There’s a hole in my bucket list

by

My keys have gone missing. We are quite relaxed with keys, Mr Mason being unable to find his on a regular basis, so when he can’t find his, I give him mine and then he forgets he has my keys, despite the fact they have a distinctive key ring from San Marco in Venice. My keys are not used that much, though, and are most often found in my bag as Mr Mason usually does the locking and unlocking. Then comes the day he cannot find his keys and asks for mine. They are not in my bag – not in any bag I’ve used in the last 6 months. They are not in jacket pockets or pockets of jeans. They have just vaporised. Mr Mason ploughs on, looking through coats I’ve not worn since last winter and gamely looking at mutual backpacks we took somewhere a long time ago. They are not to be found. We do have spare keys, we discover, sitting in a little pot the vendors left. When Mr Mason goes out, if I am not in the sitting room, kitchen or garden, I like to be locked in because I can’t necessarily hear anyone coming to the back door and it is rather a long way away. This used to alarm Mr Mason before I lost my keys but now he is doubly worried that some catastrophe will happen and I’ll be locked in with no way out. I point out that I can get out of the front door (bolted shut) or the downstairs toilet which has a door into the garden. He still worries and we have the same conversation each time.

Today it’s the car service in Boston. Put a search in Google for anything in Boston without specifying UK and you get all the results from Boston, Mass. If I have time, it’s quite interesting to compare how many fishmongers there are over there and how they ever get their hands on a nice fillet of smoked eel, I will never know. No fish smokeries at all. Talking to a visiting friend at the weekend, I mentioned that I would like to go to Boston as one of my final trips and for just a split second, I could see he though I meant Boston, Lincs. Philip, our friend, is the dogs’ new best friend. For a gift he bought them a pack of finest Lincolnshire sausages, all to themselves. Dogs really do go crazy for a sausage; it’s not a myth. He also bought us humans some lovely presents, including a mug with a giraffe as the handle to perpetuate the online debate that if a giraffe drank a cup of coffee, would it be cold by the time it got down its neck. What do you think? Yes, we do have too much time on our hands sometimes.

I’ve been thinking a bit about the old bucket list idea. I find it hard to get up each morning and spend the day appreciating every moment. Another of my online friends died this week. She had been to the USA with her family just having a good time when she fell ill and died within 2 weeks. That’s the sort of thing that really scares me. I picture a gradual decline because, I suppose, it would still allow me some modicum of control but of course, it’s not like that for all of us. Clearly going from being well enough to travel to the USA to dying is far too fast for my liking and for those who knew and loved her, I extend my deepest sympathies. Incidences like this pull me up short and I then do try to appreciate each day, if not each moment. It’s still hard though, because it does still rain and computers do silly things (never their operators) and you run out of milk or bread or rice. Yes, there was an amazing cluster of dragonflies in the garden this morning (yep, that’s the official collective noun) and the sun is shining and we’re not impoverished or at each other’s throats but there is enormous pressure to love everything and everyone when you know you are terminally ill. Unless you are like a nurse I spoke to when I had had a poor prognosis who recommended I told everyone I didn’t like a) that I didn’t like them and b) why. She thought it should be used as a time for revenge.

So, back to the bucket list idea. I’d like to go to New England. I’d like to see the Northern Lights. These are 2 big trips and I don’t know how many I’d be able to fit in. And I have to be selective. I’d like to spend some time away with my family. Thailand, Norway, South Africa and France are high on my emotional trips because there are people there I love and would like to see more of but I’d also like to discover more places. I don’t want to jump out of a plane or start a new hobby. I’d like to dress differently in clothes I wouldn’t perhaps usually buy. That’s easily done. I’d like to have something published – not so easily done, I suspect. I’d like to be thought of as kind and helpful and hopefully funny but that’s where I slide away from the whole bucket list idea. I don’t think I’m going to get very far with concrete ideas although there is a part of me that would like to have that list – to be that organised and controlling. Because that’s what it all comes back to – control – and that’s the one thing we can’t have. With the diagnosis of secondary cancer, it’s been brought into much sharper focus although we’re all really in the same position. Maybe there’s just a hole in my bucket list.

