Discussion
IforB said:
Thanks Central!
It was actually a total non-event in the end thanks to the Nurse specialist who did it. A proper pro and in the end it was far easier than any of the previous bone marrows I've had.
To the OP and everyone who been affected by this horrid disease. It is awful and there is nothing that can prepare you for a loved one getting it. I actually think it's worse for thefamilies and friends than it is for those of us who get it. Whilst we have to go through the misery of chemo, surgery and other treatments. It is simpler for us as we just have to get on with it and turn up when we are told. If you feel rubbish, then you go to bed or just hide away. Everyone else is running around scared to bits and not sure what to do.
I've been very lucky. My treatment has been successful, there's no guarantee it won't come back, but the chances for me are extremely good.
SteveHall, Ariel and Tonto. Good luck chaps. I send you my best wishes and hope that everything turns out as well for you as it did for me. I found the treatment not as bad as everyone thinks it is going to be and all you can do is take it day by day. If you feel OK one day, then do stuff, if you feel rubbish, then don't. Do not beat yourself up for not being able to do anything.
If you want any help, advice or simply chat to someone who's been through something similar, then please feel free to message me through here. I've had chemo, surgery and a stem cell transplant so I know a little bit about it, though I had Lymphoma so am not really up on other types of cancer, but as I said, I'm happy to just chat.
It was actually a total non-event in the end thanks to the Nurse specialist who did it. A proper pro and in the end it was far easier than any of the previous bone marrows I've had.
To the OP and everyone who been affected by this horrid disease. It is awful and there is nothing that can prepare you for a loved one getting it. I actually think it's worse for thefamilies and friends than it is for those of us who get it. Whilst we have to go through the misery of chemo, surgery and other treatments. It is simpler for us as we just have to get on with it and turn up when we are told. If you feel rubbish, then you go to bed or just hide away. Everyone else is running around scared to bits and not sure what to do.
I've been very lucky. My treatment has been successful, there's no guarantee it won't come back, but the chances for me are extremely good.
SteveHall, Ariel and Tonto. Good luck chaps. I send you my best wishes and hope that everything turns out as well for you as it did for me. I found the treatment not as bad as everyone thinks it is going to be and all you can do is take it day by day. If you feel OK one day, then do stuff, if you feel rubbish, then don't. Do not beat yourself up for not being able to do anything.
If you want any help, advice or simply chat to someone who's been through something similar, then please feel free to message me through here. I've had chemo, surgery and a stem cell transplant so I know a little bit about it, though I had Lymphoma so am not really up on other types of cancer, but as I said, I'm happy to just chat.
And as another survivor (chemo/stem cell and bone marrow transplant) I'm also happy to answer PMs.
Well my old man wrote this after being diagnosed with the big C, passed away a few years ago now but still very relevant.
It's a bit long, so skip it by all means.
Cancer Bravado.
....I stared at the Consultant blankly, showing no emotion because his words had frozen my comprehension . Then, thinking that I should respond somehow, my face assumed a small rictus of a grin, contrasting with his professional gravity. He moved a little more towards me, perhaps he took my expression for bravado.
'Any questions?'
Give me an hour and I'll have a hundred, but now, a shake of the grinning head will do. If you can't take the information on board at all, how can you ask any questions? The best questions are rehearsed well in advance, but you need to see the script beforehand to do that.
The gradual filtering into the brain of the information takes time, then, when it's firmly ensconced, the clever brain sends it from store, to the comprehension department, which starts flashing it up in neon before the inner eye. The owning up and opening up the reality to yourself takes even more time. Only you can tell yourself with no equivocation that you've got cancer, so that you know. When the fact gets through it's not a slamming thing, it has lost it's cutting edge. Perhaps nature has, by yet another masterstroke, deliberately fitted that buffer store. So the words you speak to yourself are by now, not angry. More pathetic things like, 'This is likely to be a nuisance.' No forehead slapping invective, perhaps a quiet ' 'Blimey.' At most, 'Bugger it.' So now you know. How do you pass it on? The information I mean, not the cancer, unfortunately it seems our genes pass that on, togetherwith the blue eyes, and big feet.
Who should know? How do you tell them? It would be better if no-one needed to know. No-one needed to be told.
From diagnosis, therefore, it might be a good option if the shutters came down in the hospital room and you didn't go home for your pyjamas, even if you had any. You have vanished. All enquiries are referred to the Hospital Stonewaller who is specially trained in deadpan repetition of the phrase. 'We haven't seen him, he didn't come here.' He does this until everyone but him is tired out. Another option is the euphemism. 'He's gone on a World Cruise.' everyone can play along optimistically with that ruse if they wish, if they don't like it, back to the Stonewaller.
The World Cruise is a fictitious cruise ship, twelve weeks around the world, no contact, no postcards. It would be a known charade but the effect would still work if everybody maintained the pretence. You could be 'Lost overboard in the Indian Ocean.' i.e. Dead. 'Stopping over a while in New Zealand.' i.e. taking longer to recover than thought..
The euphemistic cruise liner is not practical, far from it, but it would remove a real problem which can be stated as the following proposition…….
'The strain of being ill is worse because of other people.' Sorry to say it indeed, and the last thing anyone wants to do is aggravate the situation, but read on.
The change to the sufferer is like a transformation to a different tribe. Of a sudden the Cancer-Bar is seen. We look at other people as 'Normals' and ourselves, though we can't identify all our fellows, as the Midwich Cuckoos of Carcinoma and immediately subject to unwitting discrimination. Like colour-bar, no doubt this effect is most often only in our perception, and not even thought of by the 'others' But 'in the perception' is good enough, and the discrimination we perceive, though invariably well meant, is different treatment to that which we would normally expect. It's easy enough to translate a new sympathetic consideration into pitying patronisation. It is the different treatment that causes this Cancer-Bar. It will probably be much better treatment than normal. Better is worse in this case. The shame is that this different interaction is actually concern, worry, sympathy and all the best outpourings of compassionate family and friends. These poor 'others' can't help it, their crime is concern. To receive their tenderness is a constant reminder of abnormality, and what is worse, taint.
