Frabjous joy, had my second oxalyplatin/Gemcitibane day today. Should have been on Tuesday of this week, but due to admission issues it was canceled and rescheduled for Thursday 27Th.
They gave my AFP result, which was drawn on Tuesday and followed 1 full cycle which had enjoyed two weeks of sitting in my system and making me feel less than good. Will I bitch about that? Hell no as the AFP has dropped from 210 to 79. So, bring the treatment on as Dr Welch's cytotoxic heavy artillery is doing its job. I may feel like I am in vomit hell, but my mind is doing cartwheels.
BARGAIN!
Friday, 28 March 2008
Wednesday, 19 March 2008
Just another day...
It's been over a week now since I had day two of my first chemo cycle and the anxiety begins to build. Is it working, is it worth continuing with the treatment, should I cut and run? Questions rattle around my brain like shrapnel from a bag of grenades.
I know there is no chance this treatment will have had any effect on the tumour markers yet. I know that, it's too soon. I know that the treatments are cumulative and it will take time for them to get a grip of whatever is happening inside me and slap it into submission, thereby buying me more time to live my life. I know this isn't a cure I am getting, it is a palliative treatment aimed at giving me more life. How much more life is anyone guess, but at least no-one has actually named an expiration date yet. So, unlike Philip K Dicks replicants from Bladerunner/Do androids dream of electric sheep, whilst I have an incept date for 1965 I don't have a shutdown date. I think I am grateful for that at least.
Anyway, I crumbled today and rang my consultant to find out what my latest AFP result is. I shouldn't have done it, I wouldn't have done it had I been thinking straight. All that shrapnel confused me for a moment and I picked up the phone. My AFP has risen to 210, from 190 over a seven day period. Damn!
Is that bad? No, it isn't, as the treatments aren't expected to strike to the heart of my rising AFP so quickly. But, you do foolishly hope don't you.
You have to sometimes.
I know there is no chance this treatment will have had any effect on the tumour markers yet. I know that, it's too soon. I know that the treatments are cumulative and it will take time for them to get a grip of whatever is happening inside me and slap it into submission, thereby buying me more time to live my life. I know this isn't a cure I am getting, it is a palliative treatment aimed at giving me more life. How much more life is anyone guess, but at least no-one has actually named an expiration date yet. So, unlike Philip K Dicks replicants from Bladerunner/Do androids dream of electric sheep, whilst I have an incept date for 1965 I don't have a shutdown date. I think I am grateful for that at least.
Anyway, I crumbled today and rang my consultant to find out what my latest AFP result is. I shouldn't have done it, I wouldn't have done it had I been thinking straight. All that shrapnel confused me for a moment and I picked up the phone. My AFP has risen to 210, from 190 over a seven day period. Damn!
Is that bad? No, it isn't, as the treatments aren't expected to strike to the heart of my rising AFP so quickly. But, you do foolishly hope don't you.
You have to sometimes.
Wednesday, 12 March 2008
August 30th 1995
It's been 14 days since I was involved in that road traffic accident and on this day I woke at 4am in the most excruciating pain I have ever experienced in my life. I feel like somebody has stuck a red hot knitting needle in through my left testicle and out through my left kidney. The pain is so bad I can barely breathe, let alone cry out.
I lay there for over two hours, Rachel asleep at my side, unable to move and slowly the pain subsides to a level where I can get out of bed and go find some painkillers.
I'm up now, the painkillers have kicked in and I may as well get myself ready for work. Tea for the wife, bottle for the baby, breakfast for Richard. The routine masks the pain almost as well as the six co-codamol I swallowed. Over breakfast I talk to Rachel about the pain and she suggests I ring our GP, Dr Singh. That doesn't elicit the response she expected. Normally she'd get an outright 'no' as I loathe Doctors with a passion. Doctors treat sick people and malingerers as far as I am concerned, I am and never have been either. I cycle 110 miles a week for fun, I walk everywhere and I eat well. I used to run for my Regiment in Iron man events, cross country and orienteering events and I don't even get a sniffle during a flu outbreak. I don't do sick.
