Monthly Archives: July 2015

Lark’s Diary VI

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I have been so busy that I haven’t even had time to write my diary. It’s because I have discovered the bestest thing ever! Children! We have had children visiting and although I didn’t know if I would like them, I think they are brilliant and I would like to see more. First we had the Norwegian children, Ask and Liv and they played and played with me. Then we had Caitlyn and Aiden who were taller and talked to me in English. Now we have just said goodbye to Patrick and Isla who were a little bit smaller than Caitlyn and Aiden but taller than Ask and Liv. I’m not sure if it means they are different breeds of children or if they are just older but they all chased me and ran around and I even got extra treats and helped them finish their meals so I think officially that children are the best thing ever.

Mum took me and Archie to see Dr Bum. He is a man who looks after animals and Mum says he usually starts with putting a thermometer up our bottoms and that’s why he’s called Dr Bum. He looked me over and checked my teeth and said I was a good girl. He looked at Archie, too, and said he was in very good condition but he didn’t use his thermometer which I am glad about. I am not sure what a thermometer is but I don’t want anything put up my bottom. I’m sure Mum wouldn’t let him.

We did have a horrible day when Mum went to hospital. Jan, the cleaner, was looking after us and I didn’t like Mum going out without me so I cried and sang the song of my people. Jan thought I would be happy if I sat in the conservatory with Archie because he was sleeping and not crying so she put me in there while she got on with the cleaning. I thought it would be better if I could see the big gate to see if Mum was coming home yet so I tore the blinds off so I could see out easily. When Jan came back, she said she thought she would have a heart attack, although she didn’t, and she phoned Mum to tell her about the blinds. Then she put me in my crate because she had to leave and by the time Mum came home, I had bent the bars on my crate and pushed the tray out of the bottom. I don’t like it when Mum goes out but she says she can’t always take me with her. I don’t know why. I’d be good, even in a hospital but Mum says they won’t let me in. I could go and cheer up the people seeing the doctor. I don’t know if their doctors are also called Dr Bum but seeing a little dog like me would cheer anyone up, surely.

We also went on a long journey to a place called Chester to see Ruth and Philip. I hadn’t met them before but Archie knows them and likes them. It was a long drive and when we got there, Mark gave us a sausage each. Archie ate his in two bites but I was clever and buried mine in the garden so next time we go there will be a sausage tree! I like burying things in the garden because then I can go and dig them up again only sometimes I can’t remember where I buried them. Real bones are the best thing to bury. Bonio go a big soggy.

We have had lots of visitors lately and Peter brought his dog, Ludo, with him. I didn’t like Ludo. I think he was coming to take my Mum away so I shouted at him a lot and tried to nip him on the bottom. Archie said it wasn’t the way to behave with a guest and put my head in his mouth but I wasn’t keen on Ludo at all. Until he was just about to leave and then I started to think he was OK. Maybe he’ll come back and I’ll like him next time. Archie is a bit of a tell-tale, though. It has been raining a lot and I really don’t like going to the toilet in the rain. I don’t know why Mum takes me out on my lead so we can stand in the rain for 10 minutes when I can just do a quick wee as soon as we get back in the dry. Archie was on his sofa in the conservatory and I had to have a poo so I did one quickly and he barked at me and told me off. Mum heard and came in and said “Oh, Lark!” which she says quite often these days. I think I’m back in the dog house again.

Mr Mason gets his best job ever and I get a pain in the bum

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I am totally out of touch with how pages appear under what heading on this blog. I used to get upset but now I just don’t really care. It’s a work of art and has to be followed in all its shapes.