The 'others' are in an impossible position. They can't help it, and we are all others at some time or other and make no better job of it than they, unless we've been there ourselves. The Cancer Club teaches some skills in interacting with a new member. I'll give these tips in the later chapter headed. 'I don't know'
People take on a different aspect, not looked at as familiars or strangers, but as the 'fits' and the 'sames'. The 'same as me's' that is. The 'fits' are viewed with a mixture of envy and pity. The envy is obvious but the pity is a odd one, we are in a one-sided fight, like one of 'the few' with a brave chance in the sky. We also have a fight on our hands, we pity those that aren't given this chance to prove themselves in a battle. The 'same as me's' are tentatively guessed at. The guessing encompasses the the limpers, the grey faced, the thin, all are candidates for our club. What got? Where got? How long? Among the 'fits' there is a relative fitness. Same with us, there's a relative Cancerousness.
Me and my cancer know how we feel. We feel guilty for having it first of all. It lets people down. It throws spanners in works, It changes personal communication. It may, probably will, eventually cause grief. Not very nice things to do to quite a lot of other people. Similar perhaps to being discovered and locked up as a seedy criminal.
It's a negative focus when you've got it. Sick celebrity. Everybody's looking at you because you have cancer, or you think they are. It is better to not be specially focussed on at all. Being ignored can be better than having someone angry on your behalf for example, or wanting to know what Dr X said or Consultant Y, when you don't know yourself and what difference does it make anyway. The temptation is to do as Pip did to Mr Pumblechook and invent. You have to adjust your bulletins to the particular recipient. Some want it from Grays Anatomy, some as Janet and John. The diagnosis is often disbelieved (to please you) by people with no medical training at all, and by others, with no more expertise, confirmed as correct with knowing confirmatory slow nods of the head.. Some can go further and elaborate on it as if they were scrubbed up and in a light green gown and hat themselves. There are many reactions, the wincers, the handpatters, the expellers of breath., headshakers, and worst of all, though sincere, the nearly criers. The different emotional make-up of everyone, the others, makes for the varied response and though crying never butters any parsnips any 'other' has a right to do it if they want to.
The object of special attention, is receiving special attention just when he doesn't want it, when he's looking terrible, when he can't go away. When he's just dull and frustrated. We don't look at ourselves as much as others look at us because we are not in our line of vision. One of the most important things in our lives is, we want to look good, or as good as we may by the arbitrary dishing out of natures stamp. So just being looked at when we are not in our prime condition and having a bad hair day all over is bad therapy. But we can't have a bag over the head and the leg and the belly, or all over. So what does the looker do? Not look? Lie? Laugh? They are in a difficult position and I know it.
What should others say?........They could say. 'Jeez I'm glad I haven't got that.' But that's insensitive, so what's sensitive?......'You don't look too bad.' Up comes the tainted's ego and say's. 'Whatdya mean, not too bad? Don't I look good any more?' The answer to that is of course. 'Well no, you don't look good anymore.'
Before we run the gamut of these reactions, and reluctantly admitting the impractability of the 'World Cruise.' We have got to tell these others about the cancer.
There are many ways of doing it, depending on the receiver of the news. Many choices.
The light-hearted if not downright joking revelation…..
What begins with C and makes your hair fall out?'
The by-the-way… 'Oh, I just better mention I've got a bit of that cancer thing.'
The ultra serious…. ' Sit down please because I've got to tell you something about my health and you may be very shocked.'
The hysterical...'Ha bloody Ha. I've got Cancer. Thank-you and Goodnight.'
The partly lying minimisation.
'We don't know, but it might be a slight cancer.'
The inability to say the word..
'Its Big C. It's the bad thing. It's......you know...er..er...a lump.'
The Mr Jingle.
'Bad thing, very. Might go, never mind. Bad rubbish, good riddance.'
Then surgery...
The nurse held my hand and talked, holding my attention as well, as the gowned anaesthetist touched a hypodermic receiver that had already been put in the back of my left hand. I was sure I would be aware of sensations as anaesthetic took effect. There must be a gradual loosening of awareness before oblivion? a mist perhaps? blurring? heavy eyelids? something? There was nothing, I was out of where I was, into where I knew not, with no transition.
Then Recovery.
...........green? Under water? Upright manatee with a green waxy face, moving slowly about.......Ah......a few seconds only to put together the pieces, Alive. Hospital. The time warp of anaesthesia is over. The manatee is a nurse with a pen torch held in her mouth adjusting equipment round my bed. Soundless and slow, slow motion under water.......always that torch in her mouth. Then daylight and the pain starts...........etc etc
Then.....?
It's a bit long, so skip it by all means.
Cancer Bravado.
....I stared at the Consultant blankly, showing no emotion because his words had frozen my comprehension . Then, thinking that I should respond somehow, my face assumed a small rictus of a grin, contrasting with his professional gravity. He moved a little more towards me, perhaps he took my expression for bravado.
'Any questions?'
Give me an hour and I'll have a hundred, but now, a shake of the grinning head will do. If you can't take the information on board at all, how can you ask any questions? The best questions are rehearsed well in advance, but you need to see the script beforehand to do that.
