I CAN'T BELIEVE I DID THAT!!!!! Molly Wins Again

I have mentioned Molly Cat before. She is the love and the bane of my life. When she first came, she was clearly half starved and incredibly thin. She has filled out since she has been here, although she is by no means fat. At the beginning, she used to slide between the dishwasher and the plinth to get behind the skirting boards of the kitchen cupboards. She would then push out the skirting board at the opposite end to get out. She clearly enjoyed this, and we found the black clips that were supposed to hold the wood in place all over the flat. I was less amused. As she has filled out, she has used the space she created to gain access.

Two days ago, the 'Man Who Does' was here. He does everything, from major jobs (repainting rooms, netting in half a balcony to keep Molly safe) to the most minor (changing the bulbs that I cannot reach even on the ladder). This time, he came in response to a piteous appeal for help from me. On New Year's Eve night I was rinsing out Molly's bowls in the sink when I noticed water gushing from the cupboard beneath. I hastily closed the taps and abandoned it, grateful that I had no scheduled visitors until after the 2nd. On the 1st, I texted him asking if he could fit me in on the 2nd. Bless him he said yes.

He duly arrived on Thursday morning. I felt rather bad, but he seemed happy. He fixed the sink (a rotten seal) and changed all the bulbs that had blown. Then I remembered the skirting board. I showed him the various black clips and he said he could do it immediately, which he did. Much contentment all round. Until Molly woke from her siesta.

I went in to the kitchen to feed her and noticed that she was prowling around the now closed access to behind the cupboards. She can no longer fit between the dishwasher and the plinth. She kept looking at me, but she has always kept away from there when I was around, so I didn't think much of it. Until about ten minutes later, when she started to howl.

It was terrible. She sounded as if she was being tortured. Her cries would have rent the hardest heart. I was in the study. I rushed to find her. She was pacing the kitchen, staring at me as if I had deprived her of all that was most precious in life. I checked her food, her water, herself. Nothing appeared wrong. I picked her up, gave her a cuddle, took her back to the study. As soon as I put her down, she bolted for the kitchen and the cacophony started again. My nerve lasted less than five minutes.

Picture the scene, dear reader: me, on my knees, trying to wrench the skirting board out so that I could allow Molly access again. Eventually, I succeeded. NO, it is NOT funny!!! I returned to the study. There was silence from the kitchen. Eventually Molly rejoined me. To say she looked smug would be an understatement.

I don't know what she hides under there. When my cleaner looked the following day all she found was one of the baubles from off the Christmas tree. There may be objects further in, where we cannot see. In any case, I am sure it is her special hiding place, which I am not supposed to know about. From now on, it stays open. I CANNOT BELIEVE I did that.

Today was the first dose of Radiotherapy

An interesting experience, and one I found more challenging than I had expected.

My appointment was for 15.30 and they suggested I arrived fifteen minutes early. Parking is never easy on that site, so I decided to leave home at 14.15. The first challenge was what to wear. It looked cold outside, and I clearly needed to be able to display my top half. Trousers and jumper seemed in order, but it has been so long since I have worn anything other than a Kaftan that even that felt strange. Molly was asked, but did not vouchsafe an opinion.

Eventually, dressed and accessorised, I left for the hospital. I was lucky. A parking space became available within about five minutes, and I was able to sit in the car listening to the radio and relaxing for half an hour. This was A GOOD THING. Nevertheless, as I picked my way through the puddles to the entrance I was aware that I was more tense than I had expected to be. 'Why?', I asked myself. After all, nothing terrible was going to happen. Answer came there none, and I really do not know why I was so tense, but I certainly was. I was glad that I had taken my beloved iPad and so could play Sudoku while I waited.

They had said I would be in and out in fifteen minutes. Hmmm! This might be true on subsequent occasions, but today it took almost exactly an hour. It was nobody's fault: it's the system. But I do wonder if we could not simplify the system? It goes like this:

1. Register and be shown to the waiting room. Sit and wait, with iPad, for about five minutes: very grateful that it happened so fast.
2. Collected by charming radiographer who first asked to confirm all my details (name, address, etc.) then explained in exhaustive detail what was to happen. She also told me that I would be asked to confirm my details again. I wondered why, although I did not ask. Is it likely that somebody would take my place in the intervening few minutes? She also gave me my complete schedule for the next three weeks.
3. Shown to a different waiting room. Resort to iPad again. Wait no more that ten minutes, then collected by a different charming radiographer. Shown to the 'Room'.
4. He re-checked all my details (why?) then explained everything to me again (why?). Remember, I had already been through all this at the planning meeting. 
5. I was helped on to the couch. It is not made for people like me. It is made for fit, lithe young things who are no bigger than a size 8. I struggled. They helped. Eventually, I was positioned. I felt like a lump of lard attached to a beached whale. Ah well - that's more or less how I look.
6. Laser beams come at you and machines move around you. It is most interesting. I forbore to ask too many questions, but it really was fascinating.
7. The actual thing takes about ten minutes and, provided you can lie flat on a narrow bed (which I can, once I'm on it!) there is no problem.
8. They help you up and usher you out, with smiles all round.

And that, really, is it. I go back tomorrow for the next dose. I have checked the appointments and need to change some, but they tell me that should be possible. They are friendly, professional and positive. So why was I so exhausted when I got back? Goodness knows, but I think it will be easier tomorrow.

Molly Cat is acting strangely

I am not sure that Molly takes to an abundance of visitors. We have been blessed, this Christmas, with some wonderful company. My brother and his wife came for the festivities. They arrived on Christmas Eve in time for lunch, and left after Boxing Day lunch. However, very sensibly, they elected not to stay here. I have a spacious two-bed-roomed flat, but it really is too small for three adults and one cat. There is a very nice hotel about ten minutes walk away, and they stayed there. It worked perfectly. It meant that we had the pleasure of each others' company, but that we still had our own space. They came and went, and I was able to retire for rests without feeling guilty. Altogether, a splendid affair (except for the food - but that will be the subject of a separate post).

Molly, however, was not altogether sure. She took some time to get used to them being here so often, and seemed a little put out. Nevertheless, she got used to them and became almost sociable by the end. What, I think, she had not bargained for, was a constant stream of visitors after that. People popped in for tea, coffee, drinks, nibbles. I had friends to supper yesterday. I thoroughly enjoyed it (despite getting progressively more tired). She, I think, did not.

This morning, she behaved in a most peculiar manner. At about 06.45 I was dragged from slumber by the sound of Molly howling. I called her. She ignored me. I called her again. No response. I reluctantly got up and went to look. She seemed fine. There were no obvious signs of distress. I fed her, in case she was hungry, and went back to bed. Five minutes later, she started howling again. She would not come to me, she ignored my calls, she just howled. And then she started bringing me her toys. I was NOT going to play at this time of the morning. I snuggled down and ignored her. Eventually, she went to sleep. Very odd. She has never done anything like that before.

We were planning a quiet evening tonight, but some dear friends returned to Nottingham and it was the perfect moment to catch up. The arrangement was made rather late in the afternoon, and I got engrossed in the cooking. It wasn't until I got the lasagne into the oven that I thought to feed Molly. Unfortunately, this pretty well coincided with my friends' arrival.

Molly does not like being watched while she eats, not even by me. She does not like noise and disturbance. My friends have two boys aged two (my Godson) and one. They are delightful, but they are boys of that age. Molly retired, disgruntled, to the study. She refused to come back and did not eat. I felt guilty. I should have fed her earlier.

My friends have left. I so loved having them, and seeing how the boys had changed in the intervening five months (I would not let them come when I was very susceptible to infection). Molly is, after all, a cat. But she is MY cat, and I love her. I'll make sure I feed her early next time.

And let's see what happens tomorrow morning.

WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO GO VIRAL?

I try. Really, I try. I write what I believe to be entertaining and well-written posts. I try and write regularly, although when I have been unwell this has not always happened. But, with the best will in the world, 33 views cannot be described as viral. What am I doing wrong?

There are some things I know I'm missing. I don't write about sex, for a start. Well, would you? I'm almost 60. I live alone. I am hugely overweight, not helped by the steroids (legal ones) and the lack of exercise over the last five months. My body has just been poisoned. What sex?

I don't do drugs - well, not illegal ones anyway, and I doubt if anybody would be interested in the pleasures of anti-sickness pills, or the variability between cytotoxic drugs. Even if they were, I want to put all that behind me. As for the alcohol, all I am prepared to say is that there is no truth to the suggestion that you have to give it up during chemotherapy.

Rock and roll? Never, I'm afraid. Not even in my not very mis-spent youth. I always preferred the classics and the opera. Indeed, I could bore on for England about the opera. Do you remember Bernard Levin's brilliant columns in the Times, in days of yore? Would that I had that level of ability. His description of the disaster at Wexford had me sobbing with laughter (it is the last chapter in one of his books, if you haven't read it).