But, this pain has well and truly frightened me so I agree.
Two days later sees me in the company of my GP at a practice I have been a registered patient of for twenty five years. My GP has never seen me once in all that time. He's a nice enough fellow, asks a few pertinent questions and nods sagaciously when I tell him of the car accident some two weeks prior.
'Can I take a look at your testicles' he asks.
'OK' says I.
Well, he looks, asks where the pain was worse and then proceeds to roll the left hand lad around in his hand. I do consider punching him out flat and leaving as he seems all too comfortable with the time he is taking to roll once small ball (no pun intended) of flesh around in his hand.
He instructs me to get dressed and goes to sit behind his desk. In his opinion he can find nothing wrong with the structure of the testicle, but he thinks I may have squashed it when I was involved in the car crash. So, he suggests that I go and see a Urology Consultant just to set our minds at rest. So he gives me an admission letter to my local Accident and Emergency Department with instructions to go there once I have left his surgery. A bit sudden I think, but he tells me no to worry, it's just procedural.
Okay.
Upon arrival at A&E, I hand in my letter, answer a few questions and take a seat in the waiting room. The board on the wall says that current waiting times are approximately two hours so I figure I should just settle down and wait then.
Not five minutes later, my name is called and a severe looking woman in a nurses uniform escorts me into the strip lit bowels of the hospital. I am shown a stark cubicle with a basket and a washed out green gown, told to strip, don the gown and then go and sit in waiting area 'B'.
Okay.
Clutching my possessions to my chest as Harry Potter would his precious wand I sit nervously waiting in area 'B'. I have figured out that I can probably snap the neck of the receptionist with ease, knock out the few staff in the area and make good my escape in less that fifteen seconds if I set my mind to it. The plan is starting to move from the ludicrous to the down right attractive when my name is called again.
The young slip of a gel who summoned me introduces herself as a Doctor... even though she only looks sixteen years old, she wants me to believe she is a Doctor.
Okay.
I am taken to another anonymous, stark cubicle, with a bed in it this time. Told to leave my clothes on the lone chair in the corner, get on the bed and lay on my side. I am asked to describe my symptoms and the circumstances that led to them. I explain about the crash some two weeks ago, the current symptoms and my GP insisting I come to the hospital.
'A car crash' she asks. 'I presume you are seeking compensation for injuries suffered as a result of the accident then'.
'I've got myself a solicitor, yes'. I reply.
'I presume you'll wish to add this phantom pain to the list of injuries then'? She snaps.
'Phantom pain'? I query.
'Breathe in for me'. She asks.
She sticks her finger up my arse. None too gently either.
I manage to gasp and inform her that my balls are on the outside and at the front. She mutters something to the effect that her finger currently residing in my arse is merely a procedural thing.
Okay.
It's at this point that the curtain to our cubicle and my world of pain and misery is swished to one side and Mr M M Gammall enters from stage left.
From a face filled with too many white teeth and eyes that twinkled a tad too much for their own good rumbled a voice that commanded respect and judging by the look on the face of the young lady Doctor, fear too. Within a few mere seconds, he had established the cause of my appearance in his A&E department, caught up on the investigations so far, got me to lie on my back and with a look of thoughtful repose on his face he had my testicles rolling around in his hands before I knew what was happening.
Okay, but he has that lad on the left rolling around far too much for my liking.
'I think' he says in that quite, comforting voice that Doctors have, 'That you have crushed your left testicle in that car crash as I can feel a small lump which I believe to be a haematoma'
'A what'? I ask.
'A small blood clot'. He soothes.
He summons the young lady over and asks if I mind in she just takes a moment to roll my testicles around in her hands.
He needs to ask?
He guides her slowly around the testicle (please God don't let me get an erection) and directs her around to the blood clot. She nods as she makes small movements of her hands to locate its exact location (I promise I'll be good for the rest of my life God).
