Sunday and I am roused by my partner eager to get on with the day as my eldest daughter has a scan today. I am brought toast and hot water. In an effort to contribute I book a Tesco slot and fill a basket of goodies for deliver tomorrow, with that done I take my vitals, which are all good. I seemed to have slept well last night but I had taken a co-codamol, which may account for it. I am tempted to consider taking one each night but that is how an addiction gets started I guess. Once up, there is a plan to make, in the end it is decided that I shall chauffer my daughter to the hospital for her MRI scan and my partner will food shop. The cars are moved to facilitate this. So starts my day.
I thought I would share the poem that I took to the poetry Stanza yesterday. There were some pretty bleak contributions yesterday so of the two poems I took I chose this one to present to lighten the mood. It seemed to do it.
376 I’ve got a bladder stone, Two point two By one point two centimetres. I’ve seen it on the scans, You could spot it from space My first thought: “That’s fucking huge!” followed quickly by “that’s going to hurt”. The doctor chap explains; “we can smash it up”, And once again I think: “that’s going to hurt, a lot”. Back at home I am wondering just how long is the waiting list for the demolition. I decide to make friends but chums need names so I caste around for something benign. There are several candidates, Watts after the rolling stone, Sisyphus plagued by his ball, Wayne after The Rock Johnson. None feel right. Perhaps Eric after the girls pet pebble in “What we did on our Holiday” Finally I have it. Uluru, After all it is a rock down under. It made me smile, and pals are supposed to do that. 376 04-04-2024
I plot the course to the the local hospital where the MRI is to be done and note that I am now happy that the car has pulled itself together after its run into town yesterday. With that done I can take a break and start the days blog. Yesterdays, like so many, was written about midnight when I have very few, if any , spoons left to do such things. The result is a tired and short, and probably uninformative, contribution, which highlights the mundanity of the daily life with cancer and the vicissitudes of dyslexia. I am still processing yesterdays experience of having someone asking me to sign a copy of my book. It was the fact that someone out side of family and friends had bought a copy, it is just hard to register, especially as it is poetry. Then being asked by someone else, who I would call “a real poet”, asked to buy a copy. It is strange to think of my slim little book sitting in someone else’s home, on a shelf somewhere amongst other books. Although I always wanted to publish my poetry for friends and family to share parts of me that they do not get to see I never really thought about other people reading them and seeing those parts as well, and I have to say its odd.
At the appointed time I drive my eldest daughter to our local community hospital for her MRI scan. It is only fifteen minutes away and the MRI portacabin is easy to spot as soon as we drive into the car park. My eldest gets up the steps with her crutches and I retreat to the car to wait for her. It is not a long wait before she reappears having had her scan. As she is hungry we call into a garden centre on the way home to grab a snack.
Once home I begin to watch a rugby match and also realise that the hot chocolate I had might have been a mistake. I’ve noticed of late that milk or milky drinks seem not to be acceptable to my gut. Whether or not this is related to my meds I do not know but it seems to have developed over the last few months. I indulge in a lot of rugby as I recline and wait for my stomach to settle. By the evening I am feeling better, certainly better enough to eat tea. About that time a friend tells me that an old colleague from the therapeutic community days has died after a long illness. His wife was one of the original staff team that I opened the community with. To my shame I misremembered her name. I got the beginning letter right, “J” but again that is the curse of my dyslexia. It is increasingly difficult to lose old colleagues, I’m not sure why, it just is.
My evening sees me indulge in a new series of Midsomer Murders followed by the Olivier Theatre awards and the final bits of the blog. I take my evening meds and go to bed hoping for a peaceful night. The coming week is the one the Americans have promised to deliver my second book of poetry. I am quietly excited but know that these things often take longer than promised.
