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Playing to the Gallery

I am with Amanda, Eleanor and Maddy and we are having a celebratory dinner the evening before Eleanor’s wedding. Ellie and Alex have brought their wedding day forward by a month, just in case. I pooh-pooh the necessity of doing this but, as it turns out, it is the right thing to do. We are excited and happy and having a lovely evening.

The next morning we are at the hotel just about to have…

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23rd April 2018

We are on an Easter break in Dorset. I am cycling from Durdle Door, down to Lulworth Cove, then up past Corfe Castle and out along the hill-top range to Studland Bay. From the top I can see right across Poole Harbour. It’s beautiful, hilly and challenging, but the reward for the ups is always the view and the freewheel down the other side. I meet Amanda at Studland for coffee in the sunshine, then cycle back to Durdle Door. Odd that the hills seems a little steeper on the way back…

These are strange times. It’s sometimes quite lonely in this hinterland between chemotherapy and doing nothing. I’m feeling my way slowly but with a sense of urgency. It’s a huge effort to stay focussed and resolute – I don’t always.

Most days I read something about nutrition and trying to survive cancer. I buy far too many books, piles of which taunt me as I move round the house. I have found some good reliable sources online, and some informative and generous specialist groups on Facebook.

I get advice from a naturopath, so I daily take a dandelion and burdock decoction (liver flush), digestive enzymes (stomach repair), and several food supplements. I take a teaspoon of Bicarbonate of Soda in water (“for Bubbly Batters!”) to add oxygen, and a few drops of cannabis oil every night, (to shrink the tumours, hopefully). The only side effect of the oil is a deeper night’s sleep, and slight tiredness during the day, so I nap most afternoons.

My diet is zero sugar, very low carbs, lots of fresh/organic veg, and a little fruit. No starchy food, nothing processed, nothing ‘white’. Pasta is wholewheat, rice is whole or wild. We have rediscovered polenta and quinoa. I take plenty of flax and olive oils, and I’ve been advised to cut down from twelve eggs a week to four.

Manda is with me all the way in finding new foods and recipes. Much of our diet is heading towards vegan, but without giving it a name. I still eat fish and some chicken, although I need to know it’s provenance. If I’m out to eat I’ll avoid chicken altogether. I snack on mixed unsalted nuts, and sip on water with fresh lemon throughout the day. Trying to stay alkaline is key, and the lemony water converts to alkaline in the stomach. I’ve bought litmus papers to check the acidity of my urine – that’s not too nerdy is it?

It’s hard going.

Despite all these good intentions, I do fall off the wagon frequently. I meet a friend in town for coffee and I am seduced by a Pain au Raisin. It is delicious. That’s definitely a black mark right there. I vow never to do that again – yeah, just like last time. Sympathetic friends will say “Go on, enjoy yourself, it’s only one, it won’t do any harm.” But how do you know? Does one Pain au Raisin set me back? By a day? A week?

I know I’m being hard on myself, but I have no way to measure how well I’m doing. I had a huge wobble recently after a visit from a well-meaning hospice nurse. They don’t tend to encourage, they just nod in a way that says ‘you carry on if it makes you feel better but you’re deluding yourself.’ So I ended up questioning everything, thinking it’s all a waste of time, and feeling a fool for even trying. Bring on the cakes and biscuits!

I’m back on track now.

In case you don’t know, one of my biggest pleasures is cycling, and I’m so grateful to be able to don my MAMIL persona and set off to do 30 or 40 miles quite comfortably. I’m back on my summer bike now, my beautiful Cannondale SuperSix Evo, and in glorious sunshine last weekend I rode, with a good cycling buddy, a 65 mile sportive starting in Milton Keynes and coming south into the hilly Chilterns. All the indoor turbo-training sessions I’ve done over the winter are paying off.

That’s it for now. We have an exciting few weeks ahead of us, Ellie’s wedding is coming up fast. I have my suit, I’ve written my speech, and my shoes are polished. We are good to go!

On the way down to Dorset, we stopped at a surreal little place – a Reptile and Raptor Centre. Lizards and birds of prey to the layman. I think reptiles are a bit creepy, so I was pleased to have plate glass between me and them.