The gradual filtering into the brain of the information takes time, then, when it's firmly ensconced, the clever brain sends it from store, to the comprehension department, which starts flashing it up in neon before the inner eye. The owning up and opening up the reality to yourself takes even more time. Only you can tell yourself with no equivocation that you've got cancer, so that you know. When the fact gets through it's not a slamming thing, it has lost it's cutting edge. Perhaps nature has, by yet another masterstroke, deliberately fitted that buffer store. So the words you speak to yourself are by now, not angry. More pathetic things like, 'This is likely to be a nuisance.' No forehead slapping invective, perhaps a quiet ' 'Blimey.' At most, 'Bugger it.' So now you know. How do you pass it on? The information I mean, not the cancer, unfortunately it seems our genes pass that on, togetherwith the blue eyes, and big feet.
Who should know? How do you tell them? It would be better if no-one needed to know. No-one needed to be told.
From diagnosis, therefore, it might be a good option if the shutters came down in the hospital room and you didn't go home for your pyjamas, even if you had any. You have vanished. All enquiries are referred to the Hospital Stonewaller who is specially trained in deadpan repetition of the phrase. 'We haven't seen him, he didn't come here.' He does this until everyone but him is tired out. Another option is the euphemism. 'He's gone on a World Cruise.' everyone can play along optimistically with that ruse if they wish, if they don't like it, back to the Stonewaller.
The World Cruise is a fictitious cruise ship, twelve weeks around the world, no contact, no postcards. It would be a known charade but the effect would still work if everybody maintained the pretence. You could be 'Lost overboard in the Indian Ocean.' i.e. Dead. 'Stopping over a while in New Zealand.' i.e. taking longer to recover than thought..
The euphemistic cruise liner is not practical, far from it, but it would remove a real problem which can be stated as the following proposition…….
'The strain of being ill is worse because of other people.' Sorry to say it indeed, and the last thing anyone wants to do is aggravate the situation, but read on.
The change to the sufferer is like a transformation to a different tribe. Of a sudden the Cancer-Bar is seen. We look at other people as 'Normals' and ourselves, though we can't identify all our fellows, as the Midwich Cuckoos of Carcinoma and immediately subject to unwitting discrimination. Like colour-bar, no doubt this effect is most often only in our perception, and not even thought of by the 'others' But 'in the perception' is good enough, and the discrimination we perceive, though invariably well meant, is different treatment to that which we would normally expect. It's easy enough to translate a new sympathetic consideration into pitying patronisation. It is the different treatment that causes this Cancer-Bar. It will probably be much better treatment than normal. Better is worse in this case. The shame is that this different interaction is actually concern, worry, sympathy and all the best outpourings of compassionate family and friends. These poor 'others' can't help it, their crime is concern. To receive their tenderness is a constant reminder of abnormality, and what is worse, taint.
The 'others' are in an impossible position. They can't help it, and we are all others at some time or other and make no better job of it than they, unless we've been there ourselves. The Cancer Club teaches some skills in interacting with a new member. I'll give these tips in the later chapter headed. 'I don't know'
People take on a different aspect, not looked at as familiars or strangers, but as the 'fits' and the 'sames'. The 'same as me's' that is. The 'fits' are viewed with a mixture of envy and pity. The envy is obvious but the pity is a odd one, we are in a one-sided fight, like one of 'the few' with a brave chance in the sky. We also have a fight on our hands, we pity those that aren't given this chance to prove themselves in a battle. The 'same as me's' are tentatively guessed at. The guessing encompasses the the limpers, the grey faced, the thin, all are candidates for our club. What got? Where got? How long? Among the 'fits' there is a relative fitness. Same with us, there's a relative Cancerousness.
Me and my cancer know how we feel. We feel guilty for having it first of all. It lets people down. It throws spanners in works, It changes personal communication. It may, probably will, eventually cause grief. Not very nice things to do to quite a lot of other people. Similar perhaps to being discovered and locked up as a seedy criminal.
It's a negative focus when you've got it. Sick celebrity. Everybody's looking at you because you have cancer, or you think they are. It is better to not be specially focussed on at all. Being ignored can be better than having someone angry on your behalf for example, or wanting to know what Dr X said or Consultant Y, when you don't know yourself and what difference does it make anyway. The temptation is to do as Pip did to Mr Pumblechook and invent. You have to adjust your bulletins to the particular recipient. Some want it from Grays Anatomy, some as Janet and John. The diagnosis is often disbelieved (to please you) by people with no medical training at all, and by others, with no more expertise, confirmed as correct with knowing confirmatory slow nods of the head.. Some can go further and elaborate on it as if they were scrubbed up and in a light green gown and hat themselves. There are many reactions, the wincers, the handpatters, the expellers of breath., headshakers, and worst of all, though sincere, the nearly criers. The different emotional make-up of everyone, the others, makes for the varied response and though crying never butters any parsnips any 'other' has a right to do it if they want to.
The object of special attention, is receiving special attention just when he doesn't want it, when he's looking terrible, when he can't go away. When he's just dull and frustrated. We don't look at ourselves as much as others look at us because we are not in our line of vision. One of the most important things in our lives is, we want to look good, or as good as we may by the arbitrary dishing out of natures stamp. So just being looked at when we are not in our prime condition and having a bad hair day all over is bad therapy. But we can't have a bag over the head and the leg and the belly, or all over. So what does the looker do? Not look? Lie? Laugh? They are in a difficult position and I know it.
What should others say?........They could say. 'Jeez I'm glad I haven't got that.' But that's insensitive, so what's sensitive?......'You don't look too bad.' Up comes the tainted's ego and say's. 'Whatdya mean, not too bad? Don't I look good any more?' The answer to that is of course. 'Well no, you don't look good anymore.'
Before we run the gamut of these reactions, and reluctantly admitting the impractability of the 'World Cruise.' We have got to tell these others about the cancer.
There are many ways of doing it, depending on the receiver of the news. Many choices.
The light-hearted if not downright joking revelation…..
What begins with C and makes your hair fall out?'
The by-the-way… 'Oh, I just better mention I've got a bit of that cancer thing.'