Satisfied, she leaves my fondled lads alone as Gammall once again takes over.
'I don't believe this to be anything sinister, but I'd like to see you in my urology clinic next week. I'll get you an appointment now, you can go home and I'll see you then. Don't worry Mr Traynor, I don't think it is anything to be concerned about, I just want to be certain everything is as it should be'.
Okay.
I'll see you in a week then.
I'm off home.
I lay there for over two hours, Rachel asleep at my side, unable to move and slowly the pain subsides to a level where I can get out of bed and go find some painkillers.
I'm up now, the painkillers have kicked in and I may as well get myself ready for work. Tea for the wife, bottle for the baby, breakfast for Richard. The routine masks the pain almost as well as the six co-codamol I swallowed. Over breakfast I talk to Rachel about the pain and she suggests I ring our GP, Dr Singh. That doesn't elicit the response she expected. Normally she'd get an outright 'no' as I loathe Doctors with a passion. Doctors treat sick people and malingerers as far as I am concerned, I am and never have been either. I cycle 110 miles a week for fun, I walk everywhere and I eat well. I used to run for my Regiment in Iron man events, cross country and orienteering events and I don't even get a sniffle during a flu outbreak. I don't do sick.
But, this pain has well and truly frightened me so I agree.
Two days later sees me in the company of my GP at a practice I have been a registered patient of for twenty five years. My GP has never seen me once in all that time. He's a nice enough fellow, asks a few pertinent questions and nods sagaciously when I tell him of the car accident some two weeks prior.
'Can I take a look at your testicles' he asks.
'OK' says I.
Well, he looks, asks where the pain was worse and then proceeds to roll the left hand lad around in his hand. I do consider punching him out flat and leaving as he seems all too comfortable with the time he is taking to roll once small ball (no pun intended) of flesh around in his hand.
He instructs me to get dressed and goes to sit behind his desk. In his opinion he can find nothing wrong with the structure of the testicle, but he thinks I may have squashed it when I was involved in the car crash. So, he suggests that I go and see a Urology Consultant just to set our minds at rest. So he gives me an admission letter to my local Accident and Emergency Department with instructions to go there once I have left his surgery. A bit sudden I think, but he tells me no to worry, it's just procedural.
Okay.
Upon arrival at A&E, I hand in my letter, answer a few questions and take a seat in the waiting room. The board on the wall says that current waiting times are approximately two hours so I figure I should just settle down and wait then.
Not five minutes later, my name is called and a severe looking woman in a nurses uniform escorts me into the strip lit bowels of the hospital. I am shown a stark cubicle with a basket and a washed out green gown, told to strip, don the gown and then go and sit in waiting area 'B'.
Okay.
Clutching my possessions to my chest as Harry Potter would his precious wand I sit nervously waiting in area 'B'. I have figured out that I can probably snap the neck of the receptionist with ease, knock out the few staff in the area and make good my escape in less that fifteen seconds if I set my mind to it. The plan is starting to move from the ludicrous to the down right attractive when my name is called again.
The young slip of a gel who summoned me introduces herself as a Doctor... even though she only looks sixteen years old, she wants me to believe she is a Doctor.
Okay.
I am taken to another anonymous, stark cubicle, with a bed in it this time. Told to leave my clothes on the lone chair in the corner, get on the bed and lay on my side. I am asked to describe my symptoms and the circumstances that led to them. I explain about the crash some two weeks ago, the current symptoms and my GP insisting I come to the hospital.
'A car crash' she asks. 'I presume you are seeking compensation for injuries suffered as a result of the accident then'.
'I've got myself a solicitor, yes'. I reply.
'I presume you'll wish to add this phantom pain to the list of injuries then'? She snaps.
'Phantom pain'? I query.
'Breathe in for me'. She asks.
She sticks her finger up my arse. None too gently either.
I manage to gasp and inform her that my balls are on the outside and at the front. She mutters something to the effect that her finger currently residing in my arse is merely a procedural thing.
