Lark’s Diary X

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I’ve been poorly. My mum took me to see Dr Bum and they were all very friendly and patted me and tickled me which was nice. But then SHE LEFT ME THERE! I wanted to go and jump right back in the car but Mum and Mark drove away. That surprised me and made me a bit sad. The lady took me into another room and then they stuck this sharp thing in me and I went to sleep. When I woke up, I still had my jumper on but I also had this big sticky thing on my tummy and it hurt. And I felt sooooo sleepy. Mum came and collected me and I couldn’t jump into the car because my tummy hurt so Mark had to pick me up and put me in. When we got home, Archie sniffed me all over because I smelt funny. Mark had to carry me upstairs because it hurt to climb up and then, when I wanted to go down again, I felt all funny and had to lean on Mum but she said “Slow and steady” to remind me not to hurtle, which is what I usually do. Normally I start off quite quickly at the top of the stairs and then get faster and faster until I get to the bottom. It’s very exciting but I didn’t want to do it with my poorly tummy. Every morning, Mum gave me some medicine which helped my tummy but I still don’t like running round the garden with Archie as my tummy feels tight and strange. I hope it stops soon as I’ve had to stop being in the Pigeon Catchers Club for a while in case I hurt myself. Archie keeps putting my head in his mouth to try and make me play so he’s been told off a bit for doing that. I’m still not sure what happened at Dr Bum’s but I don’t think I’d like to go there again.

But more exciting is that we’ve got more animals in the pack. We went off in the car and Mum and Mark put some wooden boxes inside that were really stinky. I looked at Archie and he looked at me but it was worse than any smell we’d ever made. Mum says they are hedgehogs and I haven’t seen them but you can smell them all over the garden. They have special food which is not really special because it’s dog food but they also have biscuits which are supposed to be for hedgehogs but they taste just like cat biscuits to me. Not that I really know what cat biscuits taste like because I’m not allowed to steal the cats’ food. Ahem. Anyway, the lady who gave Mum the hedgehogs liked dogs too and she spent ages stroking us. I didn’t get out of the car because I’m not well but she stroked my ears and scratched my head a lot which was very nice.

Then, the pack increased even more (but just for a little while)! Mark went out in the car and it was a huge surprise when he came back with Ollie and Becky! I think they must live a long way away as they don’t come here every week. Ollie is Mum and Mark’s son and Becky is his girlfriend (hee hee). Becky has pink hair. I wish I had pink hair because I would look even prettier and everyone would know I am a girl. But I got some new pyjamas with pirates on and everyone asked if it was for Halloween but I don’t think you have pirates at Halloween. I thought it was all ghosts and stuff. Anyway, I looked very smart and now Mum can wash my red jumper because she said it’s stinky.

Archie and I put new bandanas on this week. They are a burgundy red, Mum says. Mine came off twice and Mum put it back on for me and then it came off in the night and when she went to change my jumper, she let me run around nude in the garden! I didn’t have a collar on or anything and it felt all tickly and funny but then I got cold so she put my new jumper on which is very soft and Mum says it’s tartan.There are some funny things growing in our garden which Mum says I’m not to eat or I’ll go all peculiar. They just look so tasty, though.

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I am getting better with my house training. Now, when Mum takes me out in the back garden, I know what she wants me to do! Once or twice I’ve remembered to tell her I want to go outside but she says I have to tell Mark, too. If I have to run around telling everyone in the house I need a wee, I’ll have wet myself before I get outside! I think she really means ‘tell the nearest person’ because mostly when I’ve told her, she’s been upstairs and has to come all the way down to let me out. I’m still not keen on ringing the bell, though, but Mum says I have to learn. She’s been leaving me and Archie on our own a bit more, too. I don’t like it. When she goes out, I have to bark and go “Ooooo oooo oooooooooo”. I don’t know why. It just starts bubbling up in my throat and I have to let it out. And as soon as she goes out, I always need a wee. I can ring my bells all I like but there is no-one to let me out then. She never tells me off if I have an accident. She just says “Oh, Lark” in a special voice and I think I’ve disappointed her but when I get it right, she shouts “Good girl, Lark!” and waves her arms around which makes me all excited. Then she rubs my ears and gives me a treat. The very best times, though, are when we snuggle in bed or on the sofa. She strokes my head and my belly and it makes me feel all nice. I feel all warm and fuzzy inside. It’s the best feeling in the world.

Hedgehog heaven

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We go to see the oncologist who is as cheerful as ever. He tells me that my tumour markers have risen slightly but that is over a 3 month period so he doesn’t know if they’ve jumped quickly or just gradually increased. More blood tests to find out. He also orders a CT scan so we can see what’s happening inside. My biggest problem, as ever is fatigue and the idea that I can do everything I want to without consequences. It’s like I forget every time and then spend a few days in bed recovering and dealing with the pain. My sleep has been weird, too, and I’m often awake for 4 hours or more in the night. It’s a good time to do Christmas shopping but I really would rather be asleep. I finish a couple of books, that way, too.

Chemo on Monday is a little different as Mr Mason is away at a  meeting in London. I have booked transport to the hospital which turns out to be a man in a car with casual racism and a dislike of anyone moving into the area. We find things to talk about on the journey although it does feel strange to be without Mr Mason, even though he is not allowed in the chemo suite. I am called in quite quickly which is a novelty and am soon plugged into my portacath. The woman next to me starts to feel unwell and goes red in the face. Her heart is hammering away, she says, so we call a nurse over. She is having a new treatment which I guess is Herceptin as it can have those effects, but I’m wrong. We fall into conversation and I tell her we have only recently moved to the area. She says she lived in London until 13 years ago. “Aren’t you glad to get away from all those ethnics?” she asks. I’m a bit taken back and explain that I think that’s the one thing Lincolnshire lacks. She says angrily that she was mugged and burgled before she moved away but she didn’t say the kind of people who did it. I agree that’s a horrible thing to happen to anyone but my experience had been quite different. It wasn’t all sunshine and roses but how we loved the diversity of food shops, being able to buy ingredients for pretty much any nationality and the great international community. Then I drop the bomb. “My son in law is Iranian” I say, “and here it’s more difficult to find ingredients to cook Iranian food whereas that wasn’t a problem in London”. She goes a funny colour and ends the conversation. I just like saying “My son in law” anyway.