The ultra serious…. ' Sit down please because I've got to tell you something about my health and you may be very shocked.'
The hysterical...'Ha bloody Ha. I've got Cancer. Thank-you and Goodnight.'
The partly lying minimisation.
'We don't know, but it might be a slight cancer.'
The inability to say the word..
'Its Big C. It's the bad thing. It's......you know...er..er...a lump.'
The Mr Jingle.
'Bad thing, very. Might go, never mind. Bad rubbish, good riddance.'
Then surgery...
The nurse held my hand and talked, holding my attention as well, as the gowned anaesthetist touched a hypodermic receiver that had already been put in the back of my left hand. I was sure I would be aware of sensations as anaesthetic took effect. There must be a gradual loosening of awareness before oblivion? a mist perhaps? blurring? heavy eyelids? something? There was nothing, I was out of where I was, into where I knew not, with no transition.
Then Recovery.
...........green? Under water? Upright manatee with a green waxy face, moving slowly about.......Ah......a few seconds only to put together the pieces, Alive. Hospital. The time warp of anaesthesia is over. The manatee is a nurse with a pen torch held in her mouth adjusting equipment round my bed. Soundless and slow, slow motion under water.......always that torch in her mouth. Then daylight and the pain starts...........etc etc
Then.....?
Edited by peterperkins on Monday 12th January 16:34
Well he kept writing about it and went on.
'Lucky in the Hospice'
A contradiction in terms? Not at all. I’ve been a patient in the Hospice Twice. Now I visit every week to be kept an eye on, and be a member of this establishment, and a good thing too.
Are we a beaten group? No. Unlucky? Well, yes, in that random average dishing out of cancer, we drew the tickets. But the raffle carries on from there. I’m going to die. So are you actually. I shall probably do it sooner, but that’s not definite. More raffle tickets you see.
If ever you are in the same position, hope not naturally, but if, cheer up. I’ve done six months at the Hospice and am still here. ‘They’ are never absolutely sure when ‘they’ say terminally ill (not that they actually say that, younhave to guess. But if you are in a Hospice there’s a clue.) They do know what they are doing, and it’s their best diagnosis, given all the evidence. But it may not turn out like that. It’s happened many times I bet. The red sticker on the folder at Christmas and he or she is out digging the garden next spring. What I mean is that the members of the Hospice have not got the same life expectations as the 30’s holiday Club at the Kings Arms, but we do not die like flies.
I am the person who is ‘Lucky in the Hospice.’ Still alive, feel alright and, this is the clincher, for the first time in my life have started to be ‘Lucky.’ Evidence. I’ve won the Hospice raffle twice. Two weeks ago won flowers and a vase, Marks and Spencers gear excellent.
Blow me down, this week ‘Lucky in the Hospice.’ I won the Easter raffle. Large box of Black Magic. I hope to eat at least one layer and most of the creams.
So it is not a contradiction of terms, you can be either lucky or die in a Hospice, or both in their turn I guess. As for dying, some of the others have done that. If all life’s acts are an achievement, I would say dying is one of them, a fairly noble one. No one would be able to move about town for long if we didn’t practice it. It might also be a piece of cake, nobody knows what it’s like, so they can’t frighten you with that.
In the event of a death at my Hospice we float a candle in a big round bowl of water and shining glass pebbles. . There is a parallel with life in that candle. People and candles burn out, only the time is different. We can remember, with the candle May, very little, always smiling. We remember John and look at the chair he always sat in and his dislike of yellow peas, i.e. sweet corn. There’s worse remembering.
Me? I’m a Kamikaze, flying the cancer Zero, bang goes the point five guns from the destroyer John.D.Harrison. My plane and cancer disintegrate. Protected only by my sandwich box, out I shoot, plonk into the sea onto a floating settee discarded from Admiral Halsey’s cabin on the flagship. Fair winds waft the large American cushions and I land on a sandy little island where no one knows about war until it’s all over. Then I go back to Osaka and cut Sushi for Dad’s café.
A bit far fetched? Could it happen? Remember the monkeys typing Shakespeare.? Of course it could happen.
Yours sincerely,
Lucky at the Hospice.
'Lucky in the Hospice'
A contradiction in terms? Not at all. I’ve been a patient in the Hospice Twice. Now I visit every week to be kept an eye on, and be a member of this establishment, and a good thing too.
Are we a beaten group? No. Unlucky? Well, yes, in that random average dishing out of cancer, we drew the tickets. But the raffle carries on from there. I’m going to die. So are you actually. I shall probably do it sooner, but that’s not definite. More raffle tickets you see.
If ever you are in the same position, hope not naturally, but if, cheer up. I’ve done six months at the Hospice and am still here. ‘They’ are never absolutely sure when ‘they’ say terminally ill (not that they actually say that, younhave to guess. But if you are in a Hospice there’s a clue.) They do know what they are doing, and it’s their best diagnosis, given all the evidence. But it may not turn out like that. It’s happened many times I bet. The red sticker on the folder at Christmas and he or she is out digging the garden next spring. What I mean is that the members of the Hospice have not got the same life expectations as the 30’s holiday Club at the Kings Arms, but we do not die like flies.
I am the person who is ‘Lucky in the Hospice.’ Still alive, feel alright and, this is the clincher, for the first time in my life have started to be ‘Lucky.’ Evidence. I’ve won the Hospice raffle twice. Two weeks ago won flowers and a vase, Marks and Spencers gear excellent.
Blow me down, this week ‘Lucky in the Hospice.’ I won the Easter raffle. Large box of Black Magic. I hope to eat at least one layer and most of the creams.
