Who's going to get the chicken?

I know, it’s been a while! I’ve been thinking of you and wondering what you’re up to? Someone told me it’s under 40 days until Christmas which quite frankly, is more terrifying (not least because of the fake news around turkey supplies!) than how Boris the Bodger looked at the Remembrance Day service yesterday. ‘Just got in from Soho House/borrowed some clothes off a homeless person/can we get this over as Carrie has a roast on’ doesn’t really cut it 🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️)

All go here my friends. Or is it? I’m not sure whether I’m going or staying to be honest, and as the weeks go on, I’m no clearer.

At least the lovely chemo has finished. Phew. I’ve emerged relatively unscathed, barring permanent hearing loss (handy when the carer asks for a Victoria sponge to be made) – but also intermittent tinnitus (which seems slightly counter intuitive given I can’t hear??),  no nose hair, a weird bald patch on my head, chronic wind, continued nausea and a Blue Peter badge for being brave. Could have been a heck of a lot worse, for which I remain eternally grateful 😇 I won’t miss the high risk Lady Puffs, the constant nausea, the weird 3-5am ‘Wide awake!) or anything in between. 

My dad, of course, has been ever supportive and understanding  (hahahahahahahaha).

I was due to have my PICC line taken out – that metre of blue plastic from elbow to chest, shoved up a vein, in situ since July to deliver my chemo-ly delights quicker than a Deliveroo for a person parched for pizza. 

“Been to the Krankenhaus yet to get the pipe work out have you?” said the patriarch.

Great. My heritage busted in one word. No need for that appearance on Who Do You Think You Are now, is there. 

“Yes dad.”

“Must have been a bit rusty by now!!”

More of dad’s comedy gold, think I. How lucky I am to have such a hilarious father! 

“Anyway, not that I can compare my own complaints to yours but, do you know anything about corns or bunions?? Got terrible trouble with my feet, can’t get my bally shoe on!”  

By this, he doesn’t mean shoes made by posh footwear people Bally – he means it as a descriptor. Bally weather, bally government, bally COVID- you name it, if it’s not good, it’s bally bloody AWFUL – which, by the way, is his second favourite word. I guess if he said ‘bally valley’ he’d probably have had a bad time in Wales; ‘bally Bolli’ a bad glass of fizz; and as for ‘bally Sally’, what he does as a 92yr old bachelor (widower) is up to him and I don’t really want to know 🤢🤢

So just before I had the pipe work ripped out at the Krankenhaus (??), I’d been in for one of my eight hour classics. I get there before the staff and I usually leave when it’s just me and the machine which polishes the floor left.

Luckily on this occasion, one of the nurses is there to patch my arm back up. This just means, flush out the line, put the dressing back on and then it’s ‘see you next time’. 

As she’s carefully arranging the tap thingy at the end of the long blue line, so I can still move my arm properly, she takes on a Nursey hue – and voice. 
“So I assume it’s been explained to you that all your treatment now is palliative.”

………..whooooo…..shwaaaaaaaassss….. I see tumbleweed drifting across the room. 

‘Erm….no, actually!’ (Aka, wtf is going on here??) 

“Oh yes, I’m sorry. You have been very unlucky to have two different cancers in four years, and now it’s a case of managing this as best we can. You could go on for years!”

Thanks lovey, I think – you’ll be lucky to go on for another five minutes at this rate! But what I say is: 

“Well, thank you for your honesty. No one is really telling me much – me and him thought as much but it’s good to know. “ 

 I’m not upset at all – just bloody furious that I haven’t been told. I can deal with the ultimate – but only if I know. 

Luckily the silence is broken as the phone rings in her office. 

She pops back in to finish the dressing. 

“While I was on the phone, I looked at your notes. It’s not palliative!”

I don’t know whether to punch her or hug her. 
“…at the moment.” [it’s a PUNCH then!]

“What you have is probably not curable but it can be managed. You need to speak to Dr 24 about it.”

Too right I bally well do, I thought. 

It was a very weird evening at home that day. I dispensed with a fair amount of Malbec, I researched a trip to Australia and south east Asia via 2-weeks in the Maldives, before I got the story out to the carer. 

A week later, I have a check in with my lovely GP. You don’t get to see the GP in this process, because apart from anything day to day they can arrange for you, there is bally FA they can do. As said GP explained, ‘I know bally FA about oncology’ – but then she did use to treat Herr Krankenhaus when he lived here, so I’ve let her off for her choice of words. 

I explained the palliative confusion to her. She is fuming. 

‘Right, I’m scouring your notes now just to find out what your consultant has said to us, versus what he’s said to you. Two ticks!’

She’s lifted her head from the screen. 

‘Yup. It’s palliative. I’m so sorry.’

“Nope! Don’t be. I’m going to defy statistics!”

‘If anyone can, you will.’ Said the amazing Dr N. And then she gave me a massive hug. 
…….
Two weeks later. 
I’ve had a post chemo CT scan just to see if it’s worked- or rather, if they can see evidence of further spread, given it’s made itself very comfortable in the lymph nodes. 

Nine days later – still silence. Obviously if you’ve got a fairly rubbish outlook, you’d like an idea of how that’s going to go and what treatment is needed. I gave them a (quite robust for a non-confrontational person) prod. 

Call from Dr 24 the next day.

“I have scan results but not full report. But the radiologist called me to say you have blood clot in lung”.

Great. 

“You need urgent treatment and I will arrange it.” 

Amazingly, he does. Self injecting blood thinners twice a day, plus four thinner tablets a day – I’m so thin the scales must be lying 😂😂😂🤦‍♀️

I get a quick call from him at the end of last week. 

