Saturday and it is potentially a busy day and it turned out to be so. After a toast breakfast and my morning meds I go back to getting my car sorted out. I hook the battery up to charge it for a couple of hours while I sort out what I am going to take to the poetry stanza. Before I can drive into town I take the car to the local garage to check the tyres. My warning lights on my dashboard are still on by the time I park up back home. When I leave for the journey into town the warning lights have magically disappeared. So all is good with the car at last.

At the poetry stanza, at which there are only seven of us, I am taken aback when one of the group produces a copy of the Cancer Years: So Far and asked if I would sign it for her because she had never known anyone before who had published a book. It was such an out of the blue experience I was not sure what to do for a moment and then of course I signed it. The meeting went well and again I was surprised when another of the group asked if I had a copy of the book I could sell her. As it happened I did, so we did business. I drove home in profit and having had a good reception for my poem this month.

Its a fish and chip Saturday so its a walk over to the chippy and then an evening of Rom Com film. It was one with Emma Thomson in it which elevated it. Football highlights and night meds later I have time to draft a brief blog before taking myself of to bed. It feels like this has been the first “normal” day I have had for along time, I hope I do not pay for it tomorrow.

Friday and I wake up with a to do list in my head. My partner has gone out to work so I spend a bit of time doing my vitals and watching a bit of Lee Evans, what ever happened to him? Once up its breakfast and a quick visit to Amazon to replace the hair brush that mysteriously disappeared at the weekend when I was away ay the Murder Mystery. Being a creature of habit I bought the same one I bought in March 21, that’s one of the hidden delights of using Amazon as a main supplier of “stuff”, you always know how long you have been able to keep it before it disappears. No doubt the old one will turn up now. I message a couple of friends and then I set about one of the major tasks, the checking of my tyres.

It turned out I have a problem. My car stuttered to start up achieving it on a second go, and then on comes the same warning lights as I had before. I drive around the block but the warning lights remain. Back on the drive I pop the hood and check my battery with my new battery tester and find it is down to 48% which is low enough to trigger the warning signs. So I hook up my battery charger and have to wait to see if this works as it did before. In the meantime I have a past lunch prepared by my eldest daughter and then I begin to select which poem I am going to take to the Poetry Stanza tomorrow.

On looking at my recent writings I find most of them are some what down beat after the last couple of weeks difficulties but I eventually settle on two. It is my habit to take two to the Stanza meeting so I can offer something depending on my nerve. I run off the ten copies of each that will be required and squirrel them away in a folder. My eldest daughter has made me lunch so I am able to sit and take a time out before putting my washing in. My afternoon is spent writing and making letters to send to friends. I quick trip to the post office rounds my afternoon off before my partner returns from work. Todays crosswords are done and I drift into a sunny evening. All that is left for me to do this evening is to unhook my battery charger from the car and sort out my washing. Thankfully the evenings are lighter so I can give my car battery as long as possible on charge. I shall need it for tomorrow’s trip to the Stanza.

There is some regular TV Friday night stuff I watch so for me the evening slides along till its time to do my evening meds and try to get a nights sleep. The last couple of days have been relatively good so I am hoping my luck holds for the weekend. The forecasted weather for the weekend is rain free so I’m hoping I might get into the garden and do some tidying up before the grounds folk turn up in a few days time.

Thursday and I wake late after yesterdays long day but exciting day. My partner brings me hot water and I go through my morning rituals before getting up for breakfast. I still have last nights opera in my head. In particular Carmen’s card aria as it is known in which she sees her own death, I thought it was one of the most powerful parts of the while opera, despite other parts being being more popular. Then another extraordinary days starts. I check my Podcast supplier (Podbean) and discover an old colleague and friend, to whom I still write, is on the latest podcast. Of course I watch it with interest and I am surprised when I get a mention. What was really lovely was to see my friend looking well but most of all being her usual thoughtful and insightful self. It is good to see and hear someone still holding the same basic values about how people should be offered the chance to change in an environment where there is an acknowledgement that we are no better or worse than each other. It was a special start to my out of bed day.