I'm not consistent. I think this may be a mistake. However, I would be bored writing about the same thing all the time, so I flutter about. Too bad.

I suspect I am too polite and too grammatically correct. Well, I'm sorry, but I grew up worrying about the placement of a comma. I cannot bear the mis-placed apostrophe. I got three copies of Lynne Truss's 'Eats, Shoots and Leaves' when it came out, and I still chuckle over the title. (I gave two of them away - I hope the recipients found them educational, although I have seen no evidence of this).

So, what to do? Well, I fear I am just going to keep plugging away, much helped by Molly Cat, and hope that something gives. In the mean time, she sends her love.

Molly Cat can turn off the Computer

I can hear the guffaws, the ridicule, as people read the title. Poor lass, she's really lost it: thinks her cat is a genius and she's clearly mad. She's turned into one of those mad cat ladies.

"Not at all", I reply with dignity, "it is all perfectly understandable. Belay your scepticism. Pocket your ridicule. Listen to the facts."

The facts are as follows. My computer and all it's 'gadgets' are connected to the mains through one of those extension plugs with a surge protector. It also has a switch, so the whole thing can be switched off. This lives behind the little cabinet at the side of my computer, upon which resides a basket with all my scrap paper. It is very useful. Recently, Molly has taken to sitting in that basket and pawing at the door to my computer cupboard, which is between us. I ignore her for a while, but inevitably succumb and look around the door, tickle her chin and talk to her for a while before returning to work. A few days ago I did this, but clearly did not spend long enough with her. She made a grumbly noise, then jumped down behind the cabinet. Fortuitously (for her) she landed on the extension plug switch and everything (computer, printer, router etc.) switched off. I was mystified for  a moment, then reached down to see if the plug had got disconnected. In so doing, I lifted Molly Cat and gave her a little cuddle. BAD MISTAKE.

I don't think that would have been enough, but two days later she again jumped down behind the cabinet. Although she did not turn the switch off, the movement was enough to turn off the computer. My response was: "Molly, what are you doing? Get out of there" and to pick her up. You see the error? This was positive reinforcement. I did not realise it at the time. It was about two days later that I was ignoring her demands for attention. She jumped down. I responded as before. She has done it twice since.

i do not think this is coincidence. I think she has learned from my bad response that jumping down behind the cabinet gets her attention. I am now trying to ignore it when this happens. Anybody else have a cat who can turn off their computer?

This week I had a tattoo

Now, I never thought I would be saying that, but it's true. On Tuesday, I had two tattoos. Me!!! I arrived and was asked to wait. I sat, rather nervously, in the waiting room, until I was called in to the room. Then they did it.

Alright, I'll 'fess up. This was no ordinary tattoo. I went for my radiotherapy planning meeting. Nowadays, they use tattoos rather than pens. It seems to work rather better. So, what actually happened?

I arrived at the clinic a few minutes early. They were expecting me, professional, kind. I waited a few minutes, then a radiotherapist arrived to talk me through the procedures and ensure I was comfortable. So far so good.  A little while later, I was called into the radiotherapy room where they 'set you up' i.e. they make sure that all the lasers line up for your treatment. Good idea, and no problem - if you're a size 8!

They told me to sit on the table/couch and 'put my bottom between the two markers'. Huh! Not my bottom, I have to say. Considerable tweaking later, I was able to fit. Major embarrassment all round. The next stage was to lie back: I was just able to do that, but I dread to think about less able people. The radiographers can't help you - apparently, it is too risky to their backs and so not allowed. Quite right too.

Eventually, I was positioned. Now, my arm had to go into the relevant stirrup. I was grateful that I had kept the exercises up - no problem there. They told me to keep still, and they all disappeared. Suddenly, I started to move. Laser beams came at me. I wondered if I was taking part in a new Star Wars film. I kept breathing normally (that's what I was told to do) and hoped for the best. Apparently, it was fine. They returned.

"Get up" they said. I was lying flat, on a narrow 'bed'. I reached for a hand: 'not allowed'. It took a couple of goes, but I was quite pleased with myself. It will take about half an hour, they  said, then we can do the tattoos and you can go home. Not likely! Over an hour later, I was called back. However, I now have two tattoos (the size of pin heads) and I am set up for my first radiotherapy session. Watch this space.

The Last Chemo Appointment: a mixed day!!!