Okay.
It's at this point that the curtain to our cubicle and my world of pain and misery is swished to one side and Mr M M Gammall enters from stage left.
From a face filled with too many white teeth and eyes that twinkled a tad too much for their own good rumbled a voice that commanded respect and judging by the look on the face of the young lady Doctor, fear too. Within a few mere seconds, he had established the cause of my appearance in his A&E department, caught up on the investigations so far, got me to lie on my back and with a look of thoughtful repose on his face he had my testicles rolling around in his hands before I knew what was happening.
Okay, but he has that lad on the left rolling around far too much for my liking.
'I think' he says in that quite, comforting voice that Doctors have, 'That you have crushed your left testicle in that car crash as I can feel a small lump which I believe to be a haematoma'
'A what'? I ask.
'A small blood clot'. He soothes.
He summons the young lady over and asks if I mind in she just takes a moment to roll my testicles around in her hands.
He needs to ask?
He guides her slowly around the testicle (please God don't let me get an erection) and directs her around to the blood clot. She nods as she makes small movements of her hands to locate its exact location (I promise I'll be good for the rest of my life God).
Satisfied, she leaves my fondled lads alone as Gammall once again takes over.
'I don't believe this to be anything sinister, but I'd like to see you in my urology clinic next week. I'll get you an appointment now, you can go home and I'll see you then. Don't worry Mr Traynor, I don't think it is anything to be concerned about, I just want to be certain everything is as it should be'.
Okay.
I'll see you in a week then.
I'm off home.
March 11th 2008:Cycle 1, day 2
Had my Gemcitibane cycle today, which is given in the absence of the oxalyplatin element to keep the cytotoxic pressure on the cancer. Blood works following the combined Gem/Oxy treatment last week (cycle 1, day 1) show that my blood has stayed fairly normal given the kicking my system has taken following the first Gem/Oxy infusion. Which is encouraging.
I must confess that I have had a lot of bone pain since he combined infusion, which I am told is only going to get worse as the cycles progress. I know this of old as I am on my fourth round of chemo in the last thirteen years now, so you kinda know what to expect. Doesn't mean I am looking forward to it though. Sometimes too much knowledge IS a bad thing.
Something I never picked up on, which I should have jumped on, was this. Bloods were drawn prior to this infusion today and reported to the Doctor prior to the infusion commencing. Okay, makes sense. What passed me by completely was a comment made about my AFP tumour marker. Apparently,since infusion 1 my AFP has dropped by ten points. How did I miss picking up on that one?
So, it appears the treatment may well be working according to Dr Welch's divine plan.
BARGAIN!
I don't really have a lot to say about this infusion really. It went off quite smoothly and in the last twenty four hours I haven't felt any worse than at any point in the last week. That's good I suppose.
I did complain of oral thrush from infection, dry skin, aching bones and piles at my consultation for which I was given tablets, creams, unguents and pineapple sized suppositories. I know they say the way to a mans heart is through his stomach, but is it true that the way to the rest of him is through his arse?
If you can answer that, drop me a line please.
I must confess that I have had a lot of bone pain since he combined infusion, which I am told is only going to get worse as the cycles progress. I know this of old as I am on my fourth round of chemo in the last thirteen years now, so you kinda know what to expect. Doesn't mean I am looking forward to it though. Sometimes too much knowledge IS a bad thing.
Something I never picked up on, which I should have jumped on, was this. Bloods were drawn prior to this infusion today and reported to the Doctor prior to the infusion commencing. Okay, makes sense. What passed me by completely was a comment made about my AFP tumour marker. Apparently,since infusion 1 my AFP has dropped by ten points. How did I miss picking up on that one?
So, it appears the treatment may well be working according to Dr Welch's divine plan.
BARGAIN!
I don't really have a lot to say about this infusion really. It went off quite smoothly and in the last twenty four hours I haven't felt any worse than at any point in the last week. That's good I suppose.