I had not long finished watching the Podcast when I received another out of the blue surprise. A large envelop arrived in the post addressed to me in a hand I did not recognise. When I opened it up I found not only a letter from a friend and old flat mate from late teens, early twenties, but some sketches of me that he had done while sharing a flat. I had shared a flat with two friends who were architecture students while I was a lab assistant at the local Polytechnic. This friend and I spent New Year in Paris together in the late sixties, I think it was the first time I flew. I was never aware that he ever sketched me. He was going through old portfolios and thought I might like them. Indeed I do, and here I am.

The idea that something like this has survived all these years is just lovely. All this time something of me has been in the world with out me knowing and it brought back so many memories of youthful living in a small upstairs flat above the landlords son and wife who would on occasions have seismic rows and throw dishes of food at at each other and up the walls. I guess they were just working out their cultural differences, he was Pakistani and she was Irish, clearly a potent mixture in this instance, but I cant help thinking that this contributed to our low rent at the time.

I clear the kitchen and make lunch before starting to draft the blog. It is time I caught up with my correspondence having been prompted by this mornings events. I end up writing a couple of poems, not good ones, and then fall asleep with a head ache. I wake up in time for tea and an evening of football disappointment and then night meds and bed, I have become spoonless in no time at all.

Wednesday arrives and at 7:30 I sneeze myself awake. So awake I stay and carry out my getting up rituals, including my vitals, which once again are all good. I lay around injecting fun into the morning by watching a compilation of Milton Jones on Mock the Week, where does this man get his wit and ideas from? Finally I get out of bed and get breakfast. I review the required ingredients for tonight’s beef crockpot one pot stew and to my chagrin I find that there is no red wine in the house. A load of other booze, left over from Christmases and birthdays much of it now vintage given that I’ve not drunk for over five years now lingers in the booze hide away, so faced with this lack of ingredient there is nothing for it but a walk down to the village shop. It is only about ten thirty as I present the check out guy with a paper, two bottles of cheap French red wine and a bag of jelly babies. I could almost hear him saying “poor old bastard” as he watched me load my haul into my BIGSPD (British and Irish Group for the Study of Personality Disorder) conference freebie bag. Seems like an age since I did anything so intellectual as attend a conference.

On arrival at home I find a parcel for me, It is, at last my 15 copies of the Cancer Years from the publishers. I eagerly look at them and note that these copies have my name, in full, printed down the thin spine of the cover. I am chuffed. I leaf through one and note that one poem in the book is not in the contents page. I also notice that two of the poems have the final digit of their number in superscript. How did I not notice that? I will tell you how, because I’m dyslexic, that’s how. I check the editions that came from Amazon , which do not have my name on the spine and sure enough the same omissions are there. so there are now two versions of my book. I’ve no idea if in years to come one will become valuable, probably not.

Book fun over I set about making the beef stew for tonight. I’m quite well kitchen trained so I soon have the meat in a bag with seasoned flour ready to seal and piles of chopped vegetables. I also hunt through the fridge for the dishes of spare stuff that seem to appear from time to time. It all goes into the crockpot followed by the sealed meat. Then comes my secret sauce most of which is red wine of course. By eleven thirty it is all nestled in the slow cooker set for six hours of slow coaxing of its flavours. The kitchen is cleared and I settle down to check I have the ticket for tonight’s trip to the Opera. I discover that I have printed out on A4 the tickets that clearly say ” Show this on your phone” , so that will be fun. I also find that I have failed to book parking. I get onto the website and book a space and down load onto my phone the ticket. Can I find the bloody thing in my phone, no I cannot. I hunt around for ages in all sorts of files and apps I did not know I had and get asked to chose options I do not understand. Eventually I manage to make them images that are in my galley app, that will have to do, but I have a sense that there are more “techno savvy” ways of doing this”. Exhausted by my efforts I have a sandwich and start to draft the blog for today with some opera playing in the background. I may not get a chance later as Carmen does not finish till gone 10 o’clock tonight. It is the Ukrainian Opera company and full orchestra that are performing tonight so I guess the place will be packed. I’m tempted to wear my “Puck Futin” ice hockey hoodie.

It is a wet and miserable day that my partner has gone out in to see her mother. I am working up the energy to shower and to decide what I am going to wear, when the carry cases I ordered for the banjo and guitar arrive, so after getting through the forest of packaging I slip them into their new protection and return them to their stands. It feels comfortable to have them snuggled safely in this inclement weather. Now I can get on with the day.

