Well, happily I am still infection free. My health has been good since leaving hospital and I have been able to get out and about. It's not all plain sailing, however. My consultant confirmed that the scan showed deterioration. There are more tumours in my lungs and a new one on my sternum, which is painful and slightly raised. The ones in my pelvis are also larger. For this reason, he is voting to discontinue all treatement - certainly for now and probably for good, unless I turn up suddenly incredibly improved. It is difficult news, to be honest. At least when you are having treatment you feel that you are doing something that might work! We now have a sense of just waiting for things to get worse.

To raise stress levels further, my school has just undergone an Ofsted inspection. I decided with the Governors that it was best if I didn't go in. I have been off since the end of January and have therefore lost touch with the new initiatives that have been introduced. It was very difficult! I had to more or less strap myself to the sofa. We were judged to be a 'Good' school with some 'Outstanding' features. It was what we were all hoping for and so it is relief all round.

Lastly, Mary and I enjoyed a fantastic couple of days in a luxury hotel, as my brother Phil and his wife Rosemary were over to look after our children. It was a great time and we returned feeling much more relaxed. Fantastic!

I will leave you with a couple of poems that I have written in the past month. Thanks again for visiting the blog:


Sorting

Down to counting months,
we sort through my wardrobe.

I try to call judgment from the bed
on running shoes, tracksuit,
redundant items
bought for a healthy body.

They hover above the charity sack
wide beside us
before being laid back
in their place.

Dropping in a few token tops,
a shirt too baggy for my shrunken frame,
we make space for the clothes you’ve just bought me-
that jumper for next year’s winter,
a shirt for the summer holiday we are planning.




Ward 31

Exhibited in a ward,
mounted on a mattress.
His rack of ribs shrouded
in a light blue gown.

Half words
carried on a draught of breath
fall
out
between dropped-marble-tin coughs.
A son leans in to catch,
disentangling meaning from
the rambling bramble-bind
of pain relief.

His face remains
a mosaic mask
as a nurse relates loudly
the non-events of the day.
I look, as the one-time
son, lover, husband,
grafter, manager, coper,
disappears behind
a slowly-drawn curtain.