I did complain of oral thrush from infection, dry skin, aching bones and piles at my consultation for which I was given tablets, creams, unguents and pineapple sized suppositories. I know they say the way to a mans heart is through his stomach, but is it true that the way to the rest of him is through his arse?
If you can answer that, drop me a line please.
Saturday, 8 March 2008
August 16th 1995
Don't worry about the scary-faced guy on the left, that's just me thinking as I type.
August 16th was a day like any other to start with. Up at some stupid time of the morning, plug a bottle of milk into eight month old Katie, wander down the stairs to find food for three year old Richard, make cuppa for wife and myself, go get cleaned up, iron clothes, kiss everyone goodbye and head off to work in Liverpool.
Same as August 15th really.
Today was just one of those days though. The bottom end of the M58 was clogged due to a minor collision in lane 1, so the run onto Switch Island and the M57 and Dunningbridge Road interchange was all snarled up. Have a smoke, put music on full blast and curse all plonkers who try and change lanes in front of a forty tonne truck.
Twats!
The fifteen minute delay now has a knock-on effect as all the other commuters I was trying to avoid have now all caught up with me.
Bastards!
A forty minute commute has now run into an hour and twenty minutes and my first meeting of the morning is in the shitter. I Stagger into the office, grab coffee, catch phone and my day is off.
Lunchtime and I am merely 20 minutes behind where I expected to be at this point. Good... I think. I reckon if I pare lunch down to a quick sandwich and a can of pop I can get to that Secured by Design meeting in Runcorn with the Residents Association to talk about security issues and muggings at the local shopping center. Butty and a can it is then.
So, I am now on the way out of Liverpool City center, heading South to the River and the Runcorn Bridge. The sky is blue, the air is warm, Radio City is playing some stuff from the eighties and I am driving slow as I am about 20 minutes ahead of my schedule for the day now.
I've opened up the sunroof, all the windows in the car are down and my thoughts have turned to my family. I'm 29, a young dad with a good looking wife and fine looking pair of kids... does life get any better when you also have a career and prospects? The road I am travelling on is light for traffic, but those sodding thirty miles per hour signs are everywhere and the twonk in the red van in front of me is only doing 25. Bugger it.
We pull up at a pedestrian crossing and I have moved into the right hand lane to overtake dozy-drawers in the red van. I remember that just before I moved over, I had seen a young girl with a pram standing at the crossing, so she must be on my left out of view past the van. Where did she go?
Curious, I push forward in my seat and lean over the steering wheel to my left for a better view of the crossing.
Bang!
Somethings not quite right now.
I can see a slow moving glass object bouncing down the road in front of me, shattering, scintillating in the sunlight as it twists, tumbles and disintegrates.
Blackness.
'Are you alright'?
Sorry, who's that. Who are they talking to. Who's in trouble?
I wake up to find an ambulance driver stood next to my car. He's asking me if I am alright, can I move, where does it hurt. I can only look at him in stupid bemusement.
What the fuck happened?
Apparently, some soft old sod drove into the back of me at over forty miles per hour whilst I was static at a set of traffic lights. He didn't see me, didn't see the lights, never had an accident before in his life and on a clear, sunny afternoon in August, he ran into me.
Fuck... there goes the schedule!
So, I get carted off in an ambulance to the Royal Liverpool University Hospital... blue lights an all. I am introduced to the Casualty Department, or the ER as they call them now and subjected top prods, pokes, questions and x-rays.
'Where does it hurt' I am asked.
'Everywhere' I reply.
So, after 6 hours of investigations, various tests and a finger up my arse to check everything is okay, I am told the following, 'You haven't broken your neck and you can go home now'.
Good, but what was the finger up my arse for?
Fukkit... I am off home!
Project Pajero
I think that in order to be able to cope with the daily stresses and grinds that life dumps on you, it is more than fucking helpful to have a bolt-hole to retreat to. In my case, my stresses are to do more with illness than the daily bump and grind of life itself. I think that when you are faced with your own potential mortality, you have two choices; dig a hole and pull the earth over on top of you, or find something that is a bit of a mission for you to focus on long-term. I chose the latter and in doing so I found something I'd like to support in the future.