Showered and clean, my partner returned there is a brief wait for the beef stew to come to its best. I relatively rapid devouring of the food and we are off to the opera, me with my new Loops in my pocket in case the bar noise is too much.

A last entry for the day. The opera was brilliant and I feel uplifted. Night meds and bed with a warm glow for me tonight and I did not need to use my Loops. This has been a good day.

Tuesday and I wake with my partner left for work. I do my rituals including my vitals, all good there. I get up and dress then fix a quick breakfast. Having cleared the kitchen I turn my attention to the long neglected guitars and banjo sitting patiently in the library/music room which is now actually my eldest daughters study as she ploughs her way to a doctorate. I tune the my instruments up and then spend a lot of time playing them and finding out what I can still and what I can no long manage. As my hands stiffen with age and lack of practice I am surprised to find that the Stratocaster is the easiest to play because the action is low on it and has a narrow neck which is easier to barre across. I polish the instruments and order new covers for two of them as they are getting tarnished as they are at the moment. By the end of the morning I am out of finger skin so return them to their home in the library. At some point I need to plug the Strat into the Peavey amp and indulge in some nosy practice.

I make lunch and then Amazon deliver my new Loops. They are a form of ear plug that that attenuate the background sounds so that conversation in noise areas is easier. After my experience at the weekend when I got overwhelmed by the crowd noise at the Murder Mystery evening I thought I would give Loops a try. My choice is to ft the smallest ear piece as my right ear canal is very slim and it turns out a good choice. I will get the chance to test them out at the Opera tomorrow night. The hope is that I will cope with the pre bar crowd better than I did on Saturday.

Well the time for indulgence is over. Oh! Before I forget it is National Unicorn Day, something that has appalled at least one friend. I get the kitchen done and cleared the recycling before getting the bins our for tomorrows collection and notice as I am doing it that my front garden is a swath of forget-me-nots. A blue sea of small blue face like flowers covers most of the beds as the bulbs push into the sky. All of this is self sown, clearly nature knows what it is doing.

The afternoon passes as I try to ensure my poetry numbering is up to date. For some time I try to find the words to acknowledge the poems I have written in the past which have gone for ever but do not succeed, instead I fill the squirrel feeder with the newly arrived peanut supply. I always find a period of concentrated “puttering” always helps. The evening arrives with the return of my partner from work. I am hoping for reading and football time this evening but I’m not sure it will turn out like that.

In the end I get to see football but also a film with opera singing at its heart. It has warmed me up for tomorrows visit to the opera. I take my night chemo meds and retreat to bed or read briefly and then endeavour to settle into a nights sleep.

“THE CANCER YEARS: SO FAR

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Introducing “THE CANCER YEARS: So Far” – a poignant poetry collection penned by Roland Woodward, a retired chartered forensic psychologist from the United Kingdom. Despite battling prostate cancer since 2019, Roland’s dyslexia serves as an unexpected enhancement, allowing him to express his experiences with eloquence and depth.

In this heartfelt anthology, Roland shares his reflections on life, love, and resilience amidst adversity. Each poem offers a glimpse into his journey, chronicling the mundane, crises, and challenges of living with cancer. From moments of vulnerability to flashes of hope, Roland’s verses resonate with authenticity and raw emotion.

Inspired by his battle with cancer, Roland embarked on a poetic endeavor, chronicling his experiences through regular blog posts for family and friends. Now, he invites readers to delve into this intimate collection, offering insight into the complexities of life with a life-threatening illness.

As Roland navigates the nuances of his diagnosis, he finds solace and expression in poetry, joining local poets and considering publication. “THE CANCER YEARS: So Far” marks his first step into the realm of published poetry, with hopes of further collections in the future.

Embark on a journey of resilience, introspection, and hope with Roland Woodward’s “THE CANCER YEARS: So Far” – a testament to the power of the human spirit in the face of adversity.