Tiger, tiger, burning bright – why didn’t you protect the ducks?

by

The last few weeks are full and busy. We have visitors who arrive laden with chocolates, flowers, presents for the dogs and, more importantly, themselves to entertain us. No-one minds when I drag myself off to bed early and don’t over indulge in wine. We take a trip to Chester to see our dear friends Mr and Mrs Hurley, she who has been to hell and back with treatment and an incredibly long hospital stay. As we arrive, I am grabbed and hugged and sobbed over, so intense is the emotion. It is truly wonderful to see them both looking so well and before we know it we have been talking for 4 hours and Mrs Hurley is looking decidedly tired. It’s a real frustration – you look forward to seeing people so much and then after a while you can’t even hear what they are saying, the tiredness which overwhelms you is so great. And yet you don’t want them to go. I don’t want to leave, either, but we have a long drive home so we need to go. They are tolerant with Lark who manages to sneak upstairs and carefully remove a small bear which takes her fancy. She takes it into the garden to chew and throw around and they still smile fondly even though I suspect they would like to throttle her at that moment. The sausage she buries carefully under the bush is dug out and given quietly to Dog who doesn’t mind the dirt. The journey home is excrutiating and I am in pain which I can’t shift. It is such a relief to see our gate and tumble into bed.

Saturday sees the sun shine and the Old Bolingbroke Village Fete. It really is like an episode of Midsomer Murders. Held in someone’s garden, we turn up to see how many people we now know and it’s a pleasant surprise. Those who do know us say hello and those who don’t also say hello and introduce themselves. I meet our next door neighbour for the first time, thus puttting to bed the rumour that I don’t really exist or that I am a Mrs Rochester-type character. I meet people’s wives for the first time and feel we’re starting to become known which is very nice. There is a tea tent with home-made cakes, a home-made cake stall which is laden with fabulous creations. Someone tells us there are mostly one or two people who create all these comestibles and there is a rumour that Doug who used to live in our house has bought a cake made by me. But it’s false – I haven’t made anything but next year I just might. There are a couple of very sad tombola stalls which we feel obliged to try, winning a deodorant and some washing up liquid. There is a large game of skittles being run by the vicar who looks exactly like a Midsomer Murder vicar. He is rather portly and wears a battered straw hat. As far as I know, that is the extent of the Midsomer Murder similarity. No-one was killed by drowning in cheese (a new death designed by my friend Miss Ede and myself, following a visit to the Louth Cheese Shop) and I don’t think anyone ran off with the church money.

Our very good friend Mr Giffin comes to visit and brings his dog, Ludo, with him. Ludo is a very agreeable black labrador with an unhinged streak. Arriving late at night, Lark decides she must repel all boarders and barks herself silly, making Dog join in. She shows a very aggressive streak in defending the house and its occupants and it’s only as they are preparing to go 2 days later that she thinks she might quite like to play with Ludo after all. Dog steps up into the Top Dog role beautifully, seeing Lark’s more extreme attacks off by protecting Ludo and putting Lark’s head in his mouth at every opportunity. He is saying for all the world “This is not how we behave with guests”. Dog is much more socialised than Lark which is something we need to remedy.

House training progresses well until a wet spell of weather sends us back in time. Lark decides she cannot possibly go to the toilet outside when it is raining. I put on a coat and hat and take her outside on her lead for at least 10 minutes and she stands miserably around getting wet but doing nothing. No sooner are we back inside than she has weed on the utility room floor. Dog is clearly joining in the training effort and when she poos right in front of him in the conservatory, he barks at her to tell her it’s not on. If only he could communicate a little clearer, she would get it, I’m sure.

The district nurse comes round to check my bottom but, to my joy, it is a different nurse. I have been brooding on this problem all week and have decided to ask her to take the cushion away so there will be no need for anyone to come and examine me. This nurse is reason itself and I explain what happened last time and she rolls her eyes and says sometimes the healthcare assistants get carried away. She looks at the cushion which I tell her isn’t even very comfortable and she agrees and lets some air out. She is more than happy not to come and check me over weekly and instead we settle on a very agreeable telephone call once a month and a call from me in between if necessary. I realise how stressed I have been feeling over this issue and feel very relieved we have come to an agreement. I really don’t want to fill my week up with medical appointments which is surprisingly easy to do. Even appointments like Reiki start to come burdensome when they are tacked on to a chat with the nurse and an appointment with the physio. I would really like some days where we have absolutely nothing in the diary at all so we can just drift about and do whatever we feel like during the time I feel energetic. I have really started to notice if I miss a morphine pill. The aches and pains that come with its omission are excruciating and oral morphine doesn’t have the same effect. Fortunately the symptoms disappear once I have had 24 hours on the right medication but yes, I suppose I am now addicted to morphine. Not something I had ever expected but it has become an essential part of every day living. I also feel like raging against the unfairness of this illness, how it hits people of all kinds, young and old and, more importantly, people I love. So I am sending a huge wave of love to my friend Ms Baranska who is struggling at the moment and could do with some very positive vibes.