So it is not a contradiction of terms, you can be either lucky or die in a Hospice, or both in their turn I guess. As for dying, some of the others have done that. If all life’s acts are an achievement, I would say dying is one of them, a fairly noble one. No one would be able to move about town for long if we didn’t practice it. It might also be a piece of cake, nobody knows what it’s like, so they can’t frighten you with that.
In the event of a death at my Hospice we float a candle in a big round bowl of water and shining glass pebbles. . There is a parallel with life in that candle. People and candles burn out, only the time is different. We can remember, with the candle May, very little, always smiling. We remember John and look at the chair he always sat in and his dislike of yellow peas, i.e. sweet corn. There’s worse remembering.
Me? I’m a Kamikaze, flying the cancer Zero, bang goes the point five guns from the destroyer John.D.Harrison. My plane and cancer disintegrate. Protected only by my sandwich box, out I shoot, plonk into the sea onto a floating settee discarded from Admiral Halsey’s cabin on the flagship. Fair winds waft the large American cushions and I land on a sandy little island where no one knows about war until it’s all over. Then I go back to Osaka and cut Sushi for Dad’s café.
A bit far fetched? Could it happen? Remember the monkeys typing Shakespeare.? Of course it could happen.
Yours sincerely,
Lucky at the Hospice.
And on!
Reverie Pills.
You know I am terminally ill with cancer. I shall soon set the record for the person who has been terminally ill longest and there are some babies who weren’t given much chance who are still drinking stout at ninety. All the time I stay petal side of the daisies I’m in with a chance.
I’ve had a change of medication which makes me feel much better but has the interesting side effect of making me break into sudden and complete reveries. I see no warning on the box for this. I must not operate heavy machinery. Fair enough, but nothing about musing (sudden onset).
It works like this. I innocently look out of the window. Zap. Gaze is fixed down the street somewhere just above roof level, twiddling a pencil in my fingers or holding a cup of tea which goes from hot to cold to white film as I sit and daydream.
I can, and have to break out of a reverie from time to time, but it only takes me from one room to another before I become fascinated by the guttering on the roofs opposite and I’m off again. No deep thoughts, hardly any thoughts at all, except how pleasant this is.
I have previously always wanted to be doing something in my waking hours or I regarded my life as a tragic waste. I’d be making or breaking something or reading or drawing or doing a tough cross word. Not now. I can look at my feet for hours, and the psychological self-condemnation has gone. Granny Perkins would say The Devil Finds Work for Idle Hands, O.K. Granny, I twiddle a pencil or rub my fingers a bit, that should keep him away.
During these musings my brain is fairly empty. You know how many rooms the brain has, more than Buckingham Palace, and when you normally stop and think it can rush about through them all.....now you are thinking about Dinner, then the dentist, then whatever do people move to Spain for, then.....you know the jumble.
Not so with the Reverie Pills. You think a bit about breathing gently, possibly a slow inventory of bodily reservoirs, rubbing the chin for a while, stuff like that.
I’m having great difficulty in finishing this essay. I feel a reverie coming on strong. You’ll know the reason if I finish in mid sente
And on that note good luck to all on here with your own battles, I'm hoping to not follow suit shortly when I have my colonscopy.
Reverie Pills.
You know I am terminally ill with cancer. I shall soon set the record for the person who has been terminally ill longest and there are some babies who weren’t given much chance who are still drinking stout at ninety. All the time I stay petal side of the daisies I’m in with a chance.
I’ve had a change of medication which makes me feel much better but has the interesting side effect of making me break into sudden and complete reveries. I see no warning on the box for this. I must not operate heavy machinery. Fair enough, but nothing about musing (sudden onset).
It works like this. I innocently look out of the window. Zap. Gaze is fixed down the street somewhere just above roof level, twiddling a pencil in my fingers or holding a cup of tea which goes from hot to cold to white film as I sit and daydream.
I can, and have to break out of a reverie from time to time, but it only takes me from one room to another before I become fascinated by the guttering on the roofs opposite and I’m off again. No deep thoughts, hardly any thoughts at all, except how pleasant this is.
I have previously always wanted to be doing something in my waking hours or I regarded my life as a tragic waste. I’d be making or breaking something or reading or drawing or doing a tough cross word. Not now. I can look at my feet for hours, and the psychological self-condemnation has gone. Granny Perkins would say The Devil Finds Work for Idle Hands, O.K. Granny, I twiddle a pencil or rub my fingers a bit, that should keep him away.
During these musings my brain is fairly empty. You know how many rooms the brain has, more than Buckingham Palace, and when you normally stop and think it can rush about through them all.....now you are thinking about Dinner, then the dentist, then whatever do people move to Spain for, then.....you know the jumble.
Not so with the Reverie Pills. You think a bit about breathing gently, possibly a slow inventory of bodily reservoirs, rubbing the chin for a while, stuff like that.
I’m having great difficulty in finishing this essay. I feel a reverie coming on strong. You’ll know the reason if I finish in mid sente
And on that note good luck to all on here with your own battles, I'm hoping to not follow suit shortly when I have my colonscopy.There are so many different types of cancer and everyone has a different prognosis based on many different factors. Mine was that my 5 year survival chance was 70%. However in reality, that was meaningless as that was based on data for all people who got that type of Lymphoma. My actual chances were much higher and 5 year survival doesn't exactly mean you'll only last 5 years.
Some cancers have very poor survival rates, others have very high rates of cure, some have no chance of a cure, but they are manageable so that you'll die of something else long before the cancer gets you.
There's so many different diseases that make up "cancer" that frankly the word itself is almost meaningless.
Some cancers have very poor survival rates, others have very high rates of cure, some have no chance of a cure, but they are manageable so that you'll die of something else long before the cancer gets you.
There's so many different diseases that make up "cancer" that frankly the word itself is almost meaningless.
I lost my brother on the 6th November to an as yet unknown Cancer, he was just 29 and it took just 7 weeks from diagnosis until the day he passed away.