The Dorset coastline, which we love, and The Gang, who we also love 🙂

Cycling Clean 23rd April 2018 We are on an Easter break in Dorset. I am cycling from Durdle Door, down to Lulworth Cove, then up past Corfe Castle and out along the hill-top range to Studland Bay.

#cancer stories #cycling #Dorset #X100F

Is it too late?

Is he still breathing?

Yes.

Then it’s not too late.

It’s exactly a year since my diagnosis. I am in the NHS cancer care system at Mount Vernon, and it’s exemplary. I am looked after with kindness and respect, and I am given the best treatment available for my cancer.

Things are about to change.

We are in the familiar consulting room, for, as it turns out, the last time. I won’t miss the drab blue walls, the faded Canaletto prints, the examination bed, the chilly bareness. The consultant comes in and sits opposite us with my large folder of notes on his lap. He says the words that I’m expecting. “It’s not good news. The chemo hasn’t worked this time.” The lesions in my liver have grown from 2cm to 9cm in five months, since October. He offers me second line chemo, which is another round of intravenous treatment, works in a slightly different way from before, takes place over three continuous months, and has the same side-effects plus diarrhoea. It may give me another two to three months.

I say I’d like to think about it. He says let me know and bustles out. I feel very flat on the way home, wondering how much I can fit in to the few short months I have left.

With the support of Amanda and the girls, I decide not to have more chemo. We all agree that there is no advantage in enduring three months of discomfort with no real quality of life, for such a limited and uncertain outcome.

As the days pass I feel more encouraged. Partly because I am not on any medication, and I’m relieved to be living the best life I can for as long as I’ve got. I am fully recovered from the side effects of the last round of chemo, I’m feeling well and working on my fitness. And also partly because, by chance, I met and old friend who is also battling cancer, and is choosing deliberately not to have chemo. Such a brave person, inspirational, and oddly, reassuring. We talk a lot.

I am researching the sometimes weird world of alternative therapies, and I have a meeting booked next week with an alternative medical practitioner. There is certainly a lot of crazy stuff out there, and gradually I am learning to see through the hysteria, wild claims and ‘cures’. I am reviewing and adjusting my diet, and now I can take as many vitamins and food supplements as I like with no wagging fingers from the oncologist or pharmacist. And while it’s so cold outside I’m on the bike turbo-training indoors three times a week.

I feel good and more positive then I have done in weeks. I can think clearly and my body feels like it’s mine. I know there is still hope. It’s not too late.

Here are some shots I took in moody winter-lit Broadstairs and Margate. The last frame is seconds before I got a soaking 🙂

Is It Too Late? Is it too late? Is he still breathing? Yes. Then it's not too late. It's exactly a year since my diagnosis.

#Broadstairs #cancer stories #Margate #X100F

Couldn’t get our speedy act together this morning so we catch the rush hour/school run traffic all the way to Mount Vernon.

My oncologist comes into the hospital meeting room with a young doctor in tow. She’s not introduced, but we smile our hello to her. We give Mark the story of the last three weeks. He’s concerned about the lack of advice and support we have had from the hospital, and asks Amanda to note down a time-line for him. He also asks if we have an assigned Macmillan nurse for home. No. He’ll sort that out.

I ask him if the oral chemo I’m on works alone. Not really, he says, it only works in conjunction with intravenous chemo. He acknowledges that he has hit me hard with the treatment this time.

Manda bravely asks the What If question – what if we stop taking everything – how long have I got? He says ‘I don’t know. You’re a unique case. You should be dead by now. I might parade you round the wards!’ As compliments go, that’s the first he’s ever given us. He’s actually smiling. I think we all are. Between us, we are doing something right – his horrible drugs, our diet and my ridiculous cycling habit. This is by far the longest meeting we’ve ever had with him. He seems calm and unhurried, we sense a change in how we are regarded. I may have become A Curiosity.

I ask about the scans and the implications of not seeing clearly into the stomach. He says it’s very rare that the primary kills you, it’s the secondries. So being able to see how my liver is doing is the key thing, and that is clearly shown on the CT scan.

