Tag Archives: secondary cancer

A really bad novella

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If you’ve slogged your way through the blog from the beginning or so, you will know that there are many things which have happened to us. What, in a tv series or book, would be held up as poor drama – over exaggerated and melodramatic at best, has really happened to us. The initial cancer, the secondary cancer diagnosed a year after finishing my last drug, Herceptin, moving house and going to Thailand despite reservations of my oncology team, managing to get the whole family together for our first Christmas in the new house and then the inconvenient  and tragic death of my father-in-law, just as he had decided to sell up and move to the same village as us, leaving us with my mother-in-law who has Dementia worse than we had even imagined. The next dramatic episode is provided by my father who telephones to tell us he has prostate cancer. Given that we rarely speak, it is momentous news on all fronts. He sounds frail and frightened, my mother having died a few years ago and he having had the benefit of good health for most of his 88 years. Every time we seem to get on our emotional feet, something comes along to knock us down.

This time, I feel trampled down into the mud, not just because of this last piece of news but because of the cumulative crap which has been thrown at us over the last 4 years. I go to my Reiki appointment at the Hospice and just talking to the Reiki practitioner, I break down and I can’t stop. Nose bleed, the full works. It all comes pouring out and I realise as I speak that I need help and am amazed I haven’t asked for it before. It’s like I’ve been blind and deaf to what’s been going on in my head and heart and, were I a friend, I would have been beating myself about the head for being so stupid (in a nice way, of course). There are lots of suggestions that I might take up but this time I am single-minded in what I want and refuse anything but those things that really appeal. So we make plans for the following week and I leave feeling I have achieved something. On arrival home, I explain to Mr Mason that I am broken and I need help to get back on an even track. He looks just a notch down from distraught until I explain what I need and how I am going to get it. Today I’m tearful, tomorrow I’ll be smiling and joking and it can’t go on. I am wearing myself out psychologically and emotionally and not really able to enjoy the health I have at the moment. I feel much better now I have confessed to the relevant people just how awful I feel and they have taken me seriously and come up with an immediate plan to help me. It’s such a relief. Next I go on line and make an appointment to see my GP so he can go through my meds and see whether we should be tweaking, adding or subtracting. My pain isn’t really under control and the Hospice staff say this is unreasonable so should be the first thing to get under control. So that’s done.

The next day I feel much better. On Friday we go to see the oncologist and I explain to him how I’ve been feeling and he tells me to do things I like, go on holiday, dance, do whatever gives me pleasure and to really live my life. I like him even more. He’s not saying “Get it done before you snuff it” but just enjoy your life and although that makes me cry, it’s a good sort of tearfulness. I tell him I would like to see him dance but he demurs.

I’m not claiming I’m going to be a new me. I’m just going to concentrate on myself a bit more (as Mr Mason has been telling me for ages). The bad novella with all the overly dramatic bits, formerly known as My Life has taken its toll and I need to re-group and set myself up properly again. Going to bed at 4pm every day has to stop. Pain has to stop. Exhaustion has to stop. Tearfulness has to stop and melodrama has to stop. That’s it. I’m signing off with one of my favourite tracks and thinking of Les in Brentford (have you seen him lately?)

 

Lark’s Diary XIII

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The weather has been yucky, yucky, yucky. The dam opposite the house is all brown and going very fast so I wouldn’t like to fall in, even if I was in a little boat, although I don’t know how to drive any kind of boat. Honestly, I’ve been taught no survival skills. And round the apple tree there is an absolute lake! Where does all the water come from? And the silly thing is, Archie and I have to go out to hurry up so we just add more water, making it worse. Mum really doesn’t like me going in the house. And the other day, I went out in the garden and there was more of that white stuff coming down. I was in the nude and freeeeezing so when I came indoors, I went straight up to Mum’s bed and threw myself under the duvet. She wasn’t very pleased when she saw the muddy footprints on the sheets and she said “I wonder what Jan will make of these?” I expect Jan thought I had thrown myself into a warm bed as anyone else would have done but Mum was muttering things about hammeroyds, whatever they are, and saying it was good the marks weren’t on her side of the bed. Sometimes I really don’t understand her.