I always thought this type of stuff happened to 'other' people, but it has devastated our family, he has left behind a heartbroken wife and 18mths old daughter (the same age as my little lad).
He loved his motors, especially the old RWD Escorts, I have made a promise to complete the Mk2 Mexico project thats been stuck in his garage for years, just so sad he wont be there to take it for its first blast.
My thoughts are with anyone currently going through dealing with this terrible illness, be it themselves or a family member.
I always thought this type of stuff happened to 'other' people, but it has devastated our family, he has left behind a heartbroken wife and 18mths old daughter (the same age as my little lad).
He loved his motors, especially the old RWD Escorts, I have made a promise to complete the Mk2 Mexico project thats been stuck in his garage for years, just so sad he wont be there to take it for its first blast.
My thoughts are with anyone currently going through dealing with this terrible illness, be it themselves or a family member.
My involvement with the dreaded disease:-
1. My Mum had a malignant growth on the side of her head many years ago. She had the lump removed and has been OK since.
2. My Dad had prostate cancer about 4 or 5 years ago, and was one of the first in the UK to have it operated on using keyhole surgery techniques. He's still around (and clear of the disease).
3. My stepmother had breast cancer about 10 years ago and had various unpleasant non-surgical treatments. She has also been clear ever since.
4. My father in law started to feel under the weather around late Summer/early Autumn 1999 - nothing serious, so he didn't bother with a check-up. By Christmas 1999 he was obviously unwell, had some tests early in 2000 and was diagnosed with lung cancer around Feb/Mar. My wife then ended up taking him to hospital several times a week for various treatments that invariably made him feel even worse, and with 20/20 hindsight probably prolonged the agony when it was already a lost cause. By May 2000 he was very thin & frail, and he eventually died on May 29th. He was 2 weeks short of his 63rd birthday. I was one of those in the room during his final minutes, and it's something I'm never going to forget. Seeing someone die like that just brings home how terrible cancer can be.
5. A workmate complained of a sore thigh a few years ago (must have been about September as he had blamed a knock he received during a football match). The pain got worse; then he was hobbling around on crutches; then he was too bad to come in to the office so was working from home as best he could. The NHS were pretty poor at coming up with a diagnosis, and I think he eventually went to see a specialist. He was told that he had clear cell sarcoma, which I had never heard of before.
This is copied from a medical website:-
These tumors appear as painless, firm masses on the tendons and other tissues that connect the muscles. Clear-cell sarcoma affects people younger than 40 and is slow-growing.
Well, I'm not sure about the "slow-growing", as it seemed to spread rapidly, and he died the following January (about 5 months from start to finish). He was 37.
It's good to see an increasing number of people beating cancer these days, but a proper cure still can't come soon enough.
1. My Mum had a malignant growth on the side of her head many years ago. She had the lump removed and has been OK since.
2. My Dad had prostate cancer about 4 or 5 years ago, and was one of the first in the UK to have it operated on using keyhole surgery techniques. He's still around (and clear of the disease).
3. My stepmother had breast cancer about 10 years ago and had various unpleasant non-surgical treatments. She has also been clear ever since.
4. My father in law started to feel under the weather around late Summer/early Autumn 1999 - nothing serious, so he didn't bother with a check-up. By Christmas 1999 he was obviously unwell, had some tests early in 2000 and was diagnosed with lung cancer around Feb/Mar. My wife then ended up taking him to hospital several times a week for various treatments that invariably made him feel even worse, and with 20/20 hindsight probably prolonged the agony when it was already a lost cause. By May 2000 he was very thin & frail, and he eventually died on May 29th. He was 2 weeks short of his 63rd birthday. I was one of those in the room during his final minutes, and it's something I'm never going to forget. Seeing someone die like that just brings home how terrible cancer can be.
5. A workmate complained of a sore thigh a few years ago (must have been about September as he had blamed a knock he received during a football match). The pain got worse; then he was hobbling around on crutches; then he was too bad to come in to the office so was working from home as best he could. The NHS were pretty poor at coming up with a diagnosis, and I think he eventually went to see a specialist. He was told that he had clear cell sarcoma, which I had never heard of before.
This is copied from a medical website:-
These tumors appear as painless, firm masses on the tendons and other tissues that connect the muscles. Clear-cell sarcoma affects people younger than 40 and is slow-growing.
Well, I'm not sure about the "slow-growing", as it seemed to spread rapidly, and he died the following January (about 5 months from start to finish). He was 37.
It's good to see an increasing number of people beating cancer these days, but a proper cure still can't come soon enough.
Alot of thought provoking stuff written on here. My dad was diagnosed with bowel cancer around 4 years ago. He underwent chemotherapy and had a couple of operations, the second of which resulted in C.Dificile and MRSA infections. Over a two week period, I lost track of the number of times I was called to come to the hospital as the 'slight improvement' had subsided and he was a no-hoper. Anyway to cut a long story short, he's currently in remission and doing well. We know that it may return and its a cliche but every day he's around is a blessing given what happened a couple of years ago.
Tonto - good luck with the op. My dad had the same thing about a year ago and came out fine. He's in his mid eighties as well so I hope all goes well
Tonto - good luck with the op. My dad had the same thing about a year ago and came out fine. He's in his mid eighties as well so I hope all goes well
Tonto, (and others) my thoughts are with you
In 2002 my wife was diagnosed with Bowel cancer. Chemo and some surgery seemed to have dealt with that, but in Feb 2006 secondaries were diagnosed in both lungs and liver. She has been battling ever since, with a regime of chemo, surgery, laser and radio treatment, and some little Sir Spheres - radioactive stuff that simply nukes the liver.
It is amazing how far treatment has come in the past few years, and it continues to move on at a pace. We live in hope that the next miracle is just round the corner.