Read Less”

My gast was well and truly flabbered. It was quite something to start the day with. I get up with this in my head and go to the kitchen to make bagels for breakfast, take my meds and put my clothes away from the weekend trip just to keep my feet on the ground. My plan for the morning goes well and one turkey sandwich later I am ready to get my new bird feed storage dustbin unpacked and into the Shed. This part of my plan goes well and even the recycling goes well. When it comes to the actual food for the wild life I was expecting to find peanuts, to my chagrin it turns out to be bird seed. Not being daunted I manhandle the sack of seed into the garden and fill the new storage dustbin and find a way of getting it into the Shed. With the bird feeders full I finish the recycling and continue to listen to Mock the Week while drafting the blog.

While I do all this I continue to think about the poem I am trying to write about being overcome by the noise of the people at the weekend. It has clearly affected me but I am struggling to find the right words to convey what it was like to stand there overcome by the sheer weight of sound. The experience was one of cacophony, it just alienated me from being in the room with the people there. Sound in the form of music has been some of my most memorable experiences but this was different in that it was so aversive. The sheer experience of that noise made me loose all interest in the people making it and turned it into something that just needed to be survived. I know I was not alone. When I recall looking round the room there were others that had withdrawn to the fringes of the room and were silent and the couple the following morning who apologised for their lack of engagement in conversation at the table because they could not cope with the noise confirmed that I was not alone. Usually I can find a form of words that gets close to such experiences but this time it is proving difficult. This is as far as I ‘ve got with it.

377A
My eyes defocus 
and I am left,
awash on the waves 
of a cornfield of sound. 
Standing in a pack of people 
all talking in that 
good time way.
Louder and louder it grows 
as I sink beneath its tides,
it is unbearable 
as on it sweeps 
building into an ocean
that drowns me. 
Cacophony fills me,
as I falter,
desperate not to hear,
to be struck deaf 
to this babbling;
I retreat to the toilets. 
Sitting there in an oasis 
of ordinary silence,
interrupted only by
the occasional occupant’s
coughs and farts
I find respite. 
If I am to dine and participate
in this nights entertainment 
I must return to the cauldron. 
Sitting at table seven 
trying to make conversation
with nice people,
the pain continues. 

Over breakfast a couple 
come and apologise
for being quiet 
for they too were 
deafened by humanity 
out for a jolly time. 
I know what purgatory 
Is now.  
							377A	07-04-2024	

It is clumsy and lacks the weight with which I experienced it, but it is an attempt. It seemed important to try and capture something of the experience. I am wondering now how I will be on Wednesday when I go to see Carmen, I relish the thought of the opera but now it is the hubbub of the bar before hand that I am wary of. I suppose the answer is to arrive as late as possible and minimise that pre waiting time and become that awkward bastard who arrives at the last moment and clambers over half a row of people to get to their seat. Perhaps my Loops will help if they arrive in time.

The evening looms and I look forward to reading and having my ignorance confirmed by Only Connect and University Challenge, interrupted by the Tesco order when it arrives. So far its been a good day without any sign of Uluru (my bladder stone) creating any problems for me, so it’s business as usual, which is of course me and Rocket fight the best we can against the cancer. I think more and more we are edging towards the reckless or at least giving the rower a go again. I can’t go on being this slothful.

Sunday I wake up after a night of Hematuria which abated by the morning. It was probably the prolonged standing the evening before that triggered but having drunk a lot of water during the night I woke to find myself clear of it. A hot water to wake me up in bed and I was ready to go to breakfast. The hotel is is an impressive place and maintains a a subdued ambience to reflect the historical nature of the place, although so new new bits have clearly been built onto the old Abbey complex to make it a viable hotel and events venue. All owned by Coventry council, so they have found themselves a nice little earner.

Breakfast was taken in the conservatory, all iron and glass. You would think that this impressive looking hotel would do a good breakfast but alas it was average. Its sausages skinny and tasteless, its fried eggs inedible, scrambled egg runny and is muesli a very much do it yourself job. I think I am to some degree a snob as the previous evening I had noted the lack of Armagnac on the drinks menu. However the food was welcome as was the quick acknowledgement from the couple we met on table 7 the previous night. The woman apologised if we thought her to be unchatty but she was having trouble with the loud background noise. I immediately breathed a sigh of relief to know I was not the only person that was struggling with it. There was mutual reassurance that we were all in the same boat. After breakfast my partner and I pack, loaded the car and paid the bill before driving home via the local garden centre to pick up food for the evening. Once home I settled on the recliner and opened my Amazon parcel. My two new collections of stories by Italo Calvino had arrived so I am assured of reading material to feed my brain for a while. Of course I’m not sure which to read first but as they are collections of stories I can dip into them at the same time, so I’m looking forward to the adventure of my new books.

