The Latest ...

Waitings rooms are not good places, and it is fair to say that Mary and I sat in the Cancer Unit feeling about as comfortable as Heather Mills at a Beatles convention. The news really isn't great, although there are a few positives. The postives are that the tumours on my lungs have decreased in size very slightly and that my liver is also clear. However, the main tumours in my pelvis have been untouched by the chemo. More worrying is the fact that my CEA level is much higher than expected and high enough to cause the oncologist concern. The CEA test measures the level of activity of the disease and so it is reasonable to assume that things are kicking off a bit, and that it is going to take much stronger chemo to contain it. That said, we are going to continue with the current regime (and the painkillers) until either things get too painful, or the tumours spread. At that point, I will go onto the 'combination chemo' which, sadly, is almost inevitably going to cause me problems.

So, what to pray for, for those of you who believe in it? I really want this chemo that I am continuing with to suppress the disease for a good few months. This is unlikely due to my CEA level, but then I guess that's why we are praying for it. If I can get through the summer before they bring out the 'big guns' then there will be a new deputy in place at school, and I am going to feel a lot better when I have to leave work during the treatment (which is likely).

The oncologist asked which parts of life I would want to reserve energy for, in the event of going onto the new treatment. I think he anticipated my reply about being able to get out and about with the family and I am sure he was waiting for me to refer to 'managing to work part-time.' However, he looked bemused when I added, " ... doing poetry readings and getting to Betty's tearoom." Each to their own.

And so I leave you with a photo of Naomi and I taken last summer ... a reminder that we, as a family, have been saved from horribly bleak circumstances in the past (see A Decade Of Naomi, posted on 21.6.07).

Two Poems, Not About Illness!

Brace yourselves for a change in topic ... two poems on the subject of travelling with eyes shut, one about Joel and one about me. You'll be glad to know that the journey during which I travelled with my eyes shut didn't involve me driving...

Tuesday is the big consultation at the hospital ... scan results that will show the effects, if any, of the chemo. I will post an update later this week.

Thanks for checking the blog. Hope you like these ...





Eyes Shut On A Fast Train


Passing open fields,
a wash of sunset soaking
through, bathing my eyes.

Trees, bridges, pylons.
The neon starts to flicker.
A loose connection?

Buildings gather round.
Black sticks beat a fast rhythm.
A pulse starts to race.

A tunnel. (So soon?)
Dark. The staircase to bed. The
last glimpse of a film.





Shadows

Sliding from the dashboard
over your legs, waist, chest.
Hands can’t swat or trap
the black ghosts
rushing for your face.
They won’t hurt me!
Won’t hurt me!

Trying to peel them off
you haul the zip beneath your chin.
But they'll only find your jumper,
T-shirt,
skin.

You strain against the seatbelt,
jerking at every black burst
on clenched eyelids
until, at last, a queue lets me reach
for the travel blind.

Go to sleep,
because our direction will change;
the sun is moving round.

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No Sleep 'Til Kettering ...

Strands of sunshine eventually force their way through the gap between the curtains of my room. Morning. London is quiet, too quiet. It must be early. I get up and look out the window, pleased to see the sun softening the patchwork of tiled Victorian roofs. In the kitchen, teabags are being dropped into cups as a kettle reaches boiling point. I head down the stairs and take my place at the table. Soon Cole appears, clearly having wakened only seconds before. He has never looked less like his promotional photo on the flier. We exchange a glance as we both reach for the Frosties. We know it's the last day of the tour ... Kettering awaits us. Soon we would be driving away from The Smoke, turning our backs on our opening night (twelve hours before, but it felt more like fifteen.) The M1 ... diet Coke ... Ginster's Buffet Bars ... queing for fuel.
For those about to rhyme ... we salute you!
The shortest tours are often the best, in my experience.

This is a quick post just to say a big thank you to my very good friends in Kettering for turning out in droves and supporting us last Saturday at the poetry reading. It was a great experience for Cole, Martin and myself, but perhaps especially for me as it reminded Mary and I of your loyalty and support. Invaluable! Thank you! It will be one of those memories that I look back on for a very long time.

Thanks also to St. Luke's, Holloway for a great evening on the Friday night. Again, kind people with encouraging words. Let's hope we can do it again sometime.

I think I might accidentally have just written a poem that isn't about illness. I am a bit taken aback myself. When I get it right, I'll post it on the blog, just to give us all a break ...

44 and not counting ...

Birthday Celebrations


I am just about to finish the third chemo cycle out of four. (The routine is for me to have chemo for two weeks and then to have a week’s break so that my body can recover; this happens four times.) My visits to the hospital have been quite encouraging and blood tests suggest that my kidney and liver function is normal and also that my white blood cell count is high enough for me to fight off infection. I have to say that to the surprise of many (including myself) I am feeling really well. The skin on my hands and feet has started to peel a bit (lovely image, I know) but other than that … fine! What is even more encouraging is that I have now been completely off pain-killers for over a week. Until I started chemo I was absolutely dependant on them, so it is a good result indeed. So what is the reward for my stamina and resilience? Well, the doctors have decided to increase my period of chemo from three months to six if I remain well until mid-march, which is when the fourth cycle ends. We still face the harsh reality of the disease being in my pelvis, lungs and bones and I guess that has prompted the decision. Anyway, if this very tolerable chemo regime slows the cancer’s progress, then we are happy and very grateful. A scan in March will confirm the effect of the treatment

And so to family news. I’m sure it will surprise none of you that Mary is in the village panto. She is playing the part of a degenerate buffoon … something she has been able to observe at close quarters for almost twenty years. Naomi and Martha are also in it which leaves Joel and I free for a quick visit to Scotland this weekend. On the national theme, Scottish poet Ronnie Kerr and I enjoyed two readings in and around York last weekend. They were well supported by kind people who had nice things to say. A big ‘thank you’ to them. The tour continues with Cole Moreton and Martin Wroe, and we are visiting St. Luke’s Church, Holloway, London on 15th February and Christ The King Church, Kettering on 16th February. I have a reading in Paris later on in March (he dropped casually … you see I really will go anywhere, even after the weekend’s rugby) and two booked for April ...Bristol and Northwood, London.