We ask about other treatments and drug trials. He says that there is a drug that is available only if you have private health insurance, which we don’t. He says he’ll have to come up with a cunning plan, and he’ll think about that. I may have to man-up and accept more intravenous treatment in due course. In the meantime he’ll arrange the next CT scan, and I’m ok to stay off chemo for a month, when we’ll meet again to review.

This truly is an emotional roller-coaster. Although I feel buoyant, Manda feels drained. The month off will give us a chance to regroup, hopefully to smooth out the emotional ups and downs, and as the days get a little longer and warmer I’ll be out on the bike. The diet continues, but I have allowed myself a chocolate biscuit. Whoop! whoop!

Here are some images from our walk this afternoon. We had the best of the day.

A Curiosity Couldn't get our speedy act together this morning so we catch the rush hour/school run traffic all the way to Mount Vernon.

#cancer stories #walking #X100F

Running on Empty

One week ago.

I’m recovering, at last. It’s been a grim week, in bed for five days running to the loo every hour and a half. If I could have dragged the loo into bed with me I would have. I’ve never felt so ill. I could feel my mind closing down, thoughts disappearing, all sub-conscious effort focussed on getting my body over this toxic shock. I was physically wrung out.

Days later when I…

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#cancer stories #Chinatown #Street Photography #X100F

5th January 2018

It’s 07.30 and I’m in Phlebotomy at Mount Vernon having my bloods done. All routine. Next stop is the chemo suite for my 08.00 appointment. Well, once my notes have been found and the blood test results are in it’s 08.45. By 09.00 I’m hooked up to the chemo.

Except there is a problem. Unknown to me I am severely dehydrated, and in two hours, just before the chemo has finished, I am very sick. The small bowl of muesli I had at 6.30 this morning returns exactly as a small bowl of muesli. Screens are hurriedly drawn around me, and I am given a painful shot of anti-emetic straight into my bicep. I am shaky and hot. The chemo and flush is complete, the nurses steadily doing what they do best around me, unlimited sick bowls and tissues proffered and sympathetic looks. I sit for another 20 minutes before I can stand, with intense and painful tingling in my arms, hands and feet.

At home I am sick again and go straight to bed. Amanda is understandably worried as this hasn’t happened before. Well, not quite like this anyway. She calls MV. After being passed around various help desks, arrives at the Acute Oncology Service where an understanding woman goes through all my symptoms and then asks if I have a temperature. Manda grapples with the unopened box of a new digital thermometer we bought months ago while the woman patiently waits. The thermometer is thrust into my ear, a button pressed, and my temperature is 38.2. She says go to A & E.

I feel like rubbish, and the last thing I want to do is go to A & E with the prospect of an overnight stay. We hastily pack a few things.

It’s Friday night and Watford A & E is jammed. I’m admitted, and told to wait in the packed waiting room, along with maybe 60 or 70 other unhappy people. Amanda asks if there is somewhere less full of coughing and sneezing as my immune system is very low. Sorry, no. We find two seats beyond the waiting room in an industrial fluorescent-lit corridor packed with very poorly people laying on trolleys, their ambulance crews waiting and chatting together until their charges can be admitted. It looks like the world’s end.

I am called, and a cheery nurse checks my blood pressure, pulse and temperature. I’m now at 36.8 degrees, my pulse is 90 bpm. It’s usually 60 bpm. The nurse goes off to consult, and I am lead to another bay where another smiley nurse says I am to have a litre of fluids intravenously, another blood pressure test, and bloods taken for analysis. The bloods that I had done at Mount Vernon this morning aren’t accessible because MV is in a different trust to Watford. Hey ho.

So I’m cannulated again, bloods taken, and I’m given a fast infusion of saline. I notice the dark lines on my red palms pale a little, and think maybe that’s indicative of dehydration. It’s not. It’s Hand-foot syndrome, also called Palmar-Plantar Erythrodysesthesia. “It is a side effect of some cancer treatments. Hand-foot syndrome causes redness, swelling, and pain on the palms of the hands and/or the soles of the feet. Sometimes blisters appear.” Yes, I have all that. I realise that I have been drinking much less than usual – everything just tastes off to me. I’m not having coffees or teas. Cordials went out of the window way back. The only drink I enjoy is the fresh juice I make each morning – but that’s only one glassful.