Living in the countryside means we see lots of animals. Some are squashed on the road but we also see the live ones, skipping along include huge hares (how lovely they will taste in the Autumn) and deer (ditto). There is an ostrich farm near us and they have a few ostriches knocking about in a field nearby, wobbling their heads and looking confused. We buy our eggs from a farm that raises turkeys, ducks, geese and all kinds of other birds. You go down a driveway and into the yard where they are all milling around happily and eventually someone comes out and sells you the most delicious fresh eggs I have ever tasted. This time, Mr Mason gets out of the car and speaks to the farmer. Then he comes to the window and says “Get out of the car! Quick! Come and see this!” He is not usually an excitable chap so I am curious as to what has got his dander up. I get out of the car and about 6 feet away, I see this.

IMG_20150722_143255363_HDR

He is so close I could have touched him but I am not that simple. There is a long, complicated story behind his stint on a poultry farm but that’s for another time. The sad thing was a fox got in and killed 17 ducks so there were no duck eggs for us. Now, with a tiger in the yard, that’s one hell of a gutsy fox.

Lark’s Diary VI

by

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

by

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?

Featured by

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

by

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.

IMG_20150630_122231040IMG_20150630_122241126

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.

IMG_20150703_141104241

A Mediaeval toppling

by

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.

P1000125 P1000145 P1000150 P1000133

Lark’s Diary IV

by

Yesterday we went somewhere and Archie and I didn’t know what or where it was. It wasn’t shopping, it wasn’t the hospital, it wasn’t the woods and it wasn’t the beach but it was very good. There were some bad bits like these big engines that made a lot of noise which I didn’t like. Mark said “Lark doesn’t like the steam engines” and he was right.They smelt horrible, too. There were lots of people and some were riding on horses and jumping which was good but we weren’t allowed to join in. Mum gave me a Bonio and I pretended I didn’t want it until she went to put it away and then I ate it all up. A lady offered me some water but other dogs had been drinking from it and I thought that was a bit yucky. She said someone nearly wee’d in it but she’d stopped them but I’m not sure she was right because it smelt funny and I think someone had wee’d in it without her seeing.

Lots of people came up to us and said we were lovely but mostly they liked Archie because he is so big so I pushed my nose in to make sure I got stroked, too, otherwise it’s not fair. Mum took us to see some sheep and some pigs and when we came out of the tent she saw a sign that said “No dogs allowed” but we were very good and didn’t bark or anything and Mum just said “Oh dear”. The pigs were enormous but Archie didn’t like them much and tried to pull Mum out of the tent. Mum did some shopping and bought some food but no dog food. There was a lady giving away dog food but we didn’t like it and neither did any of the other dogs that we saw.

There were some men in red coats sitting on horses and they had hundreds of dogs with them. The man on the horse said “Wait!” and all the dogs stopped and waited and then he said “Come on!” and they all moved on. Mum said the dogs used to chase foxes but that they aren’t allowed to now which she thinks is a good thing. Archie thinks he would like to chase a fox but just on his own, not with a lot of other dogs. I think foxes are a bit scary. All the dogs stopped to have a wee on the same bit of fencing, one after the other. Mum says I am obsessed by wee but Mark never goes past a toilet without going into it so I don’t see I’m any worse. Mark says Mum is obsessed by wee at the moment, though. I didn’t like to have a wee with all those people around so I waited until we got out of the gates and were on our way to the car and then I had the biggest wee in the world; so did Archie.

I am still trying hard with this thing Mum calls ‘house training’ which means not weeing in the kitchen or utility room. Sometimes I think I want to go but then it’s raining and I don’t want to get wet so Mum puts me in my crate for a little while. I don’t mind if she’s in the room but if she’s not I like to sing to myself. I sing the Song of my People. It is a very beautiful song, very long and with many notes. Mum likes it a lot because when I sing she always comes back and says “What are you doing, Lark?” I think she would like me to teach it to her so maybe one day I will.

Another strange thing happened to me this week. Mum said “Oh, Lark, I think you’re in season”. I don’t know what that means but I do know it means she put some pants on me which I didn’t like very much. They are a bit papery and I love tearing paper so even though they have pictures of fish on them which I like, I had to tear at the paper and then they came off. Mum just got some sellotape, though, and taped me into them. And then a magic thing happened! I went into the garden to have a poo and when I finished it wasn’t there! Later on when Mark took my pants off, the poo had magically appeared in my pants! It was so strange and I still can’t work it out. Mum says I’m not to talk to any boy dogs except Archie which is OK by me as I’m a bit shy.

Here is a picture of me and Archie at the steam engine animal dog/pig/sheep place. We met the real Peppa Pig but she was asleep so we didn’t get to talk to her. She looked very nice, though.