There is a bit of kerfuffle about giving me Domperidone, the anti-sickness drug. It’s not been prescribed but I am used to asking for more when I need it and here, things are obviously done differently. The staff scurry around and come back from the pharmacy with the medication but unfortunately it’s been made out in a name similar to mine but not mine, therefore I cannot have it. I wait outside for the car driver who tells me he can’t leave until 2 other patients are ready. Eventually we depart at 3.15 and I sit in the back with a lady who, the driver tells me, “don’t speak any English”. Luckily I get dropped off first as the dogs have been on their own since 9am and will be going ballistic. They are mightily excited when I get in, jumping up as if they haven’t seen me for years and Lark has disgraced herself on the kitchen floor whilst Archie has held on. He does have an amazing bladder capacity, similar to that of Austin Powers.

The following day we take Lark to be spayed. She is wearing her new red jumper to keep her warm and walks into the vet’s surgery without a care in the world. They make a big fuss of her but when we leave her, she’s confused that she’s not coming with us and I spend the day worrying if she’ll be all right. Anaesthetising a sight hound is a different game to other types of dog due to their large chests (or so I’ve been told). We ring at 2pm and she is fine, lying on her back asking for her belly to be tickled and ready to come home. We go to collect her and she is clearly spaced out. Mr Mason has to pick her up to put her in the car and to get her out again. She goes straight to her crate and sleeps and sleeps, just waking to have tepid scrambled egg spooned into her little mouth. What a princess! Archie spends the day fretting over where his little sister is and gives her a good sniff when she comes home. It’s difficult for him because she can’t run around or wrestle with him and the first time she goes down stairs on her own she is hesitant and gives a little “Oooh” when she gets to the bottom, gravity getting the better of her. For the first couple of days she is clearly in pain but she soon starts to heal up. She doesn’t show much inclination to race around the garden yet. I suspect it feels tight where her stitches are but they come out this week so that should feel better and then they can have a celebratory race around the garden.

My new appointment with the speech therapist comes around and we head off to Lincoln County Hospital. When we get there, we just can’t find the right place so ask at reception. They point out that my appointment is at Louth Hospital. Sigh. I cannot be trusted these days to get anything right. I phone Louth and they say they will tell the therapist so we hit the road again and arrive at a hospital which is clearly old (for anyone in Ealing, think the original St Bernard’s) and therefore confusing in its layout. We ask a random woman at a clinic reception desk and she says “It’s by the entrance” which is rather unhelpful as there are lots of buildings clustered around the entrance. We rush off and eventually find the place which I am sure is in the same building as a clinic entitled Sexual Diseases. Luckily our therapist is in reception at the same time as us and ushers us into her office, even though we are 40 minutes late. She is brilliant, taking notes and giving me tips on how not to choke when I am eating and drinking. We make another appointment for a couple of weeks’ time in Horncastle which is much nearer to us. She thinks I should be seeing an ENT specialist, too, so she asks my GP to refer me to one and will be working on my voice, my swallowing and eating.

The following day we go off to collect our hedgehogs. I didn’t think we’d be able to home any this year as we left it rather late to offer but the hedgehog lady called and has a mum and 3 babies for us. When we get there, she also has a lone hedgehog called Linda who tried to hibernate in a pub cellar. The rescue centre is a warren of buildings with washing lines full of towels drying. And it smells! We once had a hedgehog who came into the conservatory back in Ealing. It hid away and every time we went into the conservatory, it defecated in fear. We had forgotten the smell! The woman who helps us is clearly devoted to hedgehogs and dogs. She brings the mum and babies out first, telling us the mum was savaged by a badger. She was with them for 3 weeks and when they went to clean her out one morning, found she had 3 baby hedgehogs with her. Clearly uninhibited, she would lie on her back suckling her babies and didn’t mind who came to have a look. I suddenly think, stupidly, that we haven’t brought anything to put the hedgehogs in but we are given a little wooden house with 2 rooms, one with mum and babies snuggled into a towel and the other with a messy white towel where the entrance is. We are told the hedgehogs like the smell so they don’t get cleaned out, as such, but poo is removed and that’s that. Mr Mason will clearly be on poo duty yet again. We are also given Linda in a separate house and told she will likely leave us quickly. The babies might also go as they have been born in captivity and don’t know what the world is like but will probably be very curious. We put them into the car, hoping they won’t prove curious as we are driving home and the dogs look aghast as the smell hits them. They look at each other, silently blaming the other. Back at home we put them in the hedgehog hotel we have built and provide food and water and leave them to it, not before taking a quick peek, though.

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So these are the latest members of the Mason household; Linda, Hilde, Athelstan, Wulfrun and Ethelfrida, all good Viking names (apart from Linda, obviously), in honour of the Viking heritage here.

Finally, if you have spare time on your hands, you might like to make this delightful mobile I saw in a magazine at the Hospital. It will amaze your friends and make them green with envy. All you need is a plastic basket lid and the lids from air fresheners, apparently. It is truly unique.

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Bitter-sweet symphony

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The last few days are a real mixture of emotion – contentment, excitment, fear and sadness, all rolled into one big knotted ball of wool. I think I have finally settled into this house. It’s not that I haven’t been loving it from the beginning but it’s taken a while to feel like my house rather than a nice house we’ve borrowed. As it’s our first year, there are so many things to find out about it. What grows in the garden, what to do with all the apples, where is the best wood supplier and why has our boiler gone on the blink the second we think we might want to light it? We discover we can have either constant hot water and no heating or a small amount of hot water and heating. The shower in our en-suite is electric so that’s OK but it’s a bit mean for guests who shower in the bathroom with its enormous shower, dependent on the boiler for hot water. We opt for the hot water and start using the log burner which is immediately captivating and soothing. We do runs to the local woods to pick up kindling and wait for our plumber to find a little piece of metal which will fix the boiler (we hope).