Yesterday, was my last chemo appointment. As I said in my previous post, I had ambivalent feelings about it. What I didn't say, because I thought I was just being silly, was that I had a sort of feeling that it would all go wrong and that there would be a disaster. I had visions of being sent home because my bloods were too bad, or something else had gone pear-shaped. Well, nothing as dreadful as that occurred, but it certainly wasn't the plain sailing that all the others had been. In the past, I have turned up for my 0900, or 0930, appointment and always, within half an hour, have been shown to 'the chair' (not a good name, I think; they ought to call it something else!) and the whole thing has got going. Not, however, yesterday. Let me tell you about it:

08.40: My dear friend arrived to pick me up, and we arrived at the hospital in good time.
08.55: She dropped me at the door and went off to park.
09.00: As I walked through the entrance, the fire alarms started to go off. Not only were the lifts off, but we were not allowed to use the stairs. The lobby area got more and more crowded, and I started to get twitchy. How long would this go on? Three hunky firemen were a distraction but not, sadly, a sufficient one: I am clearly getting old.
09.20: It was all cleared up and we were released. Up to the day ward, where I was logged in, tagged and told to go and sit in the waiting room. As ever, almost as a reflex, I asked if my drugs had come up. Always, in the past, the answer has been a reassuring 'yes'. Not this time. They weren't there and nobody could tell how long they would be. Oh dear. We repaired to the waiting room. And waited. And waited.
10.30:  I was distinctly concerned, since both my friend and I had meetings planned for the afternoon. 11.30:  I was getting really unhappy.
11.35: They said the drugs were on their way and took me through to be attached to the drip. Huge sighs of relief: we should just make it. As we walked through, I foolishly said to Poppy (the wonderful nurse doing all this for me) that I had been retaining lots of fluid over the last three days - putting on in excess of a pound a day. Her face fell. She finished putting up the drip, then announced that she would have to ask the doctor about that one, since she had never come across it before. Oops.
11.45: The relevant Senior Registrar, it transpired, did not carry a bleep (not impressed - why wouldn't you carry a bleep?) and wasn't answering her mobile phone. The other one would not deal with the query because I was not his patient.
11:50: A compliant and wonderful registrar was found and came to look. We had an intelligent conversation, and he agreed that the treatment could continue. Ice cap on.
12.05: Drugs start going through. I pretend not to be totally twitchy. My friend talking about anything to keep me distracted. I silently thank God for her presence, keeping me sane.
12.10: Polly announces that my home drugs have not come up. Would I mind collecting them at Pharmacy? Of course not. We go through the prescription, to be sure everything is there. There are no bone-marrow stimulating (GSF) injections. Oops again. Polly asks if I always have them. I reply in the affirmative. She stifles something and goes off to find the doctor again. Suddenly I hear her shout: the elusive SR is on the ward. All is well.
12.15: Polly returns. Prescription for GSF is on a separate sheet. Would my friend take it to pharmacy. She goes off.
12.17: Polly is copying stuff and mutters 'GSF for seven days'. 'No, five days' I say. 'She's prescribed seven'. 'Well, I usually have five'. The reply is less stifled. Off she goes again.
12.35: Friend changes ice cap, pharmacy trip having been postponed. Oh, it's cold. I am NEVER doing that again. If I get a recurrence and have to have chemo again, I'm going to wear the wig!
12.45: Polly returns. It is all sorted out. Could the prescription be taken to pharmacy?
12.50: Friend returns. Prescription deposited, but there is an hour's wait in pharmacy. There is now no way she is going to make her 13.30 meeting. I try to persuade her to leave. I can take a taxi home. She refuses. Multiple phone calls later, she has rearranged her complete afternoon. There are no words to thank her.
13.05: Drip complete; only the flush to go.
13.20: Drip down; ice cap off.
13.22: Hand thank-you present to receptionist; rush to pharmacy.
13.30: Drugs handed to me. Unnecessary dexamethasone has also been prescribed by same SR. I persuade pharmacy to take it back, rather than it getting thrown away. I explain it would be pre my next dose and I'm not having a next dose. Resist temptation to do happy jig in pharmacy.
14.00: In car to drive home. Realise that I am late for my teleconference. Ring to explain. Told to ring ASAP - they will wait.
14.15: Get home. Decide they can wait five minutes while I change, go to the bathroom and get myself some water.
16.00: Teleconference finishes. I decide I have earned a ten-minute lie down.

An hour later I started to cook. It turned into a very good evening indeed!!