I saw on a cc’d letter that – guess what – I have a genetic mutation in my histology report (only applies to 14% of cases) which shows that I have something which causes lung cancer cells to replicate rapidly. Woo hooooooo! No wonder I’ve put on weight 😂😂😂

Oooh! No one has told me about that yet!! Do you sense a theme??? 

Tantalisingly, and by now, seemingly futile, I remember to ask him which lung my pulmonary embolism is in. I never asked him when I got the news. 

“In both lungs. Bigger in the left.”

Well that’s bloody amazing – I’ve got virtually no right lung left so where the f has a clot managed to house itself?? And why did it take 9 days for someone to tell me I had a couple of ticking time bombs?

OMG – I’m literally laughing my head off – this could only be me. 

So… full scan report comes back and Dr 24 is on the blower. What hilarity and ambiguity does he have for me now, I wonder?? 

“I can’t see anything obvious on scan but i want to do more investigations so you need PET CT and we biopsy lymph nodes in lung with ultrasound bronchoscopy. Then you likely have radiotherapy. “ 

And I love you too my gorgeous Onc 🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️

So, my friends, I’m no clearer than you as to whether I need to buy that bikini or book a plot!! 

All I can say is that I am perfectly happy; my mini and maxi carers have been and continue to be fab. We’re getting away for a few days before the next round of nonsense and tests start. 

And I think that’s going to be bally brilliant. 
Pip pip xx

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Hello hello!

Long time no speak, soz about that. 

Not least because I’ve had COVIDAD 91 (OK, he’s 92 now but we haven’t had the Gerald variant yet) here all week and that’s been…..challenging.

‘Well I thought all of your hair would have been gone by now….ha ha ha ha ha!Never been much good anyway has it…ha ha ha ha ha!’

Really enjoying his sensitive nature.

 It’s always been the same to be fair. My earliest memory, of his ambitions for me, is when I was into riding horses AT THE AGE OF TWO was that I’d compete in Badminton horse trials and marry someone called Jeremy or Gerald or Tarquin and live in the Cotswolds, breeding my own ponies, and shouting hurrah at any given opportunity. Then probs have Jude Law and actual Cameron Diaz round to our lovely home and have scones and jam and cream all afternoon.

We’re not meant to have the old boy here just now, as I’m in treatment, and he is the biggest bug spreader EVER. Bluuuechhh! The cough spreads a million viruses, the hanky is manky – the man’s a walking viral time bomb. However, on our weekly Skype last Saturday, 92-yr old Gerry turned into little boy lost. 
‘Well it’s  not fair because both of my friends are going away for ten days and I’m all on my Jack Jones’.

‘Dad. Shall we come and get you??’

‘I don’t want to be a trouble to you what with all the arthritis you’ve got.’
(Ummmmmmmm?)

The arthritis diagnosis was because he’d seen me hobbling around and asked why. I’d told him my entire body aches from chemo, but my joints and extremities are responding well to the bone marrow injections in that, they bloody hurt all the time, so they must be working. Doctor Dad’s solution? ‘Get out and exercise more – you’ve always been a bit  podgy!’

Smashed his face in 😂😂😂😂

‘We’re coming for you dad. See you in two hours.’

Anyway, back to chemo lols   

Jeez Louise – this one’s a toughie. I’m absolutely fine with it – the worse it is, the more it helps- all bloody fine by me. I mean, we’re on to a bit of a loser here, given it’s in the lymphs- and the chemo only has a 3-5% chance of working – but why shouldn’t I be in that number? Someone has to be! You’ve got to put your best lung forward and that is what I will do. Pah!

Urgh – apart from some unforeseens. 

As I understand it, most chemo cocktails affect one’s ability to pass wee or….the other stuff. With breast cancer chemo, I had a bigger blockage than the petrol queue at Tesco today – which I wasn’t even in. 

Woah. Lung cancer chemo. Eye of a needle. Running of the mill. Rivers of Babylon. Does it tell you it’s coming? Does it need to go to smear hab? No, no, no. 

Well my friends – and I hope I can trust you with this – first warning.
Wandering up the garden, khaki (phew!) shorts on, off to complete a few essential tasks. 
A graceful, soundless lady puff, escapes.
All down my bloody legs 🤮🤢🤦‍♀️
Another occasion. Going about my business in house and home; pause for a moment – oak floor seems to have changed its hue – dark teak. 

Luckily, I’m in a dry cycle just now – in that, I’m a week out of the last chemo and I have a week to go until the next. Everything is holding!

Hair update: also holding very well! Lady hairs removed pre ceemz have not grown back; head hair thinning but not so you’d notice. As with last time, I didn’t know I had nose hair til I lost it; nose running all the time, as there’s no hair to filter it. Hmm!! Snotty old me 😂😂🤦‍♀️

My main hairline is receding BUT; with a faintly uncharitable air, I reflect that this happens to blokes. And I want to say, for every period, child, menopause- once we ladies are done, we’re done. Sorry male species – your hair will never grow back 😂😂😂💃💃💃💃💃

Dad? Snoozing well. He’s 92. This evening he told me he loved me very much. I’ve been waiting 55 years for that, cheeky old bugger ❤️❤️

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Hello my rocks 💕 You rock!! 

So much fun, so much to tell – but, unfortunately so little time left. I’m sad, but resigned to it; as you know, I try to see the positive – and if there’s nothing I can do about it, let the good times roll, is what I say! 