In the meantime, my speech therapy appointment rolls round and Mr Mason and I get up extra early so we can be in Lincoln at 9am. Alas, at 8.45 I get a call saying the therapist is not well so has cancelled my appointment. I really hate having very little voice and certainly little power to project it. Not being heard makes me feel diminished in some way. We go to the village hall for the Macmillan Coffee morning and sit with neighbours we don’t know very well. The noise in the hall is quite loud and clearly they are finding it hard to hear me which is frustrating and a tad boring. At the end of our conversation, the neighbour says to her husband that I have lost my voice. There is that split second choice – do I or don’t I? I’ve been so frustrated by the conversation that I do. I say “I have cancer and it presses on my vocal chords which is why I can’t speak properly”. There is the usual moment of silence with eyebrows raised and mouth turned into a perfect O before she finds her own voice and commiserates with me. That is the end of the conversation, though. I’m hard work sometimes.

We have Mr and Mrs Palmer to stay overnight. Mrs Palmer and I were at school together so we go back a fair way. She is something of a superhero as she singlehandedly steered a speeding RV, driven by Mr Palmer who was having an absence at the time, safely to the side of the road in Canada, not hitting any other vehicles and preserving life and limb all round. They bring us a beautiful handmade sign for the house, amongst a treasure trove of other things, loving made and we take them to see the tiger who lays eggs. Then into Horncastle where we attempt, for the umpteenth time, to see the church but it is locked. From memory, I believe there are farming implements from the Peasant’s Revolt hanging in the church but the vicar clearly doesn’t want his flock wandering in at all and sundry hours. We have a pleasant evening, or so I think, ending with a takeaway of epic proportions. Once we have eaten, I feel desperate to get to bed and am graciously allowed to do so. When I look at my watch on my way upstairs, it says 8.15. Despite my love of them, I don’t think I can be called a night owl.

Mr Mason takes the dogs out into the fields around the castle the following morning and is back sooner than I expect. He says there is a fox stuck in a fence and is going to call the RSPCA. I find the number and he duly calls, looking crosser by the minute. By the time he gets through to a real person, they sound no better than the automated system, asking him repeatedly where he lives, how long ago he saw the fox and whether he has clean underpants on (I made that bit up). I decide I will walk over to see for myself and find 3 women from Spilsby on a day out who have also come across the fox. They go through the same routine with the RSPCA and meanwhile the fox pants, struggles a little and looks thoroughly miserable and frightened, despite our soft and soothing words. When the RSPCA inspector arrives, she brings the tiniest pair of scissors in the world attached to a Swiss Army knife and then berates us because “no-one told us it was a wire fence”. Mr Mason arrives and duly sets off for a house where there are builders working, hoping they will have a wire cutter. Meanwhile the inspector loops a restrainer around the fox’s neck and pokes it about a bit. She clearly just wants to let the fox go whereas the gathering group want it to be seen by a vet. She tells us it hasn’t been there long as its foot is still warm (it is so hot people are mopping their faces with handkerchiefs) and that it is a big fox and quite old. With my experience of urban foxes, I would say it is a young fox, either a vixen or a small male. I have no idea how long it’s been strung up there but I would guess a few hours as it’s now 1pm and foxes generally like to skulk about when there is no-one else around. Mr Mason brings 2 hefty workmen back with him and, despite their earlier conversation during which they say they will be happy to despatch a fox, they treat it very gently and carefully cut the wire away, helping the inspector put the fox into what she calls a ‘crush cage’ but which is labelled ‘small cat box’ making me think she’s brought entirely the wrong equipment. The fox is duly hauled away, hopefully to the vet and not just half a mile down the road.

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And on a warm Thursday, Mr Mason and I get up at 5 and set out for London with Dog and Lark in the back of the car. The traffic is OK until we hit the outskirts and then we just run into the normal choked-up roadways which we miss not even a little. We head for Maggie’s, one of our favourite haunts, filled with warm memories and good friends. Ms de Roeck and Ms Marsden are there, both looking as lovely as ever and we exchange hugs, squeezes and kisses. We sit for a short while, talking and laughing and then head on out. Ms de Roeck has to go to work but Ms Marsden jumps in the car with us, the back seat filled with dog food, gifts and snacks to keep Mr Mason going. One day she will find the back seat empty and pristine. The last time she was with us she was wedged between Ms Howard and a tyre. It’s a long story. We head off to see Ms Baranska who has not been doing so well over the last weeks and who we have been desperate to see. We bring Patisserie Valerie cakes, Jelly Babies, elderflower cordial and maybe other things that I’ve forgotten. She is in great pain moving around which is distressing to see. Her mum, not speaking any English, still talks to us, smiling through her immense pain in looking after her daughter. How can I describe Ms Baranska? Physically she is just stunning to look at; perfect cheekbones in a model’s face with a smile that would light up any room. When you talk, she listens, she concentrates, she understands. She is kind, witty, funny, well-read, cheeky and beautiful inside and out. Ah yes, and she is just a year older than my daughter. I fell in love with her when I first met her. She is someone you want to be friends with because she is just lovely. She makes me laugh when she tells me she has been swearing a lot since she was diagnosed with secondary cancer of an unknown origin, choosing specific words to describe it, not just random swearing.  We talk, drink tea and Ms Marsden, Mr Mason and I eat cake. We hold hands, I cry, we talk about the important stuff, the down-to-the-wire, nitty-gritty, downright unpleasant stuff and it breaks my heart to see her so ill and uncomfortable. We are all entranced by a hanging over the stairwell which consists of 1000 origami cranes in lots of different colours and patterns, strung together in a rainbow waterfall. Ms Baranska tells us it was a project created by her family. They all made lots and lots of cranes and she would receive envelopes from family and close friends stuffed with cranes to add. She and her sister strung them together and her partner made a frame to hand them from. It really is stunning. After an hour or so, we can see she is getting tired and, despite her protestations, we get up to leave which is a hard thing to do. For some reason I cannot bring myself to take a photograph of her but I do take one of her cat who appears to have a huge smile on his face. And living with Ms Baranska, who wouldn’t have a smile on their face?