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The Macmillan 4x4 UK Challenge
The Event
The 'Macmillan 4x4 UK Challenge', or the 'Mac 4x4' or the 'Mac' as it has become known in 4x4 circles is in simple terms a weekend treasure hunt covering between 400 and a 1000 road miles with various off road sections on route.
You don't need a challenge truck to take part, any sensibly equipped 4x4 should be up to this event. Have a look at the galleries to see what I mean.
The event has a contagious spirit and camaraderie, and although it is a seriously competitive event with trophies for good navigation the main purpose of the Mac 4x4 is to raise money for Macmillan Cancer support, to the tune of about £100,000 each year. Each team has a minimum sponsorship to raise all of which goes to Macmillan. All event costs are covered out of the entry fee except fuel which competitors pay for as they go.
Competitors only know where they are starting from, the route being kept top secret till roadbooks are handed out along the way. It generally ends in Cheshire where there is a suited and booted prize giving dinner and a bed for the night at a well-appointed hotel. Yes you heard me correctly you need to bring a suit or a frock with you on this event. Have a look at the galleries to see what I mean.
Background
In May 2000 a group of enthusiasts saw a gap in the 4x4 events programme and decided to introduce a new event to mark the Millennium. The objective being to provide an interesting 'Challenge' for 4x4 owners/addicts/enthusiasts over a weekend ‘somewhere’ in the UK, whilst supporting a worthy charity.
"The Macmillan 4x4 UK Challenge" was 'born'. After two false starts, in November 2000 because of a petrol blockade and March 2001due to Foot and Mouth, March 2002 proved to be a case of third time lucky! The event took place with only 8 teams. Enthusiasm and quality made up for numbers, however and a magnificent £8,000 was raised for Macmillan Cancer Relief. The hard core of supporters and a website in place that was getting lots of hits showed the success of the formula. With very supportive items in club and national mags and plenty of word of mouth from the excellent supporters the 2003 event was soon raising its entry limit above the intended 30 teams to cope with demand. Eventually 38 teams set off and the spirit of fun, quality and enthusiasm, combined with the mix of offroading, navigation and observation, was just as high as in 2002. From an estimated figure of £20,000 announced at the Presentation Dinner it went over £33,000 in June 2003.
The level of generous sponsorship was as catching as the enthusiasm for the event and the 2004 event, with 45 teams achieved£46,000.The record was now firmly established - we thought! That was without reckoning on the 47 teams who started for the 2005 event raising a fantastic £55,000 only to be followed by the 52 teams who raised £67,000 in 2006; the year in which, having covered most of the UK already, we took to the high seas and went to Ireland. This seemed to increase interest and by July 2006 the 60 places for 2007 were taken. The enthusiasm seemed to grow even more and at the 2007 Awards Dinner on the Sunday night the figure was already at £75,000 and potentially growing!
The proceeds of the fun - which depends largely on the sponsorship which teams can raise - will go to Macmillan Cancer Support, the country's major charity devoted to the treatment and care of people with cancer and their families. It supports Macmillan's continuing efforts to provide better support services through the well known Macmillan Nurses, doctors, buildings and patient grants.
Source: http://www.mac4x4.co.uk/Intro.htm
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So, I've been and bought my truck a few months ago and started tearing it apart in order to event prep' it. Here's a quick pic of my baby.
To date she has had her engine pulled apart so that new rocker arms, balance shafts, tensioners, timing belts, alternator and timing sprockets could be renewed and new rocker seals, camseals, crankseals fitted. Journals, shells and compression were tested and fuel pump timed, tested and recalibrated for better performance.
The EGR system has been overhauled, the turbo timed and boost tested, wheel bearing, driveaxels, driveshafts front, center and rear differentials checked, drained and re-filled with only the brakes to do before the main gearbox gets a good looking at.