Pahahahahahaha! Time left until my fifty flipping fifth 🤢which is only bloody tomorrow! Whaaaat??  The only thing I can roll is the flubbery bits where I have been self-injecting bone marrow boosters the last few weeks to try to stimulate growth of my neuts (not to be confused with those little slimy things in a pond) and my white blood cells. I can report success, in that my stomach looks like a second hand dart board, available for free on eBay but with no takers. Hurrumphh.

Turns out that Mr Ciss (I won’t do the obvious and more natural Miss, because a girl would never do this to a co-girl) is blasting me so much, it’s destroying said blood stuff. This is normal in chemo; it’s meant to trample everything in its path. That’s the point. 

But, as a lovely colleague said, it sure would be good if a map and compass could possibly divert it from the bits it would be helpful to have in order to stay alive. 

The issue is, my body has lost the ability to generate new ones. It should, within a normal chemo cycle – but mine – well, they’ve done one. They can’t be arsed, basically. So they’ve had their PCRs, and flowed, quite laterally, out of the country. 

How does this affect things for you, I don’t hear you asking, above your snores? 

Drugs are always the answer (not for you, kids, obvs!)  I was too unwell blood-wise and, 🤢🤢-wise) to have my chemo on Tuesday this week. Mr 24 to the rescue: change the regime from twice to once every three weeks; ramp up the cocktail; more bone marrow injections; see how it goes. Fine!! I’m onnit! 

Crikey, I’ve bored myself! Let’s face it, my attention span is going to be EVEN LESS as of tomorrow- time to ramp things up my friends 💃💃

Oh I do love a good 8hr infusion – so much fun to be had, so many biscuits to re-home, so much I can contribute to the world drought problem. 

When I got there, I was rather pleased to see that the cardboard top hat had been replaced – by a full on, 2 litre cardboard bed pan – placed over the loo seat. So much easier! So much less … damp! For my inner thighs, my jeans, the bathroom walls- and the good hygiene of a hospital floor. Result. 

Eagerly, I got astride for the first evacuation of the day. Nice and gentle, tinkle tinkle; well done moi. 380mls apparently; I’ve given myself a sticker. Nurse J is looking after me today and she’s also quite approving. I’m going to leave the thought of Nurse J with you. Hold on. It might not be this time – but, if Fawlty Towers Did Chemo … I think we’d have a well-cast lead. 

Next evacuation: hello! 

Nurse J, like my carer, is of the Emerald Isle. 

‘Holy Mary mother of God! Fwatt the bejesus have you put in there??’

‘935mls I think you’ll find!’

I’m on a bloody roll. Up and up it goes, through the day, until the whole hospital is submerged in my special brew. I’ve never felt so proud since I got all the badges in Brownies, aged (probably, knowing me and my desire to be competitive with myself) two.  🙄

Chemotherapy, scheemotherapy – what’s all the bloody fuss about?? 

Get home, settle in for the rest of it. There’s a big misunderstanding out there I think (well I know), that you have a rough time actually having your chemo on the day. Sure – you feel totally drained (thank you J); you want to wedge in on the sofa with some cauliflower cheese, speaking like you’re pissed and telling everyone you love them – then be fast asleep snoring within five minutes. 

I’m getting to know how my new little friend is operating. With breast cancer chemo four years ago, turned out he liked to get the shit guns out on the third and fifth day following treatment  

This one likes to be a bit shit to you on the day; slide back into his lair; then absolutely clobber you from the fifth to the eighth day. 

What I’m also learning is, that Mr Ciss may well have been born, alive and active in the actual 80s! 

On day 5, post infusion, I’m wandering up the garden, happy as a lark – whistling like one of them, and feeling a bit smug that this chemo lark is actually not too bad. Oh: you foolish girl. 

A side effect is tinnitus. We joke with our besties that what he has is not actually tinnitus but more, his gorgeous other half saying ‘paint this, sand that, build the other, farrow & ball, farrow & ball! Now!’

No such decorative musings on my particular wander. I’m half way up and a big, level toned ‘eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…..mweeeeeeooooooooo…iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii’ arrives in the lugs. Almost at the same time, I get flashing white disco lights at the side of each eye. Hmm. Am I  at Latitude, with my attitude? Have I gone back to school days – Is it OMD, Visage, Japan – all of which I went to wearing my Ant boots, tartan trousers, with my crimped hair?? (I was a very confused, geeky, tiny bit academic teenager. I started smoking at 15 because I fancied a cool, punk-looking bloke and I wanted to fit in and make him fancy me. He didn’t. Look what I courted in return 🤦‍♀️😂) 

No idea. I woke up lounging in the lavender.

The audio issue has become hearlairious.  

I was at the hospital the other day. Nurse R – not to be confused with Nurse O’J – is doing my pre-chemo checks.

‘How are you feeling?’

(Must paint the ceiling?? I thought you’d just had the ward done???’)

‘What about your bowels?’

(We’ve got new towels? Well I’ve just cissed all over them – #awkward)

‘Any sickness, diarrhoea?’

(What is the thickness of your gonorrhea? Nasty lady 😡gonearightoffyou!)

It does have advantages, however. The other day, having removed my head from la bowl de la toilette, for a full five minutes, I venture downstairs and declare myself to be feeling marvellous. Relived, the carer suggests: 

‘I’d love a cup of tea,’

‘It’s  quarter to three’. 

In your face, cancer. You’re getting boring now. Do one – with no PCR.

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Good evening chickies and I hope you are all super?

Two weeks since toxic dump number one, and then number two, one week later (weird pattern: tell you more later) and I must say, all is quite well.