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Insomniac Identifies Owls

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I am back on the sleepless cycle of chemo. Lately it seems to be going like this. First few days feeling achey and tired. Next few days feeling pretty OK. Next few days feeling really tired, eyes heavy, body feeling like lead but unable to sleep for more than 2 hours at a time. For the first couple of nights, this is OK. I read my book, catch up on emails and think about Christmas shopping. OK, I’m a planner. So shoot me. Last week before chemo is a mix of first two weeks with random nausea, headaches and pain. I get pain from fibromyalgia and then pain from cancer. A new pain is in the site of where my breast was removed. It feels like the muscles are tired, just like the rest of me. Then it all starts again. If that all sounds a bit gloomy, I’m not complaining. My drug of choice, Kadcyla, has been removed from the Cancer Drugs Fund so I consider myself lucky to be receiving it every 3 weeks unlike some other women who need it but cannot have it. If I were in their position, yes, I would be complaining, loud and long. The trouble is, I don’t think anyone would be too interested, outside the cancer charities and cancer patients and families. My oncologist thinks I should drop the final dose of Oramorph I have in the evening by taking my night time dose later. This can be achieved, he posits, by setting an alarm to wake myself up. I give him a look which I hope is withering. Telling someone with sleep problems that once they are asleep they should wake themselves up is just madness, and dangerous (for the teller). The nurse at the Hospice thinks I should take what I want, when I want it and stuff the oncologist. I like her attitude.

Lying awake in the wee small hours allows me to home in on owl sounds and I can now identify 3 different types of owl we have here. The barn owl, the tawny owl and the little owl. The barn owl shrieks loudly whilst the tawny owl is the one that goes toowit toowoo. Is that how you spell it? Any owls reading this, please feel free to let me know. The little owls are, not surprisingly, a little quieter. This morning, just before 5am, a barn owl is doing a real number outside our window and when I get up to look, I am lucky enough to see him swooping around in front of the house. It’s a bit different from the foxes who used to shriek at us when we were in London and infinitely more pleasurable. I haven’t been able to identify the bats yet.

Following on from my last post when I was definitely not feeling great, I am certainly feeling better. Just as suddenly as the gloom hit me, the sunnier side of my nature comes forth and I feel relaxed and back to my old self. What has shifted? I really don’t know. I wake up on Saturday and decide we will have a day out. We take the dogs to the woods to collect kindling, have lunch at a brilliant pub and then stock up on meat at our favourite farm shop. Finally, we go to Horncastle to look at an antique shop where we think our upcycling man has moved to. Not only are his things there but so is he so I am able to show him photos of his trumpet wall lights which we have had installed in our bedroom. We absolutely love them and I have an idea he could make us a central light with 3 or 4 trumpets on it to finish the room off. He is keen and we talk about the possibility of sourcing the trumpets and design. I also mention a friend who is planning something special for her husband’s birthday next year and is sensibly thinking ahead. Finally, I buy a euphonium which has been made into a floor light and which is fabulous. He gives us a very good price (as his wife did when we bought the trumpet lights) and Mr Mason carries it out of the shop to much interest. We come home and I have a snooze during which time Mr Mason puts the euphonium light where I suggest it would look best and it looks great. I love the idea of recycling and upcycling, too. Making something new and fresh out of old stuff. He shows us in the shop an old farm implement he has made into a floor lamp. Now it is rescued and in use rather than just rotting away after years of service so he has an interest in protecting our heritage of lots of old things, from farm implements to cylinder vacuum cleaners (which also make spectacular floor lights).

Heading off to my long awaited appointment with the Speech Therapist on Tuesday so she can help with my voice, I receive a call to say the therapist is not at work that day. We are almost at Lincoln by the time we get the phone call having left the house at 8am to make a 9.15 appointment. To say I am disappointed is an understatement. I have had a different voice for over a year. It’s higher pitched and has a lot less intensity. I can’t sing. Sometimes I speak in what I call two-tone – two notes at once come out and it sounds really weird. People in shops can’t hear me, people on the phone can’t hear me. They ask if I have a sore throat or blame it on a bad line but I don’t have the breath to project my voice. It is very frustrating so my disappointment at a second cancellation is great. Instead we go to the woods really early, surprising the dogs who are thinking they are in for a day in the car. They love it until they meet an un-neutered Husky running at full pelt around a corner. Dog immediately gets protective over his un-spayed sister and shows his teeth, a rare occurrence but when he does it, he means it. All dogs are put on leads and owners stand around talking sensibly about dog behaviour. I am unsure exactly why Dog takes such offence until Mr Mason explains to me the other dog has a huge erection. Aah, that explains it!

I now have another appointment with the therapist on 8th October so not too long to wait now. If she can’t help with exercises, I will probably have to have an injection in my vocal chord to plump it up a little. Although the other side has been taking on the work of both, some days I sound like my voice is going to give out altogether. How will I sing Christmas Carols around the tree in the village? There are not that many of us so miming is out of the question. In a Midsomer village such as ours, there are bound to be a few singers of the entertaining type; those with an operatic bent, perhaps. If we’re lucky. I could stand behind him/her although I am usually ushered to the front of any event like this due to my stature. Hmmm. Something to work on, unless the therapist works her magic quickly. We like to indulge in village activities (although we will draw a veil over the Mediaeval Bolinbroke event when I was sent sprawling at the feet of complete strangers by Dog) and tomorrow is Macmillan’s Coffee Morning in the Village Hall so we will go to that. Already a couple of our neighbours have said they are going so it should be an opportunity for cake and gossip and meeting up with my Macmillan trainer, Aaron, who decides this is the perfect day to visit me.