My blood pressure and temperature are checked every hour and are now normal. My blood tests are fine, I feel okay and just want to get home. The doctor is still worried that I could have an infection, and insists on a chest xray and urine sample. The xray is quickly done and all clear. I balk at the urine sample – weeing to order is not a strong point of mine. So we are given the all-clear anyway, and we leave A & E at one in the morning, both of us shattered.

I know the NHS is a flawed system, but it’s a system worth fighting for. I was treated with cheery kindness by every one of the five busy, busy nurses and doctor who saw to me, and didn’t pay a penny. They were more thorough than I thought necessary, but that’s them being professional and me not wanting a fuss made. We are very fortunate.

I have eighteen tablets to take each day for the next few days, ten of them to counter the side-effects of the eight Capecitabine chemo tabs. I am tired, feel sick and have diarrhoea. The fight goes on. Pass the water.

Introducing Eleanor’s lovely eight month old whippet Scout. She is named after the narrator and protagonist in ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’. Scout is a lovely calm dog, very different to the dogs that we have previously had here! Of course, she has her own Instagram page, so you can follow her adventures here.

Do click on the images to see them bigger.

Too Much Detail – Probably 5th January 2018 It's 07.30 and I'm in Phlebotomy at Mount Vernon having my bloods done. All routine.

#cancer stories #Fuji X #Scout the Whippet #X100F

Pleading, Beseeching, Begging

The consulting room has two small prints on the wall – scenes of Venice by Canaletto, faded to pink. I tell the consultant I have numb hands and feet, and I don’t have the energy to ride my bike. He gruffly says you’d be mad to ride in this weather. I see him note down ‘lethargic’. He hasn’t yet seen the results of my earlier blood test. He’d rather see people to assess them than rely on bloods,…

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#Kings College Cambridge #X100F

The anticipation of a new round of chemo treatment makes me nervous and tetchy for a few days before. We have an awkwardly timed day ahead – 9 am consultant’s meeting, and then 3 pm in the chemo suite. We are in the busy morning waiting room at Mount Vernon. My name is called and I am weighed and measured (the chemo dose is made up accordingly) and we are lead to the drab consulting room. We sit between a sink and a bin marked Offensive Waste. Mo comes in. He is a familiar face now, a senior registrar who seems assuredly knowledgeable and kind. He says my bloods are fine and he is happy for me to begin treatment again. I ask him the same question that I asked Sarah the Macmillan nurse a week ago. Can the treatment just carry on? For years? Yes, he says, palliative care can continue indefinitely with adjustments made to treatment and drugs as necessary. I take great heart from that – I see my life elongate before me.

We get back to the car and on a whim decide to go to Dunstable Downs for coffee and a very blowy walk. It does us both good to clear our heads at least momentarily – the chemo process is arduous and taxing. It’s a bright, clear and sunny day. We can lean on the wind. A glider hangs motionless in the blue above the hill, caught in a delicate balance of lift and airspeed.

The chemo suite is a modern high-ceilinged space with slivers of coloured glass set into the big long wall. Big windows at each end of the room let in late afternoon light. There are 19 blue reclining chairs and one bed. The room is full. Tracy the nurse fusses around me, tapping and turning my arms for a suitable vein. She is kind and caring, never rushing. Today she has a male trainee nurse with her, and he is to insert the cannula. He says he needs the practice. He says he’s been a trainee for a week. Tracy shows him which way up to hold the needle, and tells him to imagine he’s landing a plane, swooping down and landing on the runway and into my vein in one deft curved movement. He dives straight in, crashes and burns, completely destroying the runway. Manda has left the room. They find another vein and he crash lands on that one too. Tracy takes over flight control and establishes a flight path over my other arm. First approach aborted with a collapsed vein, fourth time lucky with a perfect insertion. I feel like a colander.