You do get a bit nervous about these matters, having had the old cytotoxic blastola before ,  four years ago. You make certain assumptions: and then you remember your own advice. This is chemo for lung cancer; I had chemo for breast cancer. Different organ (alright love), different drugs, different cycles – different outcomes. 

Fine. I settle in, for my first blast of….well, I can hardly bloody wait. Nice thing is, most of the ladies who looked after me so well last time, are still here. I’ve brought Krispy Cremes and they’ve brought – Messrs Cisplatin, Vinorelbine, and a cheeky five day supply of self-injecting  Filgrastin as a chaser! Happy days think I; I’m the winner here! Who wants a doughnut anyway?

Off we go. Pre-med and anti-vom go into the central line drip; I’m woozy, boozy, floozy, dozy rosie pudding and pie…. off my flipping face. I love this shit. 

In the midst of the sheer off my face-in-ness, I’ve forgotten that Nurse R, with whom I had more lols than actual treatment last time, is constantly in, topping me up with other shit. Which turns out to be 2 litres of electrolytes, shot straight into the central line. This accompanies the 1.5 litres of poison (Mr Cisplatin, the C pronounced as an S – now to be known as the nasty bastard), which is given over 7 hours. I’m wondering why so much, um….fluid? (I admit that’s not a great word, but it’s better than MOIST – and I’m sticking to it. Urggh – hang on – can you stick to moist?? Just thrown up – soz.)

The reason is soon clear.

‘Cisplatin damages your kidneys. You may end up on dialysis from it. We give electrolytes all through the day and we will measure your pee each time you go. You need to wee in a cardboard top hat, and I’ll come in and get it lovey.’

Sounds ok, think I; I know how to de-rig myself from the poison giver and shuffle into the loo; what could possibly go wrong?? 

Now,  there’s top hats and there’s top hats. As the day progresses, it transpires that what I actually need to do is put the plug in the bath (it’s no accident you get a bathroom for this little baby!) – and basically stay there. All day. 

First attempt, squatting over the loo with the cardboard top hat: not too bad – most of it in. I felt a tiny bit pleased with myself and stored it neatly by the door.

 
Two hours later: the 2 litres of electrolytes, with the mixologist’s soupcon of Mr Cisplatin, is warranting a drip stand shuffle to the bogola. 
Top hat goes on the loo. Bladder releases. 

The Dambusters arrive.

“Good God Cisters! We’ve got a bloody flood down there!”
“Righto chief! Let me rumble Binky, Stinky, Whizzo and Chips!”
“Get the nurses out first, old boy! Think of Queen and country!”
“I’m trying, Sir, but she just won’t stop….cissing..herself – and it’s splatin all over the place!”

Lovely. It was bloody everywhere. All I can say is that the kidneys must be working, so far.

Since, because my backside is backed up like an A road on a bank holiday (aka, the total opposite to other parts of me), I’m drinking three litres of water a day – to keep those kidneys from being devilled. 

All good so far my chums; a few dodgy days following blast one; had second dump of the shite a week later; and I’m in perfect limbo now until the next, next week. 

When I’ll be cissing and splatin all over the place.

Do me a favour: can you call Binky for me?

xxx

Good evening again my friends, and if anyone could possibly explain what you, any of you, has done with our summer, I’m all ears! 

Hmm – ears – we’ll come on to that later. Oh don’t worry – I don’t have EAR cancer (well, as far as I know – anything could happen these days, carcinoma tourist that I am!) 

I think I’d just woken up under Dr Dreamboat last time we chatted. Corr, I bloody wish! By this I mean, under his care. In the end, he and Professor Yaffle did NOT remove the whole of the rest of my right lung. Only the lower lobe! So you have three lobes in your right lung, and two in the left. I now have a middle right lobe, and a full set of lobes on the left. Happy days, right? 

Except … not. I mean the preservation of the middle thingy was fab. The trouble was, nobody told me the results of the operation, or the results of the pathology. 
You know me – I’m an easy going girl, I don’t ask for much. (The carer has just choked on his roast and gone limping into the garden in some kind of apoplectic disarray. Embarrassing- we have lovely new neighbours. It was lamb, too – his favourite.)

Anyhooo, the weeks dragged on, with radio silence. The surgeon is in one town, the oncologist another. I mean I know it’s Southampton and Portsmouth, respectively, but I’d understood the World Wide Web operated in these parts. 

After three and a half weeks, despite contact west, I decided I had to intervene. I emailed Mr 24 character’s assistant.

‘Hi D, it’s me, Cardigan. Don’t suppose you’ve had the pathology back from my op have you? Like, next steps if any, and all of that? Yours slightly earnestly but not at all panicking – Mrs Garment’

By return: ‘Hi Mrs G-C. Oooh – Mr 24 characters asks if you’ve had your operation???’

By return:‘Yes. Almost four weeks ago.’

Before return:‘I’m on the case now and Mr 24 will see you at four twenty today.’

Crikey thought I, that’s like the dentist seeing you at two thirty. Work it out – unless you are not over 50!!

Off I trundle at the designated time. 

Mr 24 is ready for me, with a hurriedly recruited pathology report, obvs curling at the edges because it had BEEN SAT IN SOUTHAMPTON for four weeks. 
Now, as you know, I can find communication challenging with Mr 24, especially with masks on, as he no doubt can with me. 

A piece of paper is offered. 

‘Mrs Garment, we have just found the report. Here it is.’
Shove of a paper, all in that funny print that printers had in the 80s. It has words I don’t think I’ll ever understand.