I know it’s Pinktober coming up and there seem to be very mixed feelings about it. Charities have to adopt a dual approach. They support their client group, whoever it is and they have to raise funds to do it. Fundraising has to be fun and popular as otherwise, people would not do it.Client groups, on the other hand, often hate these initiatives with a passion as they don’t educate. Having worked in charities and now a cancer patient, I feel for both sides. Yes, the pinking of everything does nothing for me. I almost feel it is completely removed from me and my experience and yet if it wasn’t there at all, I wonder what would replace it? Playing silly games does not encourage you to check your breasts, testicles or any other parts of the body and in that sense, seems pointless and a little offensive. But I have to admit, I can’t get over excited over it. I understand my role to be to educate and work with the charities so they understand my point of view and so I can share my experience with both their staff and any other cancer patients who are interested to hear it. Smaller, less well-known charities than Macmillan (Bliss, for example, a charity that works with familes who have sick or premature babies) use any opportunity to raise their profile be it a buggy walk or baking cakes. Baking cakes doesn’t have much to do with the distress of bringing a baby into the world 10 weeks early but it does increase knowledge about where to go if you need that kind of information and also to raise funds for such a worthy cause. So I cheer on the people raising funds in October, want to educate those playing online games and keep  my head down. Most people in the village know I have cancer and ask openly about how I’m getting on. That’s my opportunity to do a little education right there and then and then they are on their way, hopefully asking themselves questions and better informed. We can’t do everything in one sweep but we are moving forward. I’ve been asked by a project working with Macmillan to speak to GPs about my experience, especially that of being reassured I did not have cancer when, in fact, I had one of the most aggressive breast cancers. That’s definitely in my skill set and I look forward to doing it.

Lark’s Diary IX

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According to my mum, I have 2 speeds – slow and steady and hurtle! I must admit that hurtle is my favourite as it allows me to run around the garden like a mad thing although she doesn’t like it when I do it on the stairs, especially when I’m behind her. The other day, Mum was up late because she wasn’t feeling very well so I took 2 cans of San Pellegrino, which I know she likes, and left them on the stairs in case she needed a drink on the way down. After thinking about it, I realise I could have killed her and feel a little ashamed although it won’t last long. And you never know, she might have been thirsty.

We have been to the woods this week which I really like. Archie and I run around sniffing and chasing each other. I surprised him by running underneath him when he was having a wee and he nearly fell over because he always wees standing with one leg up which is a bit weird but I didn’t even get wet.  There is a ditch at one side of the path and it was full of water and Mum just shouted “Don’t go in the ditch!” when suddenly I was! And it was full of yucky stinky water which Mum doesn’t like but I secretly do as the smell lasts for ages. Anyway, Archie was chasing me so I couldn’t stop and we both went through the water about 23 times, which is quite a lot. And then I was out of breath so we went for lunch and Mum gave me some of her meat and Mark gave me a chip. Even then we didn’t go home but went to the farm shop where there are lots of dogs (but no tigers – they are scary) and they always bark at us but I was tired so I didn’t answer back. Then we went into town and Archie and I sat in the car while Mum and Mark went into the Co-op which is not a food shop but Mum says it sells everything and would send someone with OCD demented. Even though it sells everything, it didn’t sell the thing Mum wanted so she’s not really right. We still didn’t go home but went to another shop and Mark came out carrying the strangest thing. It’s big and shiny and all coiled up and apparently it’s called a euphonium which is a very long word and a musical instrument, too. I thought Mark was going to play it but instead, he switched it on and it has a light in it! It’s very strange but I quite like it although I have to be careful not to knock it over. Then we went home.

While Mum was resting today, I was looking around the bedroom to see if there was anything I could play with in the bin or if anything needed rearranging when I heard a funny noise. I’ve heard it before and it goes bzzzzzzzzz. Then I saw a black and yellow thing crawling on the floor so I went to investigate. It was quite small but also quite noisy so I thought I’d just rub my head on it to see what it feels like. I quite like rubbing my head on things and that sometimes turns into me rolling on things, especially if it’s smelly. I usually get told off for that, especially when I rolled in poo when I had my new Union Jack bandana on. Mum said the Queen would be cross, whoever she is. Anyway, I rubbed the buzzy thing once and I was just about to do it again because it didn’t smell very much when Mum shouted “Leave it!” When I say she shouts, I just mean her voice gets a teeny bit louder as she has something wrong with her throat. She got up and put the buzzy thing on a card and then she threw it out of the window! I was shocked and I hope it didn’t hurt itself as it’s a long way to fall.

Finally, I have a new thing to help remind me to go to the toilet outside. It’s a long leather strap that fits over the backdoor handle and it has big bells on it. When Mum takes me out for a wee she rings the bells first and then, if I do a wee, I get a pig’s ear as a reward. Oh, I do love pigs ears! This thing is called ‘Poochiebells’, can you believe it? I’m supposed to start ringing the bell for myself soon so Mum knows when I want to go out. Hmmm. We’ll see! Meanwhile, here is  a picture of me in my new jumper! It’s so cosy I don’t want to take it off.

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How do I love thee?

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The real question for me today, however, is – how can I live well? Let me count the ways (apologies to Elizabeth Barratt Browning). I just don’t know how to live with secondary cancer and it’s not as if I can just be because that doesn’t seem possible, either. I find it very difficult to explain or describe how it feels to be in my situation. I talk to bereaved friends and tell them there is no one way to mourn someone, no right way, just the way you do it. I should apply the same logic and empathy to myself but I find it difficult. I suppose I am mourning my loss of life – the things ahead of me which I will never be around to see or do. And not knowing when that point will come is, of course, a real bugbear with me as I am a real planner. At the same time, when someone does advance a tentative theory as to how long I might live, I rail against it and feel murderous. The bottom line is I don’t want to die of cancer and not having any choice in the matter I find very difficult. Another stick to beat myself with is worrying about the future instead of getting on with the here and now. Taking time to smell the daisies, coffee or whatever you choose.

In my birth family, idleness is seen as a huge crime so relaxing and watching the world go by often leaves me feeling gulity, that I’ve missed out on something else I should be doing. Old family messages are horrible things. Strong, identifiable and yet difficult to get rid of. You would think by now I could just say “Fuck it” but there’s still a little gritty bit of something inside me that rubs and yet, unlike the oyster, it won’t produce any pearls. Today I try a limited amount of screaming, upsetting the dogs and Mr Mason and possibly bewildering the neighbours. The latter I don’t mind about but all screaming really leaves me with is a headache and sore throat, no peace.