For those wondering about heredity factors, her Sister and Father both died prematurely of cancer.
It is truly astonishing how any people are so closely affected by this dreadful disease.
Perhaps if we fought less wars and invested more wisely... ah well.
Enjoy life to the full, and be strong.
In 2002 my wife was diagnosed with Bowel cancer. Chemo and some surgery seemed to have dealt with that, but in Feb 2006 secondaries were diagnosed in both lungs and liver. She has been battling ever since, with a regime of chemo, surgery, laser and radio treatment, and some little Sir Spheres - radioactive stuff that simply nukes the liver.
It is amazing how far treatment has come in the past few years, and it continues to move on at a pace. We live in hope that the next miracle is just round the corner.
For those wondering about heredity factors, her Sister and Father both died prematurely of cancer.
It is truly astonishing how any people are so closely affected by this dreadful disease.
Perhaps if we fought less wars and invested more wisely... ah well.
Enjoy life to the full, and be strong.
AdvocatusDiaboli said:
Last year, at the age of 29, I was diagnosed with stage 4B lymphoma and a 50/50 chance with standard treatment. It was a shock considering I have never smoked, hardly drank and was a national level athlete. I ended up having a brutal type of chemotherapy that only 6 people or thereabouts have ever had. It was a horrendous battle and there were times I'd rather have been dead than be "getting better" in the fashion the medication allowed. In hindsight, of course it was worth it and the memory is being repressed nicely.
With the love and support of my family, my wonderful girlfriend the excellent staff at UCLH, not to mention the grace of God I have made it. I look and feel like me again and I feel more certain everyday that it will not touch my life again.
Unfortunately, my secretary was diagnosed with breast cancer 6 months before I had my diagnosis. I saw her two weeks before she died, just as I started my remission. It was heartbreaking to have just beaten the disease and see this brave woman who had seen so many false dawns reduced to what she was.
The "switch" that turns an altruistic, good cell into a murderous piece of cr*p is as I understand it, the key to curing cancer. The treatments we have for the symptoms, such as chemotherapy, etcm are blunt instruments. Let's all hope that the great day and the cure that will one day come, comes soon.
All I want to say is this, and in particular to those on this thread who are facing their fears the old cliche of "staying positive" is vital. I'll say a prayer for you, God or no God.
Every good wish.
AD
Jesus. Im 27.With the love and support of my family, my wonderful girlfriend the excellent staff at UCLH, not to mention the grace of God I have made it. I look and feel like me again and I feel more certain everyday that it will not touch my life again.
Unfortunately, my secretary was diagnosed with breast cancer 6 months before I had my diagnosis. I saw her two weeks before she died, just as I started my remission. It was heartbreaking to have just beaten the disease and see this brave woman who had seen so many false dawns reduced to what she was.
The "switch" that turns an altruistic, good cell into a murderous piece of cr*p is as I understand it, the key to curing cancer. The treatments we have for the symptoms, such as chemotherapy, etcm are blunt instruments. Let's all hope that the great day and the cure that will one day come, comes soon.
All I want to say is this, and in particular to those on this thread who are facing their fears the old cliche of "staying positive" is vital. I'll say a prayer for you, God or no God.
Every good wish.
AD
Actually im speechless. I wish you the very best for a recovery, how is your Cancer now?
Sobering thread. I think im hard done by at the moment with a hectic business and trying to get on the property ladder, what the hell am i worrying about
Your post has put a lot into perspective.
All the best.
For those posters who have cancer, my sincere good wishes, and a story.
LIke most people, I have had relatives, (both parents) die of cancer, my mother at 52.
This is not about them, but about my father-in-law. At 64, he was pulling up his garage door, and got a severe back pain. He was disgnosed with bone cancer, and soon went through the chemo regime,with a shunt through his head into his spine. He deteriorated fairly quickly, and eventually looked like Gandhi after all the chemo.
We were called by the doctor to say nothing more was to be done,and he was moved to a hospice. He was semi delusional from morphine and would be apparently casting for fish in his bed. In clear moments he asked for weights to be installed above the bed so he could strengthen himself. Days wore by, then weeks, then months. He did not die. Christmas came and we celebrated it in the hospice, even bought a CHristmas tree.
He still did not die. Four years went by. At the end of the time, a strange thing happened...the cancer disappeared. Gone. No treatment,no magic,no religion..nothing.
He was the first person to be discharged from the hospice. As he was wheeled out, I asked him how he felt. His first comment was how bad the food had been. My son spent many Saturdays and Sundays as a child in the hospice with the rest of us, and it is interesting how much he accepts the reality of health and sickness.
Ten years after his discharge, my father in law died of kidney failure. The cancer never came back.
I have no explanation, and not being religious I shy away from any supernatural thing.
I think what interesting is that it can be reversed in some unknown way, (ovbviously it is a range of ailmenst ,not one),..but hopefully, there will me much more progress in unlocking the code.
LIke most people, I have had relatives, (both parents) die of cancer, my mother at 52.
This is not about them, but about my father-in-law. At 64, he was pulling up his garage door, and got a severe back pain. He was disgnosed with bone cancer, and soon went through the chemo regime,with a shunt through his head into his spine. He deteriorated fairly quickly, and eventually looked like Gandhi after all the chemo.
We were called by the doctor to say nothing more was to be done,and he was moved to a hospice. He was semi delusional from morphine and would be apparently casting for fish in his bed. In clear moments he asked for weights to be installed above the bed so he could strengthen himself. Days wore by, then weeks, then months. He did not die. Christmas came and we celebrated it in the hospice, even bought a CHristmas tree.
He still did not die. Four years went by. At the end of the time, a strange thing happened...the cancer disappeared. Gone. No treatment,no magic,no religion..nothing.