 
‘When they got the lung section out, they also found the cancer has spread into all the lymph nodes they took. Fully replaced by metastatic lung carcinoma.’

I sat back a little in the chair, at that point. Of all the things I thought may happen, spread was actually not one of them. I mean, I can’t believe it’s not butter! I wish it bloody had been, it would have been a whole lot easier to get rid of! 

I am a bit confused, as the spread of lung cancer (they all have their different routes by the way: for lung, it goes liver, bone, brain. It doesn’t even bother to go to the other lung. Weird, isn’t it?).  Not for one moment had I thought it would be a lymphomaniac. The little shit.

‘Oh ok!’ Say I. ‘What does that mean?’

I’ve been to Sri Lanka three times but I’ve never heard or learned the phrase ‘technically you’re fucked’. Namaste love. 

Now this is not strictly the case. In my favour I am young and fit (STOP LAUGHING YOU BASTARDS!!!!!!!!) – the stats aren’t great BUT most people present with lung cancer far later in life, unfortunately by which time there’s not much to be done. 

In my case, I’ve had the gold standard: relatively early detection in both episodes; my ebullient 54 year youth on my side; I’m dairy free, I read the Guardian (um, and the Telegraph FOR ITS GARDENING SECTION), I’m kind to animals, I love my mum even though she’s long gone – What could possibly go wrong???? 

Upshot is, headbanger cheeeeeeeemo starts this coming week. 

‘You will be vomiting, you will lose your hearing and your hair and you will be having diarrhoea or constipation. It is a very tough regime. We will look after you.’ 

Well – that’s all I need to know. I am perfectly happy with that. 

Tomorrow I go in to get the central line rigged up – up a vein from elbow to heart – which will stay with me until the end, in November.

I’ve done it before, four years ago, and therefore I’ll do it with ease and characteristic arsiness again this time. 

Thank you for staying with – I’ll update you with cytotoxic lols later this week.

Pip pip xx

Well a very good evening to you one and all.

At Cancer Central – aka Chicken HQ – things have been rather busy. In so far as, while I was IN, having my lung OUT, a whole bunch of people down our road were very busy getting other things. All of which begin with C, as our road does.

We had 2 cardiac events; 2 cancer scares; one COVID; and the other, quite frankly expected, a bad case of the itchy Crustaceans. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Awkward. He’s still isolating, sideways, for a while.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I’d gone in for my surgery. I remember talking to you on Lungmas Eve actually.

We arrived (classically) 30 minutes before admission time. The carer can’t actually come in with me so he kicks me out the car with my bags and, knowing him, probably rushes to the nearby IKEA for some meatballs; watches the test cricket live in the nearby ground; or maybe, possibly, legs it back home for a bit of he time, knowing the old bag will be gone for a week.

Fine. All settled into my quarters and ready to go.

A visit from Dr Dreamboat throws me a tiny bit – not least because I’d just taken all my make up off, as per the requirements for surgery. (By the way, if you ever have major surgery you are also required to remove finger or toenail polish; it’s one of the first signs you’re croaking it if your nailbeds go blue).

‘I’ve been scratching my head about you’, he purrs.

(I’ve been scratching something else about you,’ I foam – but do NOT verbalise).

‘It seems a bit drastic to remove your whole lung for this tumour, even though it’s in a difficult place. So I’ve consulted a colleague, Professor blah blah blah, and because you are an unusual case (crikey – hadn’t he spotted that before?), he is going to attend the operation too. Ok?’

Still foaming, I attempt a nod.

Next stop, Nurse J. In she comes, the epitome of nursiness, efficient, clean, polite (as she stabs me with the pre op cannula and starts dispensing untold chemicals into my veins) – and then:
‘I’ve got nurse Y today – it’s her first day on the thoracic ward! Say hello to Mrs Cardigan Nurse Y!’

Nurse Y is wondering Y she has to say hello to a garment but she sees there’s a foaming human underneath and duly obliges.

Back to nurse J.

‘Y has never seen an operation before – is it ok if we invite her??’

‘Will you faint?’ I ventured.

‘Ooh I don’t know! But you won’t know either!’

I’m lolling so much by know I reckon I could get my own lung out by itself, via the nearest and most open orifice – and cash in on what clearly is turning into a hot ticket seller. Hello, hospital porter/chaplain/person on street – we’re hoiking a lung out today, it’s a free for all, BYOB, everyone welcome!’

I love the way, these days, in the hospital that’s becoming a second home to me now, that you walk your way into the operating theatre, in a gown which bares your arse to the world, and get on to your own operating table, with full view of all the hammers, saws and bolts they’re planning to use on you. I mean, it was a long walk with limited lung function; we talked about the weather (heatwave at the time but it’s blowing a gale up my fandango); what they’d had for lunch (not v fair given I’d been nil by mouth for 12 hrs) But such is life, and we had lots of laughs along the merry way into the cutting chamber.

There’s eight people in that room, plus Nurse Y, and only the Dreamboat and his curious professor voyeur are nowhere to be seen. Anyway after lots of bants between us all, my mad Russian gas man appears; shoots the dose..and off I go, possibly still laughing as I go under. I remember saying, ‘I love this bit….’ – then obviously he clubbed me over the head and off I jolly well went.

Next thing I know, I’m in thoracic ICU. Now, if you’re on that part of ICU, you’ll wake up with a funny old mask thingy on, tubes up your nose and a fairly brisk breeze going in. As the mad Russian described it, last time:

‘Zis is like driving down motorway in open top car at 100mph wiz no vindscreen – ha,’

One by one, we (all four of us) are starting to come round and be weaned off of our forced oxygen intake. Trouble is, what goes in, must come out.