Eventually I manage to get myself on track. I spend a long time in the shower, making the water as hot as I can stand and that feels good. I potter around the garden with the dogs which eventually leads to a little weeding and then picking up windfalls and then we are sorting and wrapping apples for the winter. As I write, Mr Mason is in the kitchen peeling and chopping apples for our various ways of preserving them. A couple of years ago, I would have led the preserving charge with verve and enthusiasm. These days, I don’t quite have the spark. Not at the moment, anyway. But things can always change.

And having put a tremendous amount of faith into a politician, my message for Jeremy Corbyn today is this:

Don’t go breaking my heart…

Come into my brine bath…

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The last 2 weeks are a bit trying. Mr Mason has been away overnight which means Dog and Lark are my sole responsibilities. They also play up because he is not here. Gavin, the gardener, tells me that because the Alpha male is gone, they are anxious. “But I am Lark’s favourite” I say. “Yes,” he says, “you can have an Alpha bitch…” and then tails off, not sure where the conversation is going. Anyway, the second week of nights away is not so bad except my sleep has gone all to pot, as they say. I am so tired I am hallucinating and even when dozing, I wake myself by moving my hands to pat the heads of animals in my dreams and start talking to myself about half empty jars of pickles which don’t exist in my bedroom. It’s a very strange, surreal feeling, this lack of sleep. I become quite unsteady on my feet and have to be careful when leaving my study as the entrance is near the top of the stairs. Even without the aid of a little dog, it would be easy to pitch myself down them.

I am upstairs with Lark when Dog starts up a mighty barking and growling downstairs. This normally means someone is at the door so I wend my way downstairs and find I have left the back door open and there are 2 people standing the other side of the gate looking bemused. Archie quietens immediately, his door duties having been attended to and we stand there exchanging pleasantries for a few moments, talking about the weather, the dogs, the garden. I know what they want and I’m trying to think of a way to deter them pleasantly. I am tolerant of most faiths I have encountered and don’t want to rain on their parade, even if I think they are barking mad. The man has a nasty scab on his nose which keeps my attention and he starts by talking about war and sickness in the world. I slip in that I have terminal cancer, thinking playing the C card might get me out of the conversation quicker. They are very sympathetic and talk about God having a date in mind “and he won’t change it!” the man warns but that after that the Earth will become a paradise and there will be no more need for doctors, no more wars and no more starvation. All the dead will be resurrected and then I got a bit lost because he was talking about sin which doesn’t mean you’re a bad person or have done something bad but that you are imperfect. The woman pitches in at this point asking if I believe in the resurrection after death and I tell her no. “But it’s in the bible” she tells me. I say there are lots of things in the bible which are interpreted in many different ways and that I don’t share her belief. “Do you have faith? What do you think will happen after you’re dead?” she persists. And for some reason, in that moment she just gets to me. I couldn’t put into words what it was she said or what I was thinking but I felt tearful and thought “Bugger! Let them see they’ve upset me” so I just cried and said “I can’t talk about this any more”. They were apologetic for my feelings but still tried to push a leaflet on me so I don’t think they understood they had gone too far. It’s the idea that you have to save someone whether they like it or not I find bizarre. And the idea that being imperfect equates to wickedness. I didn’t know the woman’s name but know she lives in the village so I shall have to watch out for her.

The window cleaner comes to collect his money and asks how we are settling in and whether we like living here. I tell him we love it and he says he does, too. He lives in Skegness and works there and in Horncastle but loves his round in Old Bolingbroke because it’s so peaceful and he’s a bit of a twitcher. I tell him we see the barn owls hunting in the castle grounds some evenings and that I know we have at least 2 species of owl because they have different calls. He tells me we have several types of owl in this area and then says he has seen little owls in a tree around the corner. Little owls, in case you have never seen one, are about 6″ high and incredibly cute. I think I will work my way round to asking him to show them to me.

At night, I go to bed around 9pm and take 2 sleeping tablets, the only ones I have got left. I am so desperate to get sleep of any quality. I sleep in solid chunks, perforated by ten minutes of being awake here and there. In the morning I feel groggy, as sleeping tablets tend to do, so I lie in for a while and then get up and pretend I feel fine. As the day wears on, I actually do feel better. Mr Mason and I go to Horncastle to pick up medication and run errands. We nip into our favourite butchers and amongst all the lovely pies and joints of meat, I see he has some really nice beef brisket. Hmmm. This makes really good saltbeef IF you can get the right ingredients. I sidle up to the counter and whisper at him (only because my voice is so quiet) “Can you let me have any saltpetre?” It’s not allowed to be sold because apparently you can make things explode with it so butchers can only give it to you if they feel you are responsible and will not tell the authorities. You really need about 125g so not a huge amount. He shakes his head and says they don’t use it any more. I said that was a shame because the brisket looked like it was perfect to make saltbeef with. His face lights up. “I have a brine bath” he says. “I could put it in there for you and you could come back in about 10 days. How would that be?” What a brilliant idea. For some reason it cheers me up immeasurably and we arrange the date to come and collect it. “Will you know us when we come back?” I ask him. “Oh, yes”, he says, but takes our surname just in case. This is one of the things I love about Lincolnshire. People will help you out if they can. Putting our meat in the brine bath is no trouble to him so he does it. I know things like this happen in other places but we seem to have a concentration of people who are just willing to be helpful here and I really appreciate it. It was a good decision move and it’s not every day a man offers you the use of his brine bath 😉

On returning home we find Lark has destroyed the other side of her indestructible crate, bending the bars, breaking the wire and attempting to push her head and body through the hole. I am now worried that it’s too dangerous to keep her in there while we go out, even though we were out for less than an hour. What if she gets her head stuck? She could seriously hurt herself. I know it’s only separation anxiety but at this point I have no idea what to do with her. She is just such a stubborn little dog – but incredibly loveable and cute, too, fortunately! Ideas on a postcard, please!