For off-road performance she is due a 2" bodylift, with an additional 2" suspension lift and 3" of lift from the installation of 35"dia tyres. That's take the chassis up by 5" for improved ground clearance and the overall shell height by 7" for improved visibility, making her about 7 feet 3 inches tall before the roofrack and lightbar finish their installation. That will all probably make her about 8 feet tall when finished... and she's only 15 years old too.
Internally she has been shredded too as she needed an almost complete new harness for all the additional electrical installations for a CB Radio, 6 extra lights (4 on the roof and 2 on the front 'A' bar), 2 X 240 volt invertors for the kettle and microwave, re-wired foglights to the rear, new stereo and dvd system, sat-nav, new central locking installation plus alarm and immobiliser and possibily a 12,000lb winch to dig me out of any sticky stuff that might bog me down.
Pretty much everything has been ripped out of the interior just so all the wiring can be discretely accomodated. So, that's the plan Stan. Hopefully I'll still be here to drive her in the Challenge next year. But, as she gets built up, I'll post more info here.Thursday, 6 March 2008
A poem from a friend
(untitled)
Know these truths.
Hang them in the hallowed halls of your mighty heart.
No one walks alone.
Though company may be denied,
And your way deserted and dark.
Persons of noble feelings always have you
In their mind’s eye.
Burdens are never shouldered by only one.
Though you be taxed,
Seemingly beyond your capacity.
Persons of noble feelings always have you
In their mind’s eye.
Trials are rally points for those that Love.
Though you be judged by fire,
And you can not come out unscathed.
Persons of noble feelings always have you
In their mind’s eye.Pain is fleeting.
Though you be pierced,
Through body and Soul.
Persons of noble feelings always have you
In their mind’s eye.
It takes many pieces to make a whole.
Though you only cast one shadow,
You are made up of all you have shone upon.
Persons of noble feelings always have you
In their mind’s eye.
Riches are not counted in coins.
Though rarer than any gemstone,
Friends of the heart are many for you.
Persons of noble feelings always have you
In their mind’s eye.
All you ever have to do is ask.
No request has ever been so great,
That a friend could not even attempt.
Persons of noble feelings always have you
In their mind’s eye.
H.H.R. III copywrite 2008
Know these truths.
Hang them in the hallowed halls of your mighty heart.
No one walks alone.
Though company may be denied,
And your way deserted and dark.
Persons of noble feelings always have you
In their mind’s eye.
Burdens are never shouldered by only one.
Though you be taxed,
Seemingly beyond your capacity.
Persons of noble feelings always have you
In their mind’s eye.
Trials are rally points for those that Love.
Though you be judged by fire,
And you can not come out unscathed.
Persons of noble feelings always have you
In their mind’s eye.Pain is fleeting.
Though you be pierced,
Through body and Soul.
Persons of noble feelings always have you
In their mind’s eye.
It takes many pieces to make a whole.
Though you only cast one shadow,
You are made up of all you have shone upon.
Persons of noble feelings always have you
In their mind’s eye.
Riches are not counted in coins.
Though rarer than any gemstone,
Friends of the heart are many for you.
Persons of noble feelings always have you
In their mind’s eye.
All you ever have to do is ask.
No request has ever been so great,
That a friend could not even attempt.
Persons of noble feelings always have you
In their mind’s eye.
H.H.R. III copywrite 2008
March 4th 2008:Cycle 1, day 1
I had day one of my new 2008 chemo regime yesterday, March 4th, and if each session is like this one, they can shove it up their arse.
Why do hospitals insist on making an already stressful time of your life increasingly difficult? As I understand it, the Labour Government have pumped billions into the nhs to make the patient-treatment experience altogether better. Terms like 'seemless delivery' and 'patient focussed' seem to spring to mind as the new watchwords of our nhs. I also understand that cancer services are allegedly second to none. Well, if that's the case, none must have come a pretty poor first.