The last 2 weeks are confusing, delightful and exhausting. Immediately after seeing the new good oncologist, I think “I’ll let him have a crack at it” and ask him what he thinks my prognosis is. He doesn’t take long to reply, making sure I really want to know. Too late to go back. It’s 12 to 18 months. That means by next Christmas I may not be here or  I might not reach my next birthday. Grandchildren I am waiting patiently for may be tantalisingly out of reach. It’s wrong, it’s all so fucking wrong. I spend time talking with Mr Mason about it as we try to let the news sink in. He will not have it. It’s wrong, inaccurate and he’s not going to believe it. He looks at me and sees a healthy woman and he can’t match the two things together. I feel, well, odd. It seems an awfully short amount of time and I’m aware how fast time goes. The odd piece of work drifts in and suddenly seems quite insignificant. We spend time deciding whether to tell the offspring the lastest news and in the end decide it’s wrong to keep it from them, even though it’s just a few random numbers and may not mean anything anyway. During the conversations I offer them the opportunity to hear what he said but also the opportunity to not know. It’s a horrible choice but they both want to know. Mr Mason jnr tells me the clock has been ticking since my first diagnosis which is now over 3 years ago so he already thinks I’m doing well. There is something in me that finds it hard to accept I have cancer, that I’m ill at all apart from some niggling pains and fatigue which sends me to bed for several days each month. If my life carried on like this, I would be pretty content.

In the midst of all this, the senior pharmacist from Lincoln City Hospital telephones me to discuss my complaint which he finds eminently reasonable. He has already discussed some issues with the on-duty pharmacist and clearly feels there are some issues which need addressing. He apologises several times in a sincere way which soothes me. I feel the issue has been handled well and thoroughly.

We have a visit from our lovely Norwegian friends, the Lavolls. The 2 littlies don’t have much experience of being around dogs and, to be honest, I’m not sure how much experience our dogs have of being around small children. Given that Dog is the same height as Ask, the eldest, things could go badly wrong but by lunchtime he is throwing balls for Dog and they are all romping and playing together. They get taken to the Castle where they can cliimb to their heart’s content and really seem to enjoy themselves. Ask and Liv both have long conversations with me in Norwegian which is patchy, to say the least. I really should try a bit more. The weather is nice and we blow giant bubbles in the garden which amuses adults,children and dogs alike. I always say farewell with a heavy heart as Mrs Lavoll is one on my special girls.

A few days later we receive a visit from the Shaya family whose children are a bit older but equally delightful. They also speak English and love the dogs and spend time playing with them in the garden. Young Master Shaya enjoys antique shops, particularly if there is a possibility to add something to his arms collection and this time he is intent on a sword. The first disappointment is the Hungarian Officer’s dress sword coming in at just under £300. A firm no! We go to many of the Horncastle antique shops and he eventually finds a bayonet which does the job. Mrs Shaya goes back into her youth and finds a Sindy doll with outfits which she just has to have. We have already been assaulted by a number of grotesque and horrific dolls heads and limbs and as fans of horror films, it’s a trying morning for everyone but Sindy soothes our spirits and we go off to the Sebastapol Inn for lunch. The weather is good enough to sit outside and it is after my main course which includes beetroot, I discover I have black hairy tongue. It feels as though something is stuck to my tongue but apparently it’s my papillae who have decided to grow long and luxurious instead of shed themselves. Thanks, Chemo. Although Ms Shaya would rather poke her eyes out than trawl round antique shops, she behaves impeccably and no-one gets hurt. I would like to see her latest cartoon on the external area of the antique shop in the former premises of the Lincolnshsire Coop. It’s enough to give anyone a heart attack.

Several weeks ago I have the district nurse round to see me. Now, I feel I am a bit too early for the district nurse. She offersme many tempting gadgets such as a new mattress (we already have one, thanks) a commode (we have several toilets that I can reach) and a cushion to prevent sores. She looks so sad that I accept the cushion which is now the bane of my life. I have a visit from a diffferent district nurse who comes to inflate it for me (health and safety, dear), and instructs me to keep the box and all that comes with it in case we need to return it. During an earlier conversation with my Macmillan nurse who I like very much, she asks if the district nurse is going to look at my bottom. “No, no, no,” I say, “I will show her my tongue to distract her”. After she has inflated the cushion, she asks if she can see my bottom. Now, when it’s put to you straight, it’s quite difficult, I find, to say NO.”What about your groin?” she persists. Unfortunately it is a day when I am worn out and in bed, watching trashy tv and dozing so I look a bit like an invalid. Before I can say no, her hands have thrown the duvet back and her little hands are feeling all over my mattress. I babble on about its 1500 box springs and memory foam and then she just flips me over and looks at my bottom. And my heels and calves. The real shocker is when she tells me she must come and do this every day.Yes, you heard it right – every day. I can’t quite work out what is really going on but ask if it’s not something we could just monitor ourselves and get in touch if my bottom felt hot or sore. No, not good enough. Mr Mason could look at it and she could just come on a Friday. Oh, joy. That’s the best we can get at this point. I honestly feel she has me down as a woman who doesn’t move at all and I know pressure sores are awful and difficult to treat, not to mention painful, but I don’t think I’m a candidate at the moment. So Mr Mason has to check me every morning after my shower to make sure I’m not developing any sores and he is formally authorised to look at my bum every day. He is in heaven.