Lark’s Diary VIII

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It’s very nice having friends to the house. It means I get extra cuddles, get my belly rubbed and get more treats than usual and I know my Mum and Mark like having friends visit. What I don’t understand is why they don’t come more often. I’ve been thinking about it and worked out that they all live in Boston because that’s where Mark goes to collect them from and then he takes them back after a couple of days. We only have a few friends who come in a car so the rest must live in Boston. I don’t understand why we don’t go to see them there or they don’t just pop over during the week. They don’t have to stay so Mum won’t get tired but we could have fun in the garden or go for a walk or just sit and cuddle together. It would be nice but Mum doesn’t seem to have thought of this so most people come and sleep here. I’ve decided I like Boston, especially when the market is there. When I was little, it frightened me and my Mum had to carry me round but now I’ve found you can get free food there and no-one seems to mind me taking it. Last week I found a delicious stalk from a cauliflower and ate that quickly but no-one told me off. Then we were sitting at the cafe and the lady next to me was eating a bacon roll so I watched her carefully because sometimes you get treats that way. She took a piece of bacon out of her roll and cut it into small pieces and asked Mark if I could have it. Yes, please! I gobbled it down in 2 bites in case Archie saw. After that I looked at her even more. If you prick your ears up and put your head on one side, people often like that, especially if you watch them intently. It’s called “Looking cute” and I think I’m quite good at it. Anyway, she took another piece of bacon and cut it up again and gave it to me so in my opinion, it’s always worth having a go.

The other day we went to the beach with some friends who were very good at cuddling. We had a nice walk and chased about and I even had a little paddle with Mum although I don’t like the way the water chases me. Archie went in right up to his belly! We always like to say hello to the other dogs we meet as it’s polite and sometimes they want to play with us. There was a very big dog with a very big man at the end of a big lead and Archie went to say hello and the dog said something very rude to him. I was cross and ran over to help my big brother but then the big dog decided it wanted to bite me! It was huge and it made me cry out so I went and sat with my Mum and she put my lead on and cuddled me. There were other very big people with the very big mean man and his very big mean dog and they seemed to think everything was our fault and started coming out of the water at us looking very mean but Mark put Archie on his lead and we walked away so they walked away, too. All the time they were on the beach, the big mean dog was watching me and I didn’t like it. It was so rude! We still had fun, though and got some extra cuddling in which was nice. I don’t understand why some people let their dogs be mean to other dogs. I don’t think that dog would be very nice to people, either, as it was on a long heavy chain lead. I expect the big mean man didn’t know any better and perhaps if he had more cuddles he would be nicer to dogs and people. You’d have to find someone willing to cuddle him first, though, and that might be difficult.

I am officially a Superdog! Mark went to London for a meeting and usually Mum stays at home with us but this time she said she had to go to the hospice. I think it’s a bit like a hospital but I’m not sure in what way. She put me in my crate with water and lots of treats and a treat puzzle ball which is great as Mum can hide treats in it and then I have to find them (and eat them). When she went out I cried a bit, even though Archie was there, and thought I would try and escape from my crate, even though I like sitting in it. I pulled and pushed at the bars and bent quite a lot of them and even pulled one out. I did so much damage that when Mum came home, she couldn’t open the door. Luckily there is another door in the side so she let me out of that one and then I was happy again. While she was out, the window cleaner came and Archie shouted and shouted at him but I didn’t because I thought it was rude and also that he might be going to come in and cuddle me but he didn’t. I couldn’t take a photo of the work I did on my crate but obviously I am not alone so I am showing you a photo of a husky who had destroyed his crate. Maybe my Mum will take a proper picture.

I expect you want to know how my house training is going. Some days are good days and I remember to go outside. Other days I just forget because there are so many interesting things to do and look at – bushes, grass, dead voles, flies, ants, butterflies, pigeons, dead shrews, worms, digging, chasing Archie, pretending to chase the cats, rolling on the lawn, cuddling, eating catfood, chewing plastic, stealing clothes, stealing Mum’s slippers, snoozing – the list just goes on and on and in between all that I’m supposed to remember to go outside to have a wee. It’s a hard life.

Making a pig’s ear of it

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It’s been a while since I blogged and the consequence of that is I receive emails asking why I am not blogging, so much so that it is easier to blog than reply to all the post. And it’s lovely to know people miss me when I’m gone. Actually, I haven’t really been anywhere except on a trip to London for a Hula Hoop meeting. Following the scandal from the last meeting I attended (low calorie Hula Hoops vs the normal kind) we have ditched Jaffa Cakes and gone with my suggestion of Tunnocks Tea Cakes. They are not a hit. Someone thinks they have jam in the middle which, of course, they don’t. It’s Chocolate Mallows that have jam in them. So now I am tasked to find a new cake/biscuit which we will all like, which is individually wrapped and easy to transport. Any suggestions gratefully received.

We have lovely friends to stay and the dogs are over the moon by the attention, sausages and belly rubbing they receive. Our last guests are Ms Marsden and Ms Howard and they are fabulous, helping out in the kitchen, easy to entertain and extremely generous with hugs and butter dishes. The weather is really hot so we spend a morning on the beach, paddling and collecting shells. Also avoiding a man with a huge, agressive dog and his huge, aggressive family. They look like the sort who are looking for trouble and for a while we are identified as IT. It is beautiful on the beach, though, unlike the horrible family who continue giving us ‘evils’ for the rest of our stay. We decide they will all suffer from a dreadful polyester heat rash in their most intimate places together with bad sunburn through the holes in their string vests and that satisfies me. We visit antique shops, have lunch in a pub garden and manage to fit in a visit to the Chocolate Drop, the best chocolate shop in the world. They have single estate chocolate and a huge number of flavours in dark, milk and white. They are also extremely generous in the samples they give. If you visit us, you should put it on your list.