The medicine I’m on is slightly different this time round. I’m not getting the bright red Epirubicin – the consultant now thinking the side effects outweigh the benefits. It is horrible stuff. The nurse has to stay and watch while it drips in, just in case it spills into surrounding tissue. If that happens all hell breaks loose, sirens go off, red lights flash and muscly men in Hazmat suits swarm in and quarantine the whole area, before hosing me down with decontamination sprays. Ok, that last bit might be exaggerated, but only a bit. But not having Epirubicin should mean I keep my luscious new curly locks, some feeling in my fingers, and not be so knocked out afterwards. I am though on a higher dose of the oral chemo Capecitabine which I take at home.

I watch the nurses work. If only they pointed their toes a little more it could be a Matthew Bourne ballet. Some move quickly, stopping suddenly to check where they are next needed. Others glide purposefully across the room. Support staff push trolleys between obstacles and pirouette around each other in the few open spaces between chairs. There is a sense of rhythm, the pumps bleeping randomly, and then in synch, and then randomly again. Gestures and coded looks pass between the nurses – they are a close group and have a familiar sign language that smooths out their time and tasks. And then there is a calm moment, a short time to regroup, catch up on last night’s TV, moan about the roster for the upcoming holiday period. It’s late in the day, and the performance is almost over as patients complete their chemo sessions and leave. A few nurses are evidently close to some of the patients, there are kisses and hugs as they leave. Tracy is back, my arm tingles terribly like nettle rash, but the worst pain is to come. Ripping off the plasters from my sore and hairy arm. Man alive! She reminds me that I will be very sensitive to anything cold, I had forgotten that. The cold air outside makes my nose and mouth go numb straight away, and we have a quiet drive home.

Here we are, being kids again on the swings at The Tate Modern.

Dancing Girls and Muscle Men The anticipation of a new round of chemo treatment makes me nervous and tetchy for a few days before.

#cancer stories #London South Bank #Tate Modern #X100F

Walking. Talking. Looking. Being.

This long autumn has been lovely. Here are a few images in celebration of that late late summer light, taken at Ayot St Lawrence and Wendover Woods.

Do click on them – bigger really is better 🙂

Indian Autumn Walking. Talking. Looking. Being. This long autumn has been lovely. Here are a few images in celebration of that late late summer light, taken at Ayot St Lawrence and Wendover Woods. Do click on them - bigger really is better 🙂

#autumn colour #no dramas just pictures #walking #X100F

Knowing the date of the next consultation with the oncologist, I rashly book a place on a cycle sportive in Norfolk. My feeling is that whatever he says, I’m going to do that ride. Every last mile.

We are making a weekend of it. Manda has booked us into a cheeky Mr and Mrs Smith hotel, and I am here at Fakenham Racecourse, the start and finish of the ride, nervously fixing my number to my handlebars. I am surrounded by hundreds of other riders, all shapes and sizes, most of them keen to get underway. Manda sees me off at the start line, and my timed group of 30 or so heads of down the track. Immediately we have a choice – turn right for the 45 mile course, turn left for the 73 mile course.

I turn left.

Groups of riders are set off about two minutes apart. My groups spreads out quickly, and within a couple of miles I am riding alone. The flash Harrys have leapt ahead, the more moderates are behind me. Pacing myself is difficult – with excitement and nerves I can easily increase pace unsustainably. I steady myself and ease off a little.

The north Norfolk countryside is rolling, open, big skies, and windy. The anticlockwise circuit is a large wobbly oval, the start at the southernmost tip. Gradually turning north I am buffeted by blustery wind coming over The Wash from the North Sea. I pass other cyclists who are struggling. Only twice over the course do I chat alongside other riders until our pace changes or we lose each other at feed stops. But I am happy in my own company, consciously trying to be in the moment, pedalling, breathing, appreciating the passing landscape, the sky, the light.

10 kilometres to the finish. The small orange sign makes me laugh out loud – I can do this. Hell, I’ve almost done it. 5 kilometres. I’m smiling all the way. I’ve managed to pace myself well, eaten all my energy bars, drunk all my bottles. There is the inflatable Finish line. Amanda is there and I feel a huge wave of relief and pride wash over me. I feel emotional as I write this. It is a big deal. I receive my finisher’s medal from a smiley marshal, and I feel like I’m being knighted. Ridiculous. But there it is.