What’s going on?

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I am a 56 year old woman living with secondary cancer. I was diagnosed with Inflammatory Breast Cancer in March 2012, that rarest and most aggressive of breast cancers. Often mis-diagnosed, it presents itself with redness and swelling, a change in the consistency of the breast rather than a single lump. My GP examined me and said it was not cancer but offered me the opportunity to have it checked out at the breast clinic. Fortunately I took this up and so we knew what we were handling with quite early on. My treatment regime was tough – 3 sessions of FEC, 3 of Docetaxel, a radical mastectomy with full node clearance and 25 fractions of radiotherapy together with a further 3 sessions of Docetaxel and a year of Herceptin. Despite Professor Palmieri’s best efforts, I was diagnosed with secondary cancer in the lungs in June 2014.

I am on the fourth chemotherapy since diagnosis and it seems to show some effects. A positive CT scan which showed a reduction in lesions was tempered by a prognosis of 12 to 18 months, a lot less than I was hoping for.

At the point of the secondary diagnosis, my husband, Mark, and I decided to carry out an ambition we have held for some years and that was to move to Lincolnshire and have a quieter, more rural life. Despite the shock and incredulity of my oncology team, we managed it and moved from West London to a small village in Lincolnshire in March 2015.

I am lucky enough to have Mark, who I have known since 1978 and who has stood by me through each medical crisis. I also have 2 adult children – Francesca, who is a practising Birth Doula in Bangkok where she lives with her husband and Oliver, who lives in London and does something important and complicated with computers. They have all been solidly behind me providing love, support, hugs and inappropriate jokes. I love them enormously and dread the day we will all be parted.

Since January 2016, we have my mother-in-law living with us after my wonderful father-in-law died. She has dementia, is very deaf but so far refuses hearing aids and has turned our world upside down. We are just starting to come to terms with what we are dealing with and some of it ain’t pretty. So please forgive the swearing, complaining and insensitivity. Life has just changed beyond what we expected – yet again.

As for this, this is my blog. It’s about living with secondary cancer and all that entails. Please read and I hope you will find it interesting and helpful or at least, entertaining. All the bad jokes are mine.

Shelley x

Lark’s Diary V

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This week has been SO hot, the hottest ever anywhere in the world, I think. I have had to drink lots more water than usual and Mum keeps a big bowl in the garden for me and Archie. Last week she bought a hat to keep her cool and now she has bought one for me and one for Archie. Mine is a bit too small but Archie’s fits and he gets lots of comments.

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Anyway, it’s all turned out for the best because while Mum is waiting for my new hat to arrive, she has got me and Archie neckerchiefs and we have decided to form a club called the Pigeon Catchers Club and Archie and I are the only members. Every time a pigeon lands in the garden or flies over it quite low, we have to run like anything to see if we can get it. I’m not sure about what we’ll do next but then we haven’t caught one yet. It’s a good excuse to bark, too, which I quite like doing. If other people need pigeons catching, we could go into their gardens and help them if they give us some Bonio. We look very smart, anyway, and Mum says they will keep us cool so I haven’t even tried to take mine off yet.

I did a poo in the kitchen this morning. I didn’t even mean to, it just sort of slipped out and before I knew it, it was on the floor. When Mum found it she was cross with me. I still don’t know how to tell her I need to go to the toilet and I’ve watched what Archie does but I can’t work it out. I wish he would just explain because he always goes outside and never makes a mess inside. I don’t know what she’ll say when she finds out I’ve been weeing on one of the beds upstairs. Sigh.