P1000140P1000144P1000151P1000154P1000114

Guinea pigs, £9 per kilo

by

So Monday is the first day I have my chemo at Lincoln County Hospital. My new oncologist seems a lot sounder than the last in that he will answer questions and doesn’t appear to be having some kind of breakdown. He’s in agreement about being seen every 3 weeks and generally we are on the same page. We get there on time and I am called into the chemo suite just before my appointment time of 11am. Hurrah! They are on the ball and do my observations quickly. My nurse, Laura, asks whether I would mind if she plugs me into my portacath as she is learning the procedure. Everyone has to learn so I say it’s fine. I have had trained nurses take 3 long and unpleasant attempts to hit the centre before and I’m sure she won’t be that bad. She is observed by a senior colleague and happily hits it first time without much pain. A portacath, for those of you who don’t know, is a device sewn into your chest with one tube going into a vein near the heart and the other end sewn into the jugular vein. It’s not really visible apart from the scars where the stitches have been. The nurse feels around it and then inserts a needle into the centre of the port which has a rubbery membrane over it. If she hits the spot, the needle goes into the port and the chemo goes into the tube then the vein. It’s a great system once the incision has healed as there are relatively few risks and little chance of infection, one of the major worries with cancer.

So by 11.20 I am wired up and having a saline drip fed through, waiting for my chemo. At about 12.20, the pharmacist appears to ask me about my prescription. He is unsure (he says there is ‘some debate’) about what else to give me. Do I need steroids? NO!! What about anti-sickness meds? I tell him I manage that orally as the nausea is unpredictable and can come on at any time. He offers to give me Ondansetron, a strong anti-emetic with the chemo. I tell him this is unnecessary as I have Domperidone, a lighter version, at home and that this is fine for me. After some humming and ha-ing, he goes away saying he will go and sign the chemo off. I wait. A nice lady brings me coffee and biscuits and a bit later a sandwich. People come and go but I am still sitting there. I just feel more and more upset. I ask the nurses when the chemo will be ready and they check with pharmacy but say it isn’t ready yet and apologise again and again. I ring Mr Mason, who is waiting in the reception, and advise him to go and get a sandwich and possibly let the dogs out of the car as they are waiting patiently for us, the infusion only due to take 30 minutes.

By 2.30 I am distraught and, despite my best efforts not to, start crying. A lady sitting next to me alerts a nurse who asks what the problem is. I explain I have been there since 11am and I just want to have my treatment and go home. She promises to go and ring pharmacy again. At 3pm, the pharmacist is back on the ward having a lovely chat with a patient which seems to go on forever. I stand up and stare and stare, willing him to look at me and feel guilty that he hasn’t done what he said he would. If I was not wired up, I would go and interrupt him and ask him what he thinks he is doing. I rarely complain on the wards. The nursing staff work so hard and I know there are things that go wrong which are rarely their fault. He manages to ignore me although he must feel my laser eyes burning into him. Another nurse comes by to apologise and, seeing I am so upset, asks Mr Mason to come in and placate me. I am seriously thinking of just taking the needle out by  myself and going home. Mr Mason persuades me this is not a good course of action and goes to let the dogs out once again. I feel angry on their behalf. Eventually, at 3.30 my chemo arrives and the pharmacist has ordered Ondansetron despite our earlier conversation. The nurses call him over and ask how they can override the system as I refuse to have it. He looks at me and says “Hello” without smiling. I stare back and don’t even bother to reply.  He blusters that he has to add Ondansetron to the prescription and I repeat I neither want nor need it. He looks at me as though he has picked me up on his shoe and I dare say my face isn’t any nicer. My laser stare wins, I am plugged in and off I go. The actual treatment takes 30 minutes so even with the needle insertion and flushing of the port, the treatment should take no more than an hour. I ask the nurse whether there are very few patients on this treatment as that would explain his uncertainty but she tells me that they have quite a lot of patients on Kadcyla so why he’s been faffing around, I really don’t know. Chemo is finished and a flush is put up but on an incredibly slow drip. After 20 minutes I grab another nurse and beg her to take it down. I am done. It’s all fine. 2 of the nurses urge me to make a complaint. I explain I don’t wish to complain about them as they are doing a great job but they insist I should and that they will not take it personally. It’s next on my list today. We leave the unit at 4.30, 5 and a half hours after I arrived for a 30 minute treatment. I feel exhausted, wired and just want to get home.

Driving away from the hospital we are almost immediately in countryside which is really quite soothing. It’s a very different drive from the one home from Charing Cross. I see a sign advertising guinea pigs for sale at £9 each. I tell Mr Mason “Guinea pigs for sale, £9 a kilo”. “Really?” he says but I can’t keep the cruel joke up and tell him it’s really £9 each. Then it sets us off wondering whether it would be better value if it were per kilo. It depends on whether you are going to eat them, I suppose.