I averaged exactly 16 miles and hour, and rode 73.18 miles in 4 hours and 46 minutes (do follow me on Strava if you fancy). I finished in the Silver category, only 6 minutes outside the Gold category. Should have gone faster!

A few days earlier, I am sitting with Amanda in the gloomily familiar consulting room at Mount Vernon, or Mount Vermin, as a friend’s spell-checker prefers. The young man who comes into the room is not my oncologist, but one of his registrars. A perfectly capable doctor, no doubt, just not mine. I feel disconcerted by his inevitable lack of familiarity with my cancer history. He introduces himself as Mo.

He does his best, clearly only just having read my notes. He tells us that I have 5 more lesions on my liver, one of them is 3 centimetres. There are two old ones that have calcified as a result of the previous chemo treatment, and are no longer a concern. He says that as I responded so well to the chemo I had before, I am to have another 3 sessions, starting at the end of November.

Despite having thought there would be some further growth of the cancer, I am still saddened to have the suspicion confirmed. Mo is optimistic, and we agree that the same chemo regime should have the same effect again and dramatically reduce or calcify the new tumours. When we speak to our Macmillan nurse a few days later, she says that people are having two or three chemo sessions a year to effectively manage their cancer. She says it’s the new normal.

I have strict words with myself. I remind myself that when All This started back in March, I was very poorly with chronic anaemia and a non-existent fitness level. I’m now fitter than I have been in years. I know I bang on about diet, but I’m convinced that has also made a difference. My bloods are all back to normal, or as we say now normal-normal, as opposed to new-normal levels, which are good for an ill person. It’s all about context.

So I’m good and ready for the next bout.

Seconds out. Round 2.

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Bike images courtesy of SportivePhoto

Seconds Out Knowing the date of the next consultation with the oncologist, I rashly book a place on a cycle sportive in Norfolk.

#cancer stories #cycling #North Norfolk #X100F

The food that I eat has become a major focus for me over the last six months or so. The only cancer-specific book I ever bought is The Rainbow Diet And How It Can Help You Beat Cancer by Chris Woollams. Full of information drawn from scientific sources as well as real life experience, Woollams has a knowledgeable yet down to earth attitude which I’ve found helpful. Like me, he has found the Macmillan guides to diet unbelievable in recommending sugary and creamy dishes to help maintain weight, eschewing the benefits of a Mediterranean style diet. Food supplements are also frowned upon. I asked the oncologist about adding them to my diet and he nearly choked, saying glibly that he is obliged to give me the best possible care. That was it, no further discussion.

After my diagnosis, among the first things I did were to give up alcohol (on the basis that my liver had enough to contend with), and sugar (on the basis that sugar is really bad for you). I make many smoothies and juices, either fruit or vegetable based, remembering to never mix green and orange ingredients. I did once, and although the resultant thick brown liquid tasted delicious, I had to close my eyes while drinking it, and nobody else would come near it.

The Mediterranean style diet typifies my eating habits now – low fat, high protein, very little dairy, clean and organic if at all possible. I lose weight easily mostly because of the diet, partly because I’m cycling as much as I can, and partly because, as a friend chillingly told me, I’m feeding the cancer too. It can’t be 100% avoided, but my diet is as anti-cancer as I can get it. Drinking green tea is almost an obsession, about four cups a day, for it’s antioxidant ability to mop up those devilish free radicals.

I went to see a nutritionist after keeping a food diary for a week. She very gratifyingly said my diet was exemplary. She suggested a raft of supplements, and £70 later I was safely in possession of tubs of Vitamin B2, Iron Complex, Vitamin B3, Zinc Ascorbate, Mineral Complex, Vitamin D Spray and an even bigger tub of crystallised Vitamin C. The nutritionist, when I expressed my concern about losing weight, simply said eat more nuts. And eggs. At least 12 a week.

So that’s what I do. Two eggs most mornings, with peanut butter or apricot kernel butter on toast; a smoothie or juice, and half of the supplements. Lunch is often home-made soup or sheep’s/goat’s cheese with mixed salad. Dinner is fish, chicken or veggie, with the other half of the supplements. I can easily get through at least seven portions of fruit and veg a day, and that is a conscious target. I haven’t eaten four-legged meat for over thirty years so that isn’t an issue.

