clear'

They just zap you with everything they've got then send you merrily on your way, with a wave and a smile and a 'come back next year'.

I thought they'd do a scan or something.

Saw a registrar yesterday, who looked about 19. He assured me the pimple on my tongue (a small thing but it's wreaking havoc with my neurosis) is NOT anything sinister like a secondary cancer but merely a pimple on my tongue. He also refused to refer me to a cognitive behaviour therapist because he says I'm not depressed. I know I'm not, at the moment anyway. I just fancied talking to an expert about the way I think.

Been dog walking again this morning. This time she behaved herself. She found a flourescent pink squeaky ball in the snow, which helped.

Going for work Christmas do later. Question is, what to wear? Can't go for anything vaguely low cut as it will show off the radiotherapy marks. (They draw on you daily in enduring marker pen and I can't be bothered to scrub it off). Think I'll go for something warm but mildly festive, as it's still bloody cold out there.

The worst thing about daily radiotherapy

Is getting glimpses of the Jeremy Kyle show in the waiting room. Whenever I catch even a few seconds of this programme I get a sense of abandoning all hope. It's far more depressing than cancer treatment.

I'm with Judge Alan Berg, who sentencing a man who headbutted someone on the show said: "It seems to me that the purpose of this show is to effect a morbid and depressing display of dysfunctional people....some of whom have limited intellects.."

Soon our American cousins will be able to enjoy their own version of this freak show after ITV successfully exported him to the US. They can keep him!

One thing I'm thankful for is that throughout all these months at home I have not succumbed to daytime telly. Perhaps it's all a clever conspiracy to get people back into work.

First green shoots of recovery

The blokes at the radiotherapy clinic have been growing facial hair to raise money for prostate cancer research. Now they are all going round sporting moustaches.

This set me thinking - perhaps I should get people to sponsor me to grow my hair back - a pound per centimetre, maybe.

A guy I once worked with used to pop out to the barbers some lunchtimes to get his head shaved.  Some of us girls liked to stroke his hair when he came back with a number 1 cut. It felt nice - all soft and springy. My head is starting to feel like this - there's now a covering of fine down about a millimetre long.

Can't tell what colour it's going to be yet. Bits seem blonde, other bits appear to be darker. Hope it's not grey. But I don't really care, as long as it's not green!

Long dark tea-time of the soul

Around this time of year, especially at this time of day, an oppressive gloom descends. I feel an impenetrable sadness that can make everyday activity feel like walking through thick fog.

It has nothing to do with cancer. I get it every year, a kind of over-riding sense of things coming to an end, as though quite literally when the nights close in so do my options.

I know this is classic Seasonal Affective Disorder. Strange how falling light levels can actually affect your thought processes. Circumstances which at any other time would seem neutral or even positive become weighted with negativity, and I rage against the dying of the light.

Over the years I've tried ways of handling it. Forcing myself to do stuff. Allowing myself to hibernate. Taking St John's Wort. Buying a light-box. Walking to work so I catch at least some daylight. All these things help a bit. Usually closer to Christmas with all its associated distractions I start to pick up, and when the new year comes, even though 1 January is really just an artificial milestone, I feel a huge sense of hope and relief.

It's almost worth it for the high that comes in March, when everything opens up again and life is once more ripe with possibility.

People say to me sometimes: "Your blog sounds upbeat but how are you really?" I'd say mostly it's a pretty accurate reflection of my mood. I am glad that diagnosis and the worst of the treatment came in the Spring and Summer months. Had I been diagnosed in November not March, this could have been a very different blog.

The trouble with emergency planners

Squirty in the snow. He hasn't moved for days.

They predict emergencies....

JP: If this snow keeps up and the power goes, we're snookered.
Me: We've got gas, we can cook on that
JP: Not if we can't get out for food
Me: I can walk to the co-op in the snow
JP: Not if the supermarkets run out...

Now I'm worried!

Supermarkets don't have many storage facilities these days so rely on just-in-time deliveries from super-depots in places like Daventry. Which is all very well until it snows and the lorries can't get through, in which case the shops could run out of produce in a couple of days.

When I was a child in Somerset in the seventies our village got cut off for what seemed like weeks. My Dad walked to work across snow covered fields; when the power went off we cooked on an open fire and we bought unpasteurised milk direct from the local farm - straight from the cows. None of that could happen now because we are much less locally self-sufficient and much more reliant on automation and transport systems.

Meanwhile the white stuff keeps on falling...