I had an appointment for 1:15pm yesterday for my chemo. After enduring the beaureaucracy inherent in the nhs system, I got to my chemo ward at 4:30pm to be told that my chemo would not be there for at least another hour. Never mind, go have a cup of tea luv. So I did and I had another, and another. I returned to ward 5 at 5:45pm just as my bags of chemo rolled up.
I left the hospital at 9:30pm. 8 hours spent at a hospital dedicated to cancer services for 21/2 hours of chemotherapy. If you include travel time I was out of the house for over 11 hours.
What a joke.
Anyway, the chemo adminstered was gemcitibane and oxalyplatin. This is third line treatment for teratoma and has a 20% chance of putting me in remission. In my case it is actually fourth line treatment, but I am not quibbling and I still seem to have the same 20% chance of going into remission. I have to say that this combination of drugs do hit hard and do hit fast. This is my fourth go around with chemo and I have never felt this ill, this quickly after any standard chemo cycle. Even the high-dose chemo in 2000 took about 24 hours to hit, this treatment was having its effects felt some 30 minutes into the infusion.
I feel rough. My bones ache, my knees feel too big for my legs and someone seems to have coated my tongue in aluminium. That's what it tastes like anyway. I've got another 11 of these infusions over the next eighteen or so weeks and I am not sure the flesh will be strong enough, no matter how willing the spirit.
How far should we push ourselves to stay alive? Is any price worth the chance, even a 20% chance, of gaining another year on earth?
I have to say yes. I don't care the price, the pain, the vomiting cost I am required to pay to get one more year with my kids and my wonderful wife because I will gladly do it ten times over to get another decade. I was told I was dead 13 years ago and I defied the odds to relapse again and again and I continue to defy the odds to this date. Chemo has kept me one step ahead of my disease and my death, I am the Dead Man, a Dead Man talking.
Why do hospitals insist on making an already stressful time of your life increasingly difficult? As I understand it, the Labour Government have pumped billions into the nhs to make the patient-treatment experience altogether better. Terms like 'seemless delivery' and 'patient focussed' seem to spring to mind as the new watchwords of our nhs. I also understand that cancer services are allegedly second to none. Well, if that's the case, none must have come a pretty poor first.
I had an appointment for 1:15pm yesterday for my chemo. After enduring the beaureaucracy inherent in the nhs system, I got to my chemo ward at 4:30pm to be told that my chemo would not be there for at least another hour. Never mind, go have a cup of tea luv. So I did and I had another, and another. I returned to ward 5 at 5:45pm just as my bags of chemo rolled up.
I left the hospital at 9:30pm. 8 hours spent at a hospital dedicated to cancer services for 21/2 hours of chemotherapy. If you include travel time I was out of the house for over 11 hours.
What a joke.
Anyway, the chemo adminstered was gemcitibane and oxalyplatin. This is third line treatment for teratoma and has a 20% chance of putting me in remission. In my case it is actually fourth line treatment, but I am not quibbling and I still seem to have the same 20% chance of going into remission. I have to say that this combination of drugs do hit hard and do hit fast. This is my fourth go around with chemo and I have never felt this ill, this quickly after any standard chemo cycle. Even the high-dose chemo in 2000 took about 24 hours to hit, this treatment was having its effects felt some 30 minutes into the infusion.
I feel rough. My bones ache, my knees feel too big for my legs and someone seems to have coated my tongue in aluminium. That's what it tastes like anyway. I've got another 11 of these infusions over the next eighteen or so weeks and I am not sure the flesh will be strong enough, no matter how willing the spirit.
How far should we push ourselves to stay alive? Is any price worth the chance, even a 20% chance, of gaining another year on earth?
I have to say yes. I don't care the price, the pain, the vomiting cost I am required to pay to get one more year with my kids and my wonderful wife because I will gladly do it ten times over to get another decade. I was told I was dead 13 years ago and I defied the odds to relapse again and again and I continue to defy the odds to this date. Chemo has kept me one step ahead of my disease and my death, I am the Dead Man, a Dead Man talking.
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