The other night, while we were sleeping, there was some terrific noise outside and lots of lights flashed. Freya doesn’t like loud noises so she came onto the bed, too, which was nice as I like to sniff her. I watched it for a little while but then it got boring so I just went back to sleep. Apparently it was the weather doing A Storm which doesn’t happen often. And then another night the sheep outside were making a lot of noise in the middle of the night and Archie started barking because he could hear cats crying so Mark went downstairs and made sure the cats were inside. He thought it was a fox upsetting the sheep and Mum thinks a fox here might eat a cat, not like the foxes they have in towns. Archie says the foxes in towns are lazy and just go through people’s bins to get food and also enjoy a game called ‘Annoy the dog’ which means they all sit in front of your window and just stare at you. Archie says once he got so cross he broke the window trying to give the foxes a piece of his mind. Archie is a really tough dog and I’m glad he’s my brother, even though he does put my head in his mouth quite often.

I was a bit upset with Mum the other night. She met a man when we were out walking who was admiring me and asking who my breeder was and then he said “Her nails need clipping” which annoyed Mum because she already knew that and had the clippers at home. She had showed them to me before and I didn’t really like the look of them. In the evening, she asked Mark to hold onto me while she clipped my nails and I hated it. I squirmed and squeaked and did everything to tell her she didn’t need to do it but she carried on because she said half a manicure would look silly. I sulked after that, even though she gave me a Bonio and I got in my crate and didn’t speak to her. I know she only does good things for us but I can’t see the point of this.

Then I felt sorry for Mum when she fell over in the Castle. There were some old people there with funny clothes on and little fires and then a man shouted “Do you want to know the history of the Castle?” I thought “not really” but he carried on anyway for ages and then people clapped a bit and we walked around. There wasn’t even any free dog food to try. We saw another dog and wanted to say hello so ran ahead but Mum was walking Archie and he’s big and even stronger than me and she fell over and everyone went “Ooooh” and tried to pull her up. I tried to help but apparently I got in the way and then after that we went home and Mum went to sleep so I did, too.

Today we have visitors coming from a place called Norway which is a long, long way away. There are 2 grown ups and 2 children. I don’t know very much about children but all the ones I have met so far have been very nice so I hope these will be too. I have been told not to jump up at them as they are very little and I might knock them over but I hope they will play in the garden with me and we can run around and bark and chase toys. I am good at getting under bushes so we could make a den and have our lunch in it. I am quite excited. Now I am going to follow Mum around the house as she tries to find her slipper. I’ve hidden it in a really good place this time so I’ll see how long it takes her to find it.

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A Mediaeval toppling

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Through some clever manipulation, Mr Mason and I manage to arrange our week so that we can go to the Lincolnshire show. I love County shows. The week doesn’t start well with Lark coming into season. At first I think she has cut her paw (D’oh!) because she leaves a red bloody mark on my night dress but then, upon investigation and an email to her breeder, we are sure that is what has happened (coming into season not a cut paw). What do we do? We have never been in this situation before. I have a mental picture of all male dogs in East Lindsey rushing towards her and getting to our garden all at the same time. There are dire warnings on the internet and I suddenly feel very protective of my little pup who has no idea what is going on and still enjoys chasing a fluffy bunny and a screeching monkey around the garden. Should I be on one of those Channel 5 programmes as a bad mother? Probably not, I remind myself, she is a dog. Mr Mason and I trawl the charity shops in Horncastle to find suitable garments for her nether regions to keep the house reasonably clean. The first item I find is a pair of Superman shorts. It’s very difficult trying to size up an 11 month old whippet and compare it to a 3 or 4 year old child. At 99p I decide to take the risk but the woman at the counter undoes my subterfuge. “Going for a swim, are  you?” she asks. Now I can either grow the lie or just take it on the chin. “Actually they’re for my dog. She’s come into season today.” The assistant hoots with laughter and can still be heard as we go into the next charity shop two doors down. In the supermarket, I think I have cracked it. A pair of Swimmers! Nappy-type pants for kids who want to go in the water but can’t resist leaving a surprise. Again, the sizing catches me out. Helpfully, someone has opened a packet of the size I think would be right but it seems much too small to me so I buy the bigger size. Getting her into them is another job. She doesn’t mind too much but can’t resist chewing at the tapes so in the end I have to take a roll of sellotape and tape her in. Of course, when Mr Mason takes them off her later (yes, it was always going to be his job), there is a poo in it and I’m not sure who is more surprised.