Time to catch up on the blog and to unpack before the rugby on TV this afternoon. As it turns out the unpacking doesn’t happen because my Hematuria intervenes and so I resort to co-codamol, which makes me sleepy and not a little spaced out. I watch a rugby match in a distracted but pain free state followed by Sue Perkins discovering Japan. The evening arrives as does tea and then the decision of what to watch on TV tonight.

My evening is pleasingly full of Professor T and offsets my anxieties about how my night will go. In the end I take my night chemo meds and wait a while to see how I feel. I am tempted to take a dose of pain killers to help me through the night. Tomorrow I have a chance to rest and begin to read my new books and try to finish the poem I started to write today.

Its Saturday and I wake to find my partner showering so I down the drink she brought me and then try to get through my getting up rituals. They go okay including acceptable vitals, I even manage to book the Tesco deliver slot for Monday and fill a basket of semi random food stuffs. However the major task of the morning after a toast breakfast is to pack for the night away at Coombe Abbey Hotel where my partner and I are having a murder mystery evening. Murder followed by disco and then we stay over night. I start to look at my wardrobe. My first choice of outfit has a fly button missing so I spend an age locating the spare button and sewing it on only to find out the trousers are too tight. As I go through my trouser collection all of the trousers that I deem “smart ” prove impossible to get into. Even the ironically hideous Rupert Bear golf trousers do not fit. The only things that fit are jeans, hippy pants and joggers, I am so fucking depressed, I’ve turned into a middle class Wayne and Wannetta look alike. The combination of hormone drugs and inability to train has at last made a significant impact. My jackets and blazers I can still get on, but my tits are too big to get them done up. I eventually pack my overnight holdall with a random selection of wearables and decide to travel in jeans and T shirt. The effort of all this has taken its toll so I resort to the sofa and the capture of the moment on the blog. I suppose I will be buying the next waist size up again on my next shopping trip on the net. I pack my traveling office and wonder about a Demis Roussos outfit or a cut down Bell tent. It appears I can get old and infirmed semi gracefully but getting fat enrages me. I suck it up and try to suck it in and promise myself to be sociable for the rest of the day. It seems my blog is not only for family and friends but is cathartic for me too. Lunch calls before the traveling.

The drive to the hotel went really well without hitch. Reception was a bit slow but they had a lot of events going on. The room was resplendent with a canopied bed and period type bathroom. I needed to rest after the drive and order cheese and crackers as a late afternoon nibble. My partner and I passed the time till it was time to get ready for the evening entertainment. I now have a new fashion look. Hippy pants worn under a formal black shirt with Vivienne Westwood cuff links under a sky blue striped blazer with a mid back length plait. It was the only combination of clothes that was anywhere near comfortable.

At the appointed time we went to the venue to find that we has had been misinformed about the time so we sat for awhile in one of the hotel lounges. When it seemed the right time to go we went to the “Courtroom” and were checked in to the bar areas where everyone was drinking and chatting. The noise was horrendous. People in a largish group with drink all determined to have fun conversations become unbearably loud. It was purgatory. The event got under way late so I stood for 45 minutes in this cacophony of humanity from which there was no respite apart from trips to the toilet that was an oasis of quiet. I know now why people wear ear loops.

The actual meal was good, the company on table 7 were very pleasant and the murder mystery itself was entertaining. I got the murderer wrong, it was the wife, who was basically a psychopath who did it for the kicks, revenge and the money. However it was all good fun. Once over I and my partner retreated to our room. I was near spoonless and needed to rest, take my meds and try to get some sleep. I realise how I need to select my treats carefully and how much not being able to exercise has affected me, I am shocked at my decline and realise how difficult it must be for people to be around me, with my need to rest so much, I am aware that I am no fun anymore. I must find new ways to fight, I am so far away from myself. At least this trip has taught me that.