He was the first person to be discharged from the hospice. As he was wheeled out, I asked him how he felt. His first comment was how bad the food had been. My son spent many Saturdays and Sundays as a child in the hospice with the rest of us, and it is interesting how much he accepts the reality of health and sickness.
Ten years after his discharge, my father in law died of kidney failure. The cancer never came back.
I have no explanation, and not being religious I shy away from any supernatural thing.
I think what interesting is that it can be reversed in some unknown way, (ovbviously it is a range of ailmenst ,not one),..but hopefully, there will me much more progress in unlocking the code.
Blues said:
Tonto, (and others) my thoughts are with you
In 2002 my wife was diagnosed with Bowel cancer. Chemo and some surgery seemed to have dealt with that, but in Feb 2006 secondaries were diagnosed in both lungs and liver. She has been battling ever since, with a regime of chemo, surgery, laser and radio treatment, and some little Sir Spheres - radioactive stuff that simply nukes the liver.
It is amazing how far treatment has come in the past few years, and it continues to move on at a pace. We live in hope that the next miracle is just round the corner.
For those wondering about heredity factors, her Sister and Father both died prematurely of cancer.
It is truly astonishing how any people are so closely affected by this dreadful disease.
Perhaps if we fought less wars and invested more wisely... ah well.
Enjoy life to the full, and be strong.
I hope things work out for you, and the others in this thread that have posted. My father has prostate cancer and it's beyond the point of treatment alas. In 2002 my wife was diagnosed with Bowel cancer. Chemo and some surgery seemed to have dealt with that, but in Feb 2006 secondaries were diagnosed in both lungs and liver. She has been battling ever since, with a regime of chemo, surgery, laser and radio treatment, and some little Sir Spheres - radioactive stuff that simply nukes the liver.
It is amazing how far treatment has come in the past few years, and it continues to move on at a pace. We live in hope that the next miracle is just round the corner.
For those wondering about heredity factors, her Sister and Father both died prematurely of cancer.
It is truly astonishing how any people are so closely affected by this dreadful disease.
Perhaps if we fought less wars and invested more wisely... ah well.
Enjoy life to the full, and be strong.
To those that contribute to charities I would like to say thank you, every donation and contribution helps.
Anyone with cancer, please form an orderly queue and familisarise yourselves with the following. You may already know about it, but if you don't I guarantee you'll find something which will be, at the very least, interesting here:
http://www.thedcasite.com/
and here, specifically in the free to subscribe Blog:
http://grouppekurosawa.com/blog/
Of all the information I trawled through (months of online research) before my Mum died in December 2007, I found these two sites to be the most informative and progressive but above all they gave us hope. Unfortunately by the time we found out the information which could have helped, it was just too late. Maybe others can benefit. Good Luck.
markoos
http://www.thedcasite.com/
and here, specifically in the free to subscribe Blog:
http://grouppekurosawa.com/blog/
Of all the information I trawled through (months of online research) before my Mum died in December 2007, I found these two sites to be the most informative and progressive but above all they gave us hope. Unfortunately by the time we found out the information which could have helped, it was just too late. Maybe others can benefit. Good Luck.
markoos
rolex said:
Having watched Mum die of cancer a few years ago its the most terrible disease on earth and wonder if there will be cure for all its forms in the future?
Held my Mum's hand to the last breath ,(closed her eyes for the last time before the rest of the Family could see her ).Boxing Day 2002, RIP Mum.I hope there will be.
Edited by seltaeb on Monday 12th January 23:26
Jesus H, this is bringing back quite a lot of bad memories, my wishes to all of you who are suffering either directly or indirectly, for what its worth this is my slice of cancer s
t.
My wife was diagnosed with skin cancer in 2005, nothing too dramatic just slice it off and dont worry. Every year after we had some sort of cancer scare, but fortunately it was just a scare each time. February 2008 and Nic came home from work with a terrible headache and blurred vision, after various visits from the Doc who prescribed stuff for viral infections etc she was admitted to hospital in March. They diagnosed that the cancer had come back, and had spread to her brain and her lungs. They did as much as they could for her, gave her all the latest drugs and enough radiotherapy to nearly kill her there and then.
We knew it was bad, and we started creating a memory box for our 3 year old son, and did as much as we could together as a family. We even managed to get her up Snowdon just a few days before she finally passed away in the hospital.
I am proud that I nursed her all the way to the end, she didnt end up in a hospice, she was at home until 4 hours before she went.
Even now, I stiil reach for the phone to text her when something good happens, still wonder why she died at such a young age (36)and feel fking heartbroken when I think about her.
Please excuse the rambling post.
For those people effected by cancer, I found a really useful site to find help, information and support;
www.cancerbuddiesnetwork.org
J
t.My wife was diagnosed with skin cancer in 2005, nothing too dramatic just slice it off and dont worry. Every year after we had some sort of cancer scare, but fortunately it was just a scare each time. February 2008 and Nic came home from work with a terrible headache and blurred vision, after various visits from the Doc who prescribed stuff for viral infections etc she was admitted to hospital in March. They diagnosed that the cancer had come back, and had spread to her brain and her lungs. They did as much as they could for her, gave her all the latest drugs and enough radiotherapy to nearly kill her there and then.
We knew it was bad, and we started creating a memory box for our 3 year old son, and did as much as we could together as a family. We even managed to get her up Snowdon just a few days before she finally passed away in the hospital.
I am proud that I nursed her all the way to the end, she didnt end up in a hospice, she was at home until 4 hours before she went.
Even now, I stiil reach for the phone to text her when something good happens, still wonder why she died at such a young age (36)and feel f
king heartbroken when I think about her. Please excuse the rambling post.
For those people effected by cancer, I found a really useful site to find help, information and support;
www.cancerbuddiesnetwork.org
J
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