On our way to the Lincolnshire Show the following day, armed with dire warnings of horrendous traffic jams, we see a rather chubby woman wearing a t-shirt with the slogan PUGS NOT DRUGS! It teams well with her tracksuit bottoms and slippers but we can’t quite get our heads around the slogan and so then make up rude and politically incorrect versions of our own as well as some equally perplexing ones to match the original. FEET NOT MEAT! PENS NOT HENS! You can take it from here. Getting into the show is a breeze. We are shown to the Disabled parking area which is very close to the entrance and then walk through with our pre-printed tickets. Lark is worried by the traction engines but both dogs enjoy the show jumping. They seem fairly relaxed although will not take food or drink from anyone except me and even then, Dog needs lots of coaxing. We find places to sit when we need them, buy some fabulous cheeses, smoked garlic salt, a hat, a wonderful walnut sourdough bread and a pair of ratcheted extendable loppers for Mr Mason who is very excited by this purchase. We go to see the pigs and sheep (PIGS NOT WIGS!) and then find out afterwards that dogs were not permitted. None of the animals seemed worried by each other and the size of both pigs and sheep was amazing. The pigs, particularly, were huge and sleepy while the sheep quietly stood guard. We left the show at around 4pm, thinking we had probably left it too late to avoid the terrible traffic but slid out of the car park easily and got home in record time. Obviously ‘terrible traffic’ in Lincolnshire means something quite different to what we are used to. I am really pleased with the way I handled the Show, managing to stumble round without falling over and being on my feet for quite some time. The weather at the Bolingbroke Mediaeval Madness a couple of days later is not so fair; in fact, it is raining. I have taken to walking Dog rather than Lark as he seems quite steady and sensible in comparison to her skipping and lurching about. Despite her size, she is quite strong, too. A sight hound is spotted at the Madness and so both dogs decide to make a break for it. Unfortunately, the new dog is downhill from us and Dog manages to pull me over completely. One minute I am upright and the next I am flat out, wondering if I have broken anything or not. Getting up is the hard and humiliating part. Complete strangers are offering to haul me to my feet and I feel disorientated and really just feel like lying there for a few moments, now that I have taken the trouble to get down there. Unfortunately this type of inactivity comes with the label of ‘slightly mad woman’ so I allow Mr Mason to haul me to my knees and then I flounder around and do the rest without looking too overwhelmed and I hurry away with Dog and apologies for my clumsiness. Being unstable does upset me, though. Sometimes I find it hard to walk in a straight line and my family is obsessed with me getting in people’s way. I often feel a firm hand in the small of my back ushering me along or being grabbed by the hand to move out of the way or cross the road. The latter move is doomed to disaster as the grabber is inevitably moving faster than me and if they persist will end up with a far more embarrassing scenario as I land flat on my face. Following the Mediaevel Madness toppling (‘toppling’ being the phrase coined by Mr Mason jnr for my many falls, including a spectacular one on the Champs Elysee for which, I suspect, i am still not forgiven), I feel exhausted and go and sit on the sofa and pretend to watch something on tv. Mr Mason goes back to see the one or two knights who have come to do battle and I don’t even realise he is gone. Apparently the knights really go at each other, dealing heavy blows as though there has been a slight disagreement over a pint of real ale earlier in the day.

And so sets in a period of extreme fatigue which is why it has taken me so long to update my blog. But the world doesn’t shut down nor does excitement and laughter which is a great part of the Mason household so I will be back before long with more tales of mayhem and destruction (and probably toppling). Enjoy a rare sighting of me in a photograh, completely unprepared and not having my photogenic body on.

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