Friday and I wake and laze. I discover I have a huge amount of crap on one of my email addresses so spend ages unsubscribing to a load of sites I do not recognise. My partner brings me hot water to drink and I do my vitals, (still the arithmetic tells me I am healthy) and then change the one remaining bedside clock into Spring time. I get up for breakfast, clearing the kitchen as I go. With breakfast over and all my logs and journals filled in I now fill my drugs wallets for the next two weeks. Its tedious but I guess I owe my good arithmetic to them. The post brings me my pension upgrade information. Thank you the State for the triple lock. I do my budget recalculations and decide that I can weather the current financial climate. I count myself fortunate that past me overcame my dyslexia, studied, worked and saved when I could in order that present me is financially able to survive. I have little time before I am due to go to the chiropodist so make a first stab at drafting the blog.

My chiropodist is a wizard, I always come away with dancing and and happy feet. It is my bi-monthly feelgood fix of pampering. I am now wondering if I should have my nails done as well but wonder if this is taking self indulgence too far. So here I am with my first poetry collection on another platform and I am wondering if I should make another YouTube video to put up on my channel telling people it is there. On reflection I am inclined to wait until the next collection, The Travelling Years, is out there as well. I am aware that this is never going to make me money and I suppose that is the true definition of a Vanity Poet or at least a hobbyist. With that reflected upon I set out to research which other works by Calvino I want to read. My research leads me to order two more of his short stories, so I have new reading to feed me in the future.

The evening arrives and apart from a couple of regular programmes that I watch it is likely that the last two episodes of Nominated Survivor will get watched. Netflix cut the series after series three so I shall move onto the new series of Professor T on ITV-X. I am of course being deliberately sedentary and inactive in order to be able to go on the planned weekend treat of a murder mystery meal and a night away. After the aborted Spar experience I am determined to be good for this treat. As a result I am in “meander” mode till I reach night meds time and then hopefully “dead to the world” mode of sleep.

Thursday and I wake somewhat late and dopey probably because I took co-codamol before going to bed last night. My fit bit shows an unusual sleep pattern where I had multiple deep sleep periods soon after I went to bed. This is not my usual pattern. I am in no rush to get up today, as I am bent on recovering fully from yesterdays 28 day injection and the trip to the hospital. I watch some more Mock the Week on my phone and then decide that I need to find a name for my bladder stone. I considered several. 1, Sisyphus, the chap who rolled a stone uphill for ever, 2, Eric, after the little girls pet stone in the film “What We Did On Our Holiday”, 3, Dwayne, after Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, 4, Watts after the dead Rolling Stone, 5, Bob the bladder stone. I think there may have been others but I finally settled for: drum roll:

Uluru

Uluru? why you ask, because its a rock down under!

With the name decide on I am able to get on with my day, starting with taking my vitals, which of course are all good. Having got up hideously late I make a favourite fried egg sandwich for lunch, down my morning meds and start an afternoon of absolute sloth, but not before clearing the kitchen. I check my new IngramSpark account, which is a global publishing site that I have signed up to in order to go beyond the Amazon site. I see that the Cancer Years: So Far is being processed to be released on several platforms apart from Amazon. I have fantasies of going down big in America, but of course that really is a fantasy, even though America have a history of producing some great poets, I doubt my stuff will dent the American consciousness. Having dined I draft the blog and then settle down to read Marcovaldo by Calvino. I like this collection of short stories about Marcovaldo, as the stories have some neat twists and are short enough to savour like sweets. I should explain that this period of slothdom is condoned and encouraged by my partner as we have a weekend adventure organised some time ago. Its a murder mystery meal and stay at a hotel. I am determined to do what ever it takes to ensure that this happens unlike our aborted attempt to have a Spar break last week. So my sloth is purposeful, like a crocodile I lay still until my prey is in snapping range and then I shall strike and acquire nutrition for time to come. One thing I learnt in America at the crocodile farm we visited was that most people killed or injured by crocodiles is caused by them kicking the crocodile to see if its still alive! Nature has a way of weeding out the thick.

My afternoon was taken up with reading Marcovaldo, which I finish and write a couple of draft poems. The family eat a late tea after which I settle down to watch football and Designated Survivor simultaneously till I take my night meds and go to bed. I have managed to verify my first poetry collection on a new platform, which I hope goes well. I am hoping that today I have saved some spoons towards my planed weekend treat.