I seem to have grown out of lots of my clothes and sometimes they’re a squeeze to get over my tummy. Archie has been wearing his dinner jacket suit but he’s lost the bowtie so he looks like one of those men who go to Church and talk a lot.Yesterday we went out for the day to a new beach but Mum wasn’t happy, even though she had something nice to eat at lunchtime because she saved some for me which was a delicious piece of ham. Archie told me something bad had happened 4 years ago  which is why she is often poorly now and that it makes her very sad every year, even though she doesn’t want to be.  I told him she needs to run about a bit more and I’d even let her borrow my squeaky hedgehog which is one of my favourite toys but he said that wouldn’t help and she couldn’t do the running bit anyway. He told me the best thing to do is to stand next to her and lean on her or, if she’s sitting down, stand in front of her and put my head on her lap. That was I get stroked and she is made happy. Archie is a wise dog, I think, even though I don’t understand half of what he says and he STILL puts my head in his mouth when he feels like it!

A very nice lady came to the house the other day and she was very complimentary about me and stroked me a lot so I thought I would share one of my best treasures with her. I had to go all the way to the bottom of the garden for this one as it was very special and I ran into the house and put it in her lap, expecting cries of joy and praise to be heaped upon me. Instead, she screamed “Your dog has just given me a dead bird!” so I whipped it away quickly and put it in my crate. It was very pretty but I wasn’t going to let her have it if she was just going to scream like a human and not appreciate it. Mum and Mark came in quickly, too, and Mark took it away and I never saw it again which was very sad. Usually Freya catches the birds and then, when they don’t flap around any more, she lets me have them as one of my treasures. My treasures include Jumbones, real bones, birds (when they are not taken away by silly screaming women), socks and an orange that Mum was going to eat. I thought I would surprise her with it one day when she was feeling sad as a dog giving you an orange would cheer anyone up.

The old lady hasn’t come back to the house so I’m not sure what they have done with her. I hope they didn’t take her to Dr Bum as although she was always telling me off and getting me into trouble, she was quite good at stroking when she wasn’t thinking about it. And even if they have taken her to Dr Bum, they haven’t brought her back so she can’t be one of my treasures and be buried in the garden, although that would take an awful lot of digging. I don’t know why humans make life quite so complicated. I’m not sure I’ll ever understand them as well as Archie does.

Living without sleep

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Someone asked me recently whether we have settled into our new home and area. I found I didn’t really know what to say so said a lot of “um”s and “mmmmm”s because it’s such a difficult question to answer. Have we settled in? Before our recent bereavement, I would have said yes. We knew where to go for what, had dates in our diaries for local auctions and had started to know the locals. Then, of course, having dared to relax into a light spot of complacency, Dad, bless him, snuffed it and our world became new, confusing and extremely demanding, a likely parallel to how Mum feels.

At present, Mum is having  respite at a local care home which seems to tick all the boxes. It doesn’t smell of wee and cabbage, staff address the residents by their first name and there are some nice cuddles going on. Tempers of staff are amazingly reigned in when the grumpy Mrs H slams the plate of potted meat sandwiches on the table saying loudly that she’s not going to eat these. She agrees she would like sardines on toast which they produce without accidentally dropping it on her head and she then sits there for 5 minutes mashing the fish into the toast until it’s a right mess. “I can’t eat this muck” she shouts and patiently, oh, so patiently, a carer comes to check what she would like for her tea. Toast is agreed, made and delivered. No jam. Apparently it’s the work of the devil. There is a cat on the first floor that day and she aims the end of her stick at it repeatedly. Luckily it is faster and smarter. On Valentine’s Day the staff put on a pantomime for the residents. We arrive as it has just finished and I see a sign saying ‘Fawlty Towers’ over the servery hatch. There is a lot of noise with women crying and some keening, just making primeval noises. Mum sees us and rushes over saying “This is my son and he’s come to take me home”. She has some white powder over her trousers which we later find out is flour and she accidentally got in the way when it was being thrown. She is profoundly disturbed by the pantomime as are many of the residents and I suspect it won’t be happening again. But the staff give their all in trying to entertain them and to make it a good, comfortable place to be with activities, rather than just a group of old people sitting around a tv set (whether it’s on or off). So Mum is settled as she can be.