‘Hello Mrs Cardigan are you ok?’ says ICU head nurse.

‘Buuuuurrrghhhhh’ say I.

‘Mrs Rodgers, how are you feeling?’

‘Errrrr—uppp’ – Mrs R retorts.

‘Paaaaarph..fweep’- went Mr Peterson.

‘Don’t worry Sir, we’ll soon mop that up’, says the Nurse, with just the tiniest hint of a bark.

And so the round continued, just like Campfire’s Burning – until, just at the ‘pour on water’ moment, along comes Mrs Higgs:

‘Hicc! Hicc! Hicc!’

A late entrant to the orchestra with an unannounced percussion part – very well received and we got a standing ovation. The Proms have nothing on us lot!

It’s a long story and I am sorry for that; but it was a fun time, and I came out earlier than they wanted me to. The next chapter is about to begin – and I need you with me, if you’ll stay. This one is not as funny on the outside – but I know we’ll find a reason to smile 🙂

‘Twas Lungmas Eve and the world was filled with magic, intrigue, excitement.

Families and friends communicated loving thoughts; an air of anticipation hung discernibly in the humid June air, as the skies, bulging with showers, prepared to discharge their heavy load.

By this time tomorrow, it would all be over.

Well thank goodness for that!

Meanwhile, back at Chicken HQ, preparations have been going well. The case is almost packed (yes it is essential to take 9 pairs of pyjamas for a five night stay, thank you for asking Mr Carer); I’ll definitely have time for a face pack, to read three books and five magazines too, if it’s all the same to you. There will be ample opportunity to consume the lemon slices and chocolate biscuits so thoughtfully provided by my mini carer; and yes, if I do nothing else I will be leaving the place in those heels…especially if Dr Dreamboat is signing me out.

On reflection, the three bottles of Malbec may have been a step too far, but the good Lord loves a tryer.

Quite an interesting procedure tomorrow actually. My little friend has evaded biopsy so far. As the Dreamboat himself said, ‘it’s cancer. We can see that. I generally say, if it has four legs, a waggy tail and it barks, it’s a dog. Yours has a spiky exterior, it lit up like a Christmas tree at the PET CT, and it’s busy reproducing’. However, because it is both attached to an airway, and it’s a bit too much in the personal space of a pulmonary artery branch, all the usual methods for biopsy (bronchoscopy, or needle biopsy through the back) carry too much risk. I could bleed out. Probably not a good idea, I concede.

Also, sans biopsy, we don’t know what or how bad it actually is. We know it’s 8cm long (or curly, given it’s snuggled up around an airway); but we need to grade and stage it to find out if any chemo will be needed. Radiotherapy will not be an option as there won’t be anything left to…radiotherapy.

So, the first thing which will happen once the Dreamboat has (gorgeously and very handsomely of course) slashed a 9 inch incision from under my shoulder blade mid-back round to the underside of my right boob, and broken any ribs in the way to ‘the thing’, is that he will perform an intro operative biopsy on the little **it. The sample will be whisked away for the pathologist and I, well, just get to lie there waiting. I wonder what the rest of them will do in the meantime? Have a game of monopoly? Watch Escape to the Country (the timing works out rather well for that actually!)? Have a quick kip to prepare for five more hours of digging about and pulling things out of me? I’m keen to know!

The reason for this, despite the fact they know exactly what it is, is that he has to be able to prove it before going ahead. I get this – I mean, imagine if you removed someone’s whole lung, the sample came back and in fact, it was just a mole. #awkward

And then off he will go on his merry way, hoiking like a good ‘un, until said lung is out out. Off I will then go, high as a kite, into ICU for a 48hr full blown mini break – with the morphine on them. Can’t bloody wait for that – seriously – that stuff is good sh*t!

I feel a bit sorry for my lung. You don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone, as they say – and after all, it wasn’t his fault. We were having a good old reminisce today, walking (slowly) around the garden.

Me: Sorry old chap. It’s curtains for you tomorrow.

L: Yeah thanks a bunch for that. I was perfectly happy in there and I reckon I’ve done a good job all this time.

Me: It’s nothing personal mate. It’s just that you’ve got a lodger who we need to evict, and this time, you need to go with it.

L: I’m a bit pissed off about that – I mean, what about the time I got you up Diamond Hill in Connemara? You were crying like a flipping baby with vertigo – what did I do? Just kept you walking up, almost all the way to the top, until you bloody lost it with the height and crawled back down on your backside – pathetic.

Me: Sorry

L: Or what about when I got you round a half marathon in record time for a first timer?? What did you do when you crossed the finish line?? Remember??

Me: Um….

L: You pulled your pack of Marlboro lights out of your bum bag and lit one up DIDN’T YOU! That’s gratitude for you!

Me: Erm…..you were very helpful, thank you.

L: Well that was 22 years ago – I’ve been available ever since – where the F have you been, lard arse?

Me: You’re the best organ I’ve ever had…

Carer: Oh that’s nice isn’t it.

L made me feel guilty, so I’ve composed a short apology, to be sung to the tune of Seasons in the Sun (look it up kids!)

We had joy, we had fun,

You’ve been such a lovely lung

But as the scan clearly flags

I’ve killed you off with fags.

Monday Lungday cometh again. See you all on the other side chickettes xxx

The latest adventures from Chicken HQ 🙂

So you know when I was last here – (circle back a year) – and I was just a-bloggin for the pure enjoyment?? I hadn’t had any hilarious, undignified treatment – just having a good old laugh at the expense of COVI-Dad!

