Scanning the horizon

What you see as you scan the horizon depends on what you're looking for..

I'm never too far away from the thought that more treatment looms big on my horizon. Yesterday we got the CT scan results. The tumours in the liver and the lymph nodes are back up to the same size as they were last September, when I was first diagnosed. The orginal tumour in my stomach and oesophagus is nearly, but not quite, as big.

Justin (the Research Registrar that knows me as well as Sarah my Consultant) was clearly saying that I still looked great and that he wasn't about to dive straight in with more chemo immediately, but that treatment in the Autumn looked likely. They'll continue to deliberate over exactly what chemical cocktail might be best in the meantime. They want to top me up with a couple more units of blood next week (but I think that's mainly because Patrick, my Lead Nurse and my mum have now met(!) and he doesn't want to run the risk of us needing to find out where the nearest hospital is, in France next week!) They think the stomach tumour is still oozing a bit but my weight is stable and my swallowing difficulty isn't a problem at the moment.

So, so much for the facts - what about the feelings? Like I said, it depends what's on your horizon. I took yesterday's news pretty well. I'm almost childlike in my ability to block out everything but today. They didn't cancel my holiday with Sue and co and mum and dad. They told me how well I looked, and that's always nice! We even worked out how to get blood into me without too much disruption to my plans with Julie and Flo (down from Sheffield). Bizarrely I was almost buoyant.

This, as you might imagine, was fairly dreadful for Chris who was nothing short of devastated. Chris lives with me every day telling people how fine I feel. He had begun to believe that facing chemo again was far off on his horizon - maybe early next year? Maybe after his current contract finishes in March and he has tied up the loose ends of ten years community work? Maybe once we're into our new regime of Asha at full-time Nursery and Kirin at Stepping Stones two days a week, and we've got more time to work and play together and alone?

Maybe sometime - no, definitely sometime. But NOT just round the corner.

What you need to know about Chris and me is that all I have to do is face the 'physical fight' while Chris manages (and I mean 'manages') the issues for our whole family.

Add to this what's really going for Chris right now - somewhere deep in his pysche and his soul is a fear that you can't expect chemo to be so effective twice. Not only is he facing the practicalities of my being out of action again for a few months but it brings forward his greatest fear - that this, just could be, the "home strait" for us. Now Chris certainly doesn't lack fight or faith, he just has to face a different horizon...

Tears are flowing as I write. They always have done more for his journey than mine.

Asha asked me about why I had gone into hospital. She knows about skeletons and blood and being tired. She doesn't know much more than that, and that's ok right now.

'would (you) trade in all the pain and suffering?
ah, but then you'd miss
the beauty of the light upon this earth
and the sweetness of the leaving'

I know I shouldn't really get into commenting on Comments (I've tried not to before as it could get out of hand) but... thank you for those Jane Siberry lyrics - reminds me of many a happy evening with a bottle of wine and pasta, learning harmonies with Chris B, Debbie, Cailean and Mary et al in those Hoxton Hall days and thank you Scott - for reminding me how world-wide the web is and how world-wide all this stuff is.

I'm going to finish with a little moment in the Homerton last week. Most of the nursing care was nothing short of shocking. I don't mean unsafe, I just mean bad mannered! This was a bedside moment I'll treasure.

I recognised one of the nurses from the first blood transfusion I'd had. I don't think she really remembered me, even when I mentioned the cancer diagnosis and the six month-old, who was crawling all over my bed and ocasionally getting breast fed. She said, as nurses, they get used to spotting cancer patients. She said I didn't have that 'look'. She left to get a new tube and I suddenly felt tears prick. Maybe just remembering back had made me emotional? Maybe letting Chris drive away with the kids had been hard, even though it felt right? Maybe the craziness of being in the hospital had finally hit me?

She returned and said (completely out of the blue) 'hope you dont mind me asking but, are you a believer?' I told her (a bit surprised) that I was. And she described how she had come around the curtain to my bed and my corner of the ward and felt the presence of God! She said it felt all tingley on her arms. I wondered whether it was that, that had touched the tears for me just at that moment. I felt grateful and still feel grateful for that brush with the angels...

Thank God we're not in this on our own. If you're the praying types please pray with us at the moment - and particularly for Chris.

By the way I brought the pink number in a market in Amsterdam with Sue (she found it!). I hardly had any hair at the time but a three weddings on the horizon - the perfect excuse! Thinking of you newly-weds Nick and Becs, Lucy and Martin, Angelle and Danny. It's been a great Summer!