I struggle to find a tasty adult alcohol-fee drink. If I’m offered another elderflower cordial I might scream. Any suggestions for sugar-free non-alcoholic drinks to go with a meal would be most welcome. I have tried bitters in tonic water and that is rather good. Zero alcohol beers are a tasty recent discovery too.

In a couple of days I have my next meeting with the oncologist to discuss the outcome of the CT scan I had two weeks ago. I’ve had a lovely chemo-free summer, off it now for four warm and sunny months. I’m truly grateful to have had that time without treatment. And I’m feeling well. However, I’m expecting to be told that I’ll now need more chemo – it’s just an inkling, that’s all. We’ll see.

When I knew the date of the next oncology meeting, I rashly booked a place on a cycle sportive for the following Sunday. A sportive is a big organised bike ride with many hundreds of riders, around a marked route (not closed roads) and is a kind of sociable two-wheeled endurance test. This one is around Fakenham in Norfolk and is 77 miles. I just thought, sod it, whatever the oncologist says, I’m going to do it. See you on the other side…

Here are few images from a recent wander around in London. Click on them to see them nice and big.

Food Chain The food that I eat has become a major focus for me over the last six months or so.

#cancer stories #food #London #Street Photography #X100F

As an artist working in the medium of photography, I do take my work reasonably seriously. I create images all the time, and relish the opportunity to shoot abroad. These images were all shot in Courcourcy, in the Bordeaux area, while staying with our lovely friends for a few days. Which raises the controversial question – is it art, or holiday snaps? Whatever it is, I try and shoot anything that catches my eye, happily going with instinct and intuition, followed later by some rigorous editing.

Arty holiday snaps it is then. 🙂

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Autumn. Cooler, warmer, neutral. As an artist working in the medium of photography, I do take my work reasonably seriously. I create images all the time, and relish the opportunity to shoot abroad.

#colour #France #holidays #X100F

I’m definitely not posting enough images, even though I shoot pretty much all the time. My camera is always with me. So here are some images, a bit out of chronological sequence as I know I have images from the recent months that I have yet to edit. I’ll post some more shortly 🙂

These are from a circular walk, starting and finishing at The Alford Arms, in the middle of nowhere – well, not far from Hemel Hempstead if I’m truthful. Fabulous company with our friends Susie and David (who is also a cycling buddy), the food at the Alford is superb. These images mark our footsteps that day.

Picture Post I'm definitely not posting enough images, even though I shoot pretty much all the time. My camera is always with me.

#walking #X100F

“I’ve just slammed my hand in the door – but that’s nothing to what you’re going through.” “My back aches so much, but it’s nothing compared to what you’re facing.” “I just can’t imagine what you must be going through.”

Many friends have said this kind of thing to me, and I understand it’s sympathy. I play it down – we all stub our toes or cut our fingers occasionally. We all get ill from time to time. So what exactly am I going through?

I had a scan two weeks ago following my summer break from chemo, and we are back in the consulting room at Mount Vernon to see the oncologist. The grey chairs, the pale green bed, the odd screws sticking out of the wall where old shelves or equipment were once fixed. He comes bustling in with a nervous junior medic in tow. He says hello, how are you, you’re looking well, then he gets down to it. The tumours in my liver have continued to reduce and they are no longer a major concern. Still a concern, just not a major one. But three new ‘somethings’ have appeared in my liver. He doesn’t know what they are – they are too small to identify from the scan. They may be fatty deposits, or they may be new tumours. He can’t tell. He says he’ll keep me off the chemo for another two months, then I’m to come back for another scan. He says he can’t cure me, but aims to give me the best possible quality of life. He asks me how far I’m cycling, and nods when I say usually over 30 miles. He says to let him know if anything changes, and bustles out.

Manda is frantically writing notes. We try and process this mixed message. It is amazing how we can both receive the same words and yet hear totally different things. It seems like good news – I’m still recovering, doing spectacularly well to be honest. But there is a but. These new boys in town may be fatty slobs, or they may be poisonous thugs. I remind myself that things could be a lot worse – so that must make it good news. I’ll hold on to that.

