Sunday, a day to do bugger all, and that’s exactly what I did, apart from the usual medications and a trip to a far away garden centre to buy a diffuser, one of those modern air wicks with sticks and a jar of smelly stuff. Naturally there were other attractions like plants, of which we bought a few and a café at which we dined on cheese scones and ginger beer, before retuning home to have an evening meal and watch Grace, another police drama series that could be half as long if the writers understood I could not give a bugger about the personal baggage of every god damn character in the show. By all means find a body and set about finding the killer but I do not need to know that the detective is a having marital adjustment problems or that they suffer from existential anxt brought on by the job they chose to do. Any way Brentford got a point against Chelsea and donkeys still ate carrots and I took my evening meds and went to bed in anticipation of the next days visit to the surgeon who operated on my hand.

Monday and I am beaten to the shower by my partner ( I guess this will happen a lot now that she has retired). I wait my turn and then take my meds before getting ready to drive across town to see the surgeon who operated on my hand. Its lovely and sunny as my partner goes off to the dentist and drive off. My appointment is at 11:20 and I am on time, like the prompt person I am. I then wait for twenty five minutes before I get called in for the short consultation ever. The surgeon looks at my scared hand and asks if I can form a fist, I show him can and we chat about my ongoing physio with the hand and scar specialist. That was it and I was out again and driving home. The bottom line is I am left to the boring maintenance and ongoing nurturing of my hand on my own four the next four months. The other reality is that I am developing “hand Tourettes” as I find my self doing sets of hand exercises at odd moments, this includes repetitions of “the duck”, “the hook” , “the fist” and “the spread” plus a few contractions. Of course there are also the Nivea crème massages of my palm and the rest of the fingers about four or five times a day. At night all this ends as I strap on my finger splint over the latex gel dressing that clings to my scars like an over affectionate octopus.

I get home to find my partner in the garden as I go to bring in my towels. She is waiting to be picked up to go and visit her mother, a weekly trip. I putter about putting new lamps in the kitchen lights while I wait for Tesco to deliver. With that excitement out of the way I can settle down to a couple of fried egg rolls and a concerted period of doing absolutely nothing. I do some research on purple slate for the garden and a surprise arrives, a copy of The Velveteen Rabbit. Its a lovely story and a lovely re-read. By the time my partner is home I am printing off the waste collection timetable for 2025/26 and she is busy planting seeds in the garden. I note that there are a lot of maintenance tasks that need doing so I think if tomorrow is sunny I might have a go a doing some of the boring but necessary jobs around the garden, there is much staking, raking and pot clearing that needs to be done. However tomorrow must be a training day, I must rouse myself in the morning and row, and row hard. Its time to begin the long haul back to fitness and well being so I need to get physically active regularly and to start the brain feeding again with the work needed to prepare the fourth collection in the Cancer Years series of poetry collections. I have twenty eight new poems to put into a collection and by the time I have finished the manuscript preparation there will probably be more than thirty, which is more than enough for a single sitting read.

In the post today was my latest oncology summary from the team to my GP, which of course I get a copy. Apparently I am tolerating the medication well and they (the oncology boys and girls) are happy to keep on giving me three month blocks of the chemo therapy drugs. Come June I will have been on this stuff for two years, if I can keep fit I see no reason why I should not continue for a while yet. For me it is the fatigue that I experience and the bouts of frustration with my self that get to me. I have “to do” lists and plans for the garden that I want to get done but I am not sure at times if it is the medication, my age or sloth that is stopping me from doing it. I think I am trying my hardest but I can never be sure. There are of course options but as always there are other things going on.

437
I could do yoga – once or twice a week
I could eat less sweets – a ban
I could eat fewer cakes – a ban 
I could read more – less TV
I could write more – less lazing around
I could exercise more – everyday
I could communicate more – talk to people
I could play music – less fantasy time
I could do less “phone” – more real time.
All of this I could do
But on balance my cancer 
Wouldn’t give a fuck.
I just might be more knowledgeable,
And fitter with fewer
Side effects from my drugs,
But I am not curable,
I’m being palliated,
managed and consoled.
How do you think that feels?
Yep, like Crunchies, Red Bull,
Football and violent TV,
flat out on a recliner
watching my garden overgrow
and daring myself to be happy.
						437  06-03-2025