Monday sees me back at Lincoln having chemotherapy. This time I am put in proximity to other patients, a woman having her first treatment who laughs nervously and brushes it off as if it is nothing and a woman who faints when the nurse tries to take blood from her. When the nurse comes back to try again, I distract her (the patient, obviously) by showing her the tapping technique from EFT and she manages to give blood this time without passing out. The following morning, Mr Mason leaves early to go and visit Mr and Mrs Mason Snr. Mrs M Snr has been displaying signs of Dementia and it’s something we can’t leave. Without siblings, Mr Mason has to go and help make some decisions, even though his cousin has been doing sterling work by visiting every week. This leaves me with Dog and Lark who cry when he leaves. I feel horrendous after chemo so my 2 days in bed dissolve in front of me and I get up and pretend I feel normal. Our gardener, Gavin, calls on the second day and arranges to come round to see if there is anything he can do. Obviously I have a manic spate of cleaning and tidying so he doesn’t think I’m a lazy cow and then we spend an hour and a half chatting about all sorts of stuff. He’s a good man.

The dogs play me up. They try to play in the house (strictly forbidden due to size) and Lark goes back to square one with her house training which Dog complains about. Instead of resting in bed and sleeping, I am up and down stairs repeatedly. Lark has developed a passion for cauliflower stalks (raw) which she pesters me for and when they get through her digestive system, the smell is horrendous. Dog needs lots of cuddling. I attempt to bribe them for some quiet time with treats. A Jumbone each in the morning and a couple of pig’s ears in the afternoon. Lark has decided the best thing to do with most treats is bury them. If she’s not in the garden, she buries things in the house. I go to put a load of washing on and find a pig’s ear (partly chewed) in amongst the dirty washing. Later on she whips out a Jumbone from somewhere and Dog looks peturbed as to why he has not been given one. Explaining that he ate his in the morning does not compute. There is another pig’s ear in amongst the clean duvet covers waiting to be put away. Another stuffed into a backpack flap. These are not individual ones; they are being recycled like she’s a spy on the run.

So I will have one more night of naughty dogginess this week when Mr Mason spends a night in London for a meeting and then we’re back to normal. I’m tired, not sleeping well and worrying about each and every temperature I get but all in all, doing well. It seems my temperature increases a few days after chemo and it’s difficult to decide whether it’s a hospital matter or a ‘sleep it off and see how it goes’. My oncologist favours the former and gives me a big lecture about what might happen if I don’t go to hospital and how long I might have to stay. As usual, I manage a few tears. “I didn’t mean to make you cry” he says, kindly. I explain I cry at just about everything and I think I see him make a note.

On the subject of notes – Note to guests – check bedding for pig’s ears.

Lark’s Diary VII

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Normally in the country it’s a bit quiet. When the sheep were in the field opposite they shouted at me sometimes so I barked back at them, although I don’t know what they were saying. They didn’t seem to talk Dog. At night we hear owls which I think are a bit scary but I just snuggle up to my Mum a bit closer and then I feel OK. Sometimes a car will go past although more often we have tractors and then every day we get horses. They make a funny noise and smell a bit funny, too, so I just bark from the fence in the back garden in case they try to come and get me. We also get fast planes that whizz by overhead. Sometimes they are so fast you can’t even see them. Now I’ve said it’s very quiet I have made it sound very noisy but it’s nothing compared to a town, especially somewhere like Boston where there is a big market. Whenever I hear my Mum say Boston I always think “Oh, no!” and hope I’ll get left in the car to have a good snooze. They have a bus that drives through the market very slowly making a horrible loud beeping noise and it’s always trying to run me over and then I get tangled up with Archie and Mum and Mark and they all say “Oh, Lark!” My Mum did pick me up once when I was scared and that was nice but now she says I’m a Chunky Monkey. I’m not sure what that means but she doesn’t carry me about so much these days. I do have a monkey which can fly through the air for me to catch but she never says that monkey is chunky. It also makes a funny screeching noise which is not in Dog but I expect it’s saying “Please don’t bite me, Lark” or “You are so fast and clever, Lark” or something like that.

Anyway, the other night it was quiet until all these machines started making a noise. There were lights and lots of tractors kept going past. Archie didn’t like it and he barked so, of course, I had to bark with him as it’s one of my favourite things and if Archie doesn’t like something, then I worry because he’s such a tough dog and knows so many things. Mum said it was the farmers bringing in the harvest and working overnight which I think is a bit rude, ruining my sleep. Mark brought one of my beds into the bedroom so Archie could sleep in that and I snuggled between Mum and Mark. Archie even got on the bed at one point but he stood on my head and I nearly died so he had to go back in his bed. The other bad thing is that when a field is harvested (that’s the proper word), you get all these horrible little black flies called thunder flies and they make you itch like crazy. I thought they would make a noise like thunder which would be a bit alarming but they are just silent and itchy. Very, very itchy. Hrrhhmmnph. That is a Dog noise you make when you are very itchy.

Every so often, Mark goes into the garden and takes a big machine out which cuts the grass. I don’t know why he bothers because it’s nicer when the grass is long and you can hide in it and eat it. It’s also good for hiding things in. It looks like a bit of a boring job so I thought I would make it more fun. He has green slippers and I thought they were perfect for hide and seek so I carefully took one down from the bedroom and popped it into the machine while he was taking a break. When he started it up again, it made a funny noise, and so did Mark. He made quite a lot of noise, actually, and said my name a lot so I expect he was saying what a good game it was and how clever I was to think of it. Mum says she is going to buy him a new pair which I think means we’ll have more to play with. Unfortunately his slipper now has a big hole ripped in the side of it so he won’t be able to wear it again but it was such a good game, I don’t think he minds one little bit.

I like lots of different foods but there is one thing which is yucky and that is cheese with blue stuff in it. Mum was giving me a chewy thing that she wanted me and Archie to eat. I ate one and Archie had to eat 2. I gobbled mine down quickly and Archie ate his first one but didn’t want to eat the second. I thought I would get it but my Mum took it away and wrapped it in blue cheese. She cut me a piece, too, just to be fair, but honestly, it must have been created by pigeons because it tastes so foul and only pigeons are stupid enough to make something to eat which is not nice. Archie ate his in one bite, including the bit he thought was yucky but I expect he couldn’t taste it with that horrible cheese on it. Who would have thought there would be horrible food in the world?

dolcelatte_cheese_16x9This is the yucky cheese and these are the noisy planes.