Suffice to say, he’s made one mask (or, nosebag, as he likes to call it) last 14 months; he’s nearly been kicked out of the Common Room (primarily because he said that only common people go in there); he’s mounted a patio revolution when they wouldn’t let residents even go out on there during lockdown; and, guess what, he’s still bloody here, at now ninety flippin two!

So here are ladies and gents (Keith: you’re exempt), basking in the beauty of lockdown for what – 18 years now??  Who can bloody remember anyway? The last time I went to get my legs waxed the poor old Welsh farmer just turned me back on to my legs and shooed me away.

Latest news at Camp Chicken. Lovely lush lung cancer IS BACK. Woo hoo!!! It’s absolutely no problem. They said it would be more likely to come back than the old boob one – and, sure enough, 18 months after surgery to remove the top right lobe, the little old git has popped back to say hello. Welcome!

My right side has obviously had great reviews on TripAdvisor – because the new one has nestled itself RIGHT BY THE LOBE THEY REMOVED.  Must be the lovely views, the accommodating host – who knows? Everyone needs a repeat booking, let’s face it!

I had a routine scan in April. No problem; I’d had one six months after the first operation, and all was fine – so I was expecting the same. The only tiny thing which had been niggling was that I had been coughing in a different way (not a COVI way obvs!) and, I had unexplained fatigue.

Work had been very full on and stressful so I put the latter down to that. No more thought about it.

The day after the scan, my much beloved Oncologist, calls me.

Him: “Morning. Found something”

Me: “Is that a question or a statement?”

Him: “There’s an avid spiculate mass in the lower right lobe.”

Me: “Erm, it’s half past three I think? What are you on about?”

Him: “I will get RAM to see you.”

Him: “I’m retiring. You are my last patient. You have been fun. Good luck.”

Me: ?????

Some weeks later, I arrive at the hospital to see RAM.

RAM is called RAM because his surname actually contains 24 characters. So, as the best lung oncologist in the county, with not many of his Sri Lankan colleagues at hand for me to be able to familiarise myself or even pretend to be good at language, RAM it is.

RAM explains that at the current moment, there is little to offer me. Until the surgeon has a look, we can’t make a plan. As soon as I get to see the cutter, we will have a better idea. Fine.

Some bloody weeks later, I get an invitation to go for a ‘RIGID bronchoscopy’. OOOOOOh! I am not entirely sure what that means apart from, I’ll get to see Mr Actual Dreamboat (aka consultant surgeon Dr Ding Dong!) Things are looking up!

You will not believe it but I only got my fave gas man, Rasputin again!!

Him: ‘Vat are you doing here again?’

Me: “Dunno – ask my lungs!”

Him: ‘Zis part easy – I take care ov you.”

…at which point, he shoves a mask (no, not that kind!) over my face and off I go to the land of la…la…la.

Wind forward two weeks. Results are in.

The little blighter is growing around the main airway into my right lung.

We can have ‘radical radiotherapy’ to try to blitz it.  But – only puts us in a maintenance position.

Or….

We can have the whole right lung removed. Quite a risky operation – and doesn’t account for what would happen if it popped up in the left lung in the future. I’d be a bit lung-less! Hmm!

Well, without too many clues, I’d say – if it were Chinese Medicine, we’d call our decision: One Lung Go.

We chose number 2.

I had my pre-op today. Typical – the hottest day so far and there I am, in my hospital pants and sensible dress, having all sorts of tests and bits taken. I had student nurse A; who was lovely – but I can’t help thinking it could have been fairly early in her training.

‘ooooh! I’ve never worked an ECG machine befaw!’

I’m lying prone in pants (and, my friends, pants only, and those sensible white ones I never wanted anyone to see, ever) – but Nurse A is befuddled; needs to go and get her supervisor. I’m certain she was rushing off to make sure things got done quickly; however, she left the door ajar for all to come and wonder why anyone would wear such pants, who on earth made them – and more to the point, what idiot actually buys them?

Bits, bloods, obs and pant shame, we are done. I get sent home with a disinfectant shower and hair wash confection to use (not fans of a bar of Dove and L’Oréal, these spoilsports), and back I come.

In 7 days I’ll part with an unappreciated friend I’ve had for 54 years. So what? I’m fairly good at getting cancer in things I’ve got two of; a back up is handy. Here’s hoping the next one is of the toe 😂😂😂

I have 7 days to have fun with my lung – he’s coming out next week.

Stay with me, Chickettes!

Well it’s all gone bonkers and the world has gone mad.

Not so at Chicken HQ, where spirits are flowing lively, and the mood is good. Spirit of the blitz is what we say here; keep calm and carry the flip on!

It’s not long since I updated you chickies but oh my goodness – what a turn we have had in semi-predicted events from the last blog.

Long story short – my silly old EMR went and had a mini-stroke last Thursday, at his home 50-odd miles from me.

I got a call earlier that evening from the people on the other end of the line when he pulls the red cord in his flat, to say:

“Ooh hellowwww. This is Biaaaaaanca from CareLine Support good evening and how are you Mrs Cardigan”

(no punctuation: intended. Accuracy here is key.)

“Just wondering if the ambulance has turned up for your Daaaaaaad.”

Mrs ‘Cardigan’, unleashing some of the associated buttons, responds.

“Dad..ambulance…what’s happened???”

“Well I can’t really saaaaay as I only spoke to him when he pulled the caaawwwd and he couldn’t speak. “

(??)

“Has the ambulance attennnnnnded?”

“I have NFI,” (code for not a clue) “I am 50 miles away from him.”