Well I will bid you farewell on this first day of Lent. Have you given anything up? On the radio this morning a bishop was suggesting that rather than giving something up (negative overtones and all that) we should consider taking something up instead. Good advice, and so I have started shoplifting.

Thanks as always for visiting the blog and for your support.

Almost Half Way ...

Belated New Year wishes! I hope that you had a good celebration wherever you were at the time and that the return to normal life has been bearable for you. We had a great time over the season, with my brother Simon coming down from Scotland and my brother Phil and family coming over from Paris. We are all back to school now and reminding ourselves every morning that the nights are getting shorter.

This is just a brief post to update you on the chemo. Many of you have been kind enough to email and enquire. I will be half-way through the pill taking on Friday, and then there will be a week's break from the pills which will take me to half way through the whole treatment. For those of you who have been praying that I get away lightly in terms of the long list of side-effects, keep going! It's working. I can honestly say that, other than tiring quickly in certain circumstances, I am free from any side-effects. (This is all against the back-drop of the hopsital recommending that I stop taking the chemo three days before Christmas so that I had energy to enjoy the day with the children ... ie. it is surprising.)

So what's ahead? I am really looking forward to doing some 'living room' poetry readings with some very talented friends. Two readings booked for York, one for London, one for Kettering and another due to be booked for London later in March. They are great fun to do and very cathartic for me, so if you haven't invited me to read in your living room ... why?! As well as that, Mary and I are escaping to the Lake District for another child-free weekend away. Oh joy! Kind brother Phil is heading over to look after our cherubs. He is seriously building up treasure in heaven. Talking of which, Joel has just started saying "Oh dear," at the top of the stairs which means that he has done something regrettable that will probably cause his mother and I to be perturbed for an hour or two ... like last Wednesday when he somehow managed to empty a bathful of water onto the bathroom floor and through our kitchen ceiling. When I made it up the stairs and was treading water in the bathroom, looking him in the eye as he sat in the empty bath, he furrowed his brow and said, "Cold ... "
Yep, live and learn, son.

Falling

Falling
“Lord, I believe; help my unbelief.” (Mark 9:24)

My child leans off the edge of the frame,
the ground three times her height away.
I hold her gaze during the moment’s fall
before I am enmeshed in
the ivy-bind of arms
and the silk web of her hair.
.

My child forgets the rule,
stands up in the boat,
stretches towards me.
He disappears beneath waist-high waves,
down to where my feet chill
on corrugated sand.
Dragging him out, I hold him
as he laughs from the safety of my shoulder,
his glossy hands drawing heat
from my skin.
.

I am falling, gaining speed,
arms wide like sycamore seeds.
With eyes tight shut against the upward rush,
its brush against my skin is the assured hand of Thomas;
its hoarse blather in my ears, the loosened tongue of Zechariah
blessing his first born.

A Quick Update

In short, the news isn't good. We met with the doctors this morning to receive the results of the blood test and the scan. Unfortunately, the cancer has spread in my lungs and further into the bones of my pelvis. Chemotherapy has already started and will run initially for three months. On the positive side, this regime is taken in tablet form but sadly it is going to be tougher than last time. For this reason I am going to have two weeks on the tablets and one week off. Not the best start to Christmas celebrations, but it can't be helped. For 25% of patients this regime will shrink the tumours. For a further 25% it will just keep the cancer stable. For the other half it will do nothing at all. If I end up in the latter scenario, they will factor in a stronger drug introvenously to run alongside the first regime which should up the chances of there being shrinkage/stability. This other drug has tended to cause shrinkage in 40% of cases and stability in 75%. After that, if I am one of the unlucky 25% for which it does 'hee haw,' then they swap the second drug with a third one. If that doesn't work ...we'll cross that bridge at that point.

Mary and I were both very aware that the doctor mentioned my death for the first time, during his explanation of the treatment, and although we have known for over a year that my demise is a foregone conclusion for the medical staff, it still felt a bit raw. Our faith is still there, however, not in any triumphalist sense, but we have always accepted that I can survive this if God chooses. I think I have said in the past that we would never say it it is certainly going to happen, and I think all Christians are allowed a degree of doubt. However, we do believe that it is one possibility alongside all the other grim ones.

The list of side effects runs from inflamed hands and feet, through to mouth ulcers and vomiting and finally ends with death! He emphasised that this was a list of possibilities and not expected effects. For those of you who believe in prayer, as well as praying for the obvious, I really want to get off lightly as far as the side effects go, because if I don't it is going to lead to all manner of questions from Naomi, who worries that every sneeze and cough is caused by my illness and is therefore a sure sign of deterioration. I really don't want the children to know at this point what the stakes are.

We are just quietly taking all this in for the moment and I am sure we will surface again soon. That said, we are not hiding away and we will be very happy to see/hear from you as usual. I am pretty determined to keep life as normal as possible and who knows, perhaps in three months things will be looking much better. I feel a poem starting from somewhere, so watch this space.