So what am I going through? Cancer is a wily and pernicious beast. To put it bluntly I’m faced with the prospect of dying before I’m ready. I’d happily slam my own hand in a door if it meant I could be rid of The Fear. Everyone is going to pop their clogs at some point in the future – my point in the future is just a bit more in focus. I want to live my life, as most people do, without knowing when or how I’ll go. It’s likely that my killer already lurks inside me, and the bastard will strike when I’m weak. It is constantly on my mind. My battle plan is to continue to keep myself as fit and strong as possible, eat as well as I can afford, and be as active as I can in the weeks, months or years I have left.

I live in a kind of managed despair. Today I feel very mortal, a little scared and uncertain. My days are a pendulum of hope and hopelessness. I don’t mean to wallow – I know there are many desperate and displaced people in the world and it’s hard to imagine what they’re going through. I’m sure I’ll buck up tomorrow. I’ll go out on the bike, that usually does the trick. I did 53 miles the other day, that put a smile on my face. 🙂

The occasional week away always helps keep the spirits up. Here are some moody shots (to match the moody post above!) taken on the beautiful and rugged Scilly Isles. The first image is of Shipman Head on Bryher, obviously we had to go there. There are five inhabited islands, (we stayed on St Mary’s), and over 100 small ones. There are small boat trips to all the major islands. Every view out to sea includes rocky protrusions of all shapes and sizes. The food, friendliness and scenery were all outstanding.

Do click on the images to make them bigger.

Mixing Messages "I've just slammed my hand in the door - but that's nothing to what you're going through." "My back aches so much, but it's nothing compared to what you're facing." "I just can't imagine what you must be going through."

#cancer stories #Scilly Isles #time out #X100F

I’m nearly at the end of my sunny summer chemo holiday and I’ve loved every second of it. Every day I’m out cycling or walking, and smoothie making like crazy. Still no alcohol, hardly any caffeine (nobody’s perfect!) as little sugar as possible, and at least seven a day fruit and veg. I feel as fit as I did three years ago when I was last cycling regularly, and before All Of This started. It’s only now I’m beginning to realise how long this downhill slope has been, culminating in the chronic anaemia and Everything Else earlier this year. I’m almost at my target of cycling fifty miles, then I’ll be aiming for eighty. (Do follow me on Strava if you fancy.)

I’ve just had another CT scan and once again had my blood taken for testing. Now we wait. It is the worst part – fearful and hopeful at the same time.

The meeting with the oncologist is in two weeks, by then he will have evaluated the scan and worked out a new chemotherapy regime for me. Hopefully not as powerful and as overwhelming as before, but at least as effective! Maybe another three x three weekly cycles of chemo then another break. I dream of being in remission, hoping the tumours have stayed in their reduced state and remain manageable. Everyone says how well I look, but as we know, appearances can be deceptive. We’ll see.

These photos are from a lovely walk I did with Jon along the canal tow-path from Kings Cross almost to Mile End in east London, dodging dodgy dogs and psycho cyclists. The bike on the narrowboat is identical to one I used to own years ago and loved very much, which was stolen. Perhaps that’s it.

Dodgy Dogs and Psycho Cyclists I'm nearly at the end of my sunny summer chemo holiday and I've loved every second of it.

#canal #cancer stories #colour #photo walk

Making Hay While The Sun Shines

Having a chemo holiday is much like a normal holiday – I get to relax, to regain a level of normality, and to not go into the office, or in this case, Mount Vernon Hospital. In fact not going into ‘the office’ every three weeks has made us much calmer than we have been for months. No matter how accustomed we are to the hospital routine of blood tests, scans, consultation and treatment, it is a…

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#cancer stories #Fuji X #holidays #Sky Garden #X100F

A Pause For Thought

We are waiting to see the consultant. It’s 45 long minutes after our appointment time and still no-one has called us. We are very tense. This is the meeting when we are told how well I’m doing on the chemotherapy. Manda goes to find someone and is told we aren’t on the list, come back in 45 minutes. We wander off to have an edgy coffee.

90 minutes late and we are ushered into a consulting room.…

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#cancer stories #iPhoneography

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