“Ohhhhh! So you’re not with him at the mow-mennnnt. Well, good luck and speak to you sooooooooooooon. Take care!”

Almost all of the rest of the buttons ping off all by themselves and Mrs Cardigan sits, lost, with no idea how to get them back. Oh – no idea how to find out which elocution school Biaaaaaanca went to. And there’s Dad to think of, too.

A restless night, calling the hospitals in Borsetshire = no result. Where the hell is he?? What has happened?

Me and Mr Cardigan are driving along the next morning and the phone goes.

Holy Moly – it’s the Dadster!

“Oh Sophie! It’s Dad! I am in the hospital! Ha Ha Ha Ha!” (Glad he thinks it’s funny.)

“What’s happened? Are you OK??”

“Had a bit of bother, blasted mini-stroke, they have a special name for it. All fine, food is good and a jolly nice nurse looking after me.”

“I’m coming to get you Dad, bring you home, look after you.”

“Oh good! I have been here three days!”

Uh-oh.

************

Wind forwards. Got him back to the Dad Day (and residential) Care Centre, talking about COVID-19, nearly all the way home. Obviously, at nearly 91 and still (just a bloody bout) standing, he thinks it’s nothing to do with him.

Dad has bronchiectasis, atrial fibrilation, high blood pressure and is very deaf. Consequently, when he coughs you think he might have had a heart attack, and when you go to ask him if he’s ok he can’t bloody hear you anyway. Not ideal.

Very soon, it appears that hygiene in the current circumstances, is not exactly top of his list. As we were getting things together in his flat to transfer to DDCC, I noticed that it was not exactly awash with Dove, Zest or Carex. I did a super-quick clean of key facilities, without him noticing (he does do pretty well) and off we set. To the county with the highest number of confirmed cases outside London.

Once back at base, I introduce him to anti-bac handwash. “Anti-bac, Dad, Dad, anti-bac”.

“We have to make sure we’re washing our hands regularly, with this stuff or soap and water, OK?”

“What, me as well? Pah, lot of old bunkum! We didn’t do that in the RAF”

[That was in 1947, I am about to say…then think better of it.]

“Especially you Dad! You’re in a high risk category as it is, and you’ve just had a TIA too.”

“But I haven’t been near anyone with the blasted thing!”

Oh dear. I can see there is work to do.

On day two, I am reminded of something.

What is it with old people and cotton hankerchiefs?? Scrumpled up health hazards at the best of times, stuffed up ladies’ cardi sleeves in a bulbous bump (not mine thank you very much, despite my new surname!), shoved in trouser pockets and down the side of the sofa.

And all over my house now, it would seem. I found three in his bed when I made it, one behind the loo, one under the kitchen table and two in the garage. There’s always one on the kitchen table when he’s eating his meals. Naughty old stockpiler, he should be reported. I’m wondering if there was room for anything else in his suitcase. This man is a hankie addict.

I decide to make some new house rules.

“Dad, we’re going to stop using hankies and start using tissues instead. You know the saying: Catch it, kill it, bin it!”

“You want to put my hankies in the bin?”

[Breathe]

My daughter’s young man duly arrives with four boxes of tissues, to add to the four we already have. He’d been shopping and messaged to see if we needed anything as obviously, we are all categorised, in the eyes of the youth, as old people. But actually, because he’s a very kind boy.

“What are those for??” splutters the Captain.

“YOU!” we all say at once.

“You’ll be COVIDAD-90 in a minute if we don’t get this right!” say I. Luckily, he laughed quite a bit.

It’s true – we do need to make the switch. They can’t be good things to be using at the moment.

On closer inspection, in fact, they look like the original COVID-19 laboratory culture – or possibly, swabs from the most infected victim so far. Wait a minute; is that actual Louis Pasteur’s DNA I detect on one of them? The bugs have so many legs they’ve taken themselves to the (empty) local pub down the road, chortling and reproducing in splendid, yet evil mirth, relishing no queues at the bar – but slightly chipped off by the lack of humans to infect. That pint of Old Sanitiser was good though. Burp (…..and a million COVI bugs flutter up the road. To our place).

One by one, the various hankie exhibits have been removed and are currently soaking in washing powder and Milton, in a bucket outside. The tissues have been deployed so that a box awaits at every landing point that COVIDAD may settle.

Meanwhile, at the local hairdresser, where my lovely friend COVICOTTAGE-55 (or in normal times, @flowerpotcottage) works – I gingerly popped my head through the door to say hi. We can’t even elbow-bump now and this pains me when I see her because I want to squish her. Anyway, we soon got over it.

I’m asking her all sorts of questions about how long they will stay open, has business dropped off, and is that old lady slumped in the chair with her perm curlers in actually the latest UK victim.

“Doesn’t bother this lot!” she can say, because much like COVIDAD, hearing is a luxury long departed; and those overhead bell dryers can’t half cut noise pollution out for the occupant. However, looking at the old lady in question, I can’t help feeling she’s been accidentally cremated in the chair. Saves on the funeral fees, I suppose.

It’s been very interesting as the week has evolved, to see that the good old spirit of the blitz is slightly on the wane for C-Daddy. As we settle for Bozza’s daily update, he is beginning to become a little bit frightened about what this may become. He’s not given to pandemics of fear – his generation just doesn’t do that; but it is sinking in. I watch with love, and care for him more closely. These times are precious.

Gawd. I’ve just put the cat out and found another hankerchief by the back door. Ping! went the last button on my cardigan.

Take care COVICHUMS. xx

First of all – a bit of news but no panic.