During the first few weeks when she lived with us, I found myself not only physically exhausted but not even thinking about cancer. It was all about wee, obsessions about combs and handkerchiefs, how to put a cup down on a table the right way, buying her a whole new wardrobe as she came to us like Orphan Annie with clothes of varying sizes, very few of them fitting and many of them having seen better days. We talked endlessly about food she might like and if I disappeared to my office, there was a little voice calling “Shelley” as she wanted company 24/7. It’s all so understandable. Losing a husband of 70 years, being moved from one part of the country to another, having no friends or relatives nearby. One thing she hasn’t worried about is money, fortunately.

But this shift away from cancer was very strange. It’s like my heart can only hold so much pain at a time. I knew in the back of my mind that I was over-tired (a lovely phrase which I have never understood until I experienced it) and that my pain had increased but the most pressing issues were not getting into arguments with Mum, no matter what she said or how she contradicted me. Once she was in bed, it was like a dam bursting and all I could do was crawl into bed and with sleep coming instantaneously. The sort of sleep Mr Mason has so often enjoyed – head hitting the pillow and into the Land of Nod he tumbles. Now Mum is in respite, I feel I am still catching up on rest and  easily sleeping for 12 hours a night but my mind is all over the place. Like at the beginning of primary cancer, I don’t know where I am again. I’ve found myself noticing a tightness in my chest and abdomen, the sort that predicts a fit of screaming to release tension. I’d be ace at that generic wailing music so many dramas use these days. It can be used for science fiction, films about the Far East, historical fiction. It’s one of our family sayings “Here is the generic wailing music again” and “Fresh start”, mostly used in soap operas. Every week someone has a fresh start. Maybe that’s what I’m missing.

But I’m digressing. I’m feeling stuck again. A few months ago I knew roughly where I was going, even though some of it wasn’t pleasant, but now, I don’t know where I am, let alone where I’m going. So the cancer feelings are creeping back in again and I don’t know what to do with them. I feel I can’t go through the deep distress again. Apart from anything else, I don’t want to go through it. I want to get back on the track I was on; the one where I was beginning to settle down, relax, take up hobbies and appreciate what I have and what’s around me. Now I feel grumpy, tired and out of sorts. I don’t want to eat; I’m genuinely not hungry or interested in food. Poor Mr Mason suggests meal after meal and none appeal. In the end, I usually go with what he wants, simply because it seems the fairest thing to do. For someone with a whole bookcase full of cookery books and an interest in all sorts of food, it feels like another cruel punishment I have to endure – and one Mr Mason endures, too. The only benefit is that I am losing weight slowly and gradually. And as for writing, something I love doing, it holds no interest and seems like another chore, especially when my eyes can barely focus on the screen as they are so tired.

It’s common for women after breast cancer to have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I suspect this is it, yet again, brought on by another stressful event. It’s hard to haul yourself out of the big black hole time after time when energy is sapped and overwhelming tirednes is the first thing I experience every morning when I wake. So I suppose I’m not settled yet as I’m struggling again to attain an equilibrium which is tolerable.  It will come but it’s taking a bloody long time.

Living with a toddler

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It feels like living with a toddler sometimes. Yes, I’m talking about Mum. I am truly exhausted, especially on days when Mr Mason is engaged elsewhere doing things about funerals and documents that need filing. Today, I get up at 7am with a clear list of things I want to achieve. I go down and clear up the kitchen, empty the dishwasher (yes, it’s working again!!) and put the things away. Then the oil man arrives with several litres of oil to make sure we don’t run out. I make him a cup of coffee. I have discovered that a lot of people who work outdoors like oil men and window cleaners rarely seem to be offered a hot drink, especially in this weather. He is grateful but half way through filling the tank has to move as there is a tractor who wants to get by. He disconnects and goes back to the lorry to discover the tractor has done a very nifty three-point turn and has gone up the hill behind us. The oil man re-connects and tells me he is also going that way so he’ll probably block the tractor somewhere else on his route. That’s country life. No shouting, no gesturing or hooting. Just quiet acceptance.

I let the animals out and then feed them. They are in high spirits and clearly don’t really feel like spending much time weeing on the frozen grass so they’re back in in no time and gobbling down their food. I put the kettle on again and then the phone rings. It’s the GP surgery to say the blood tests Mum had done earlier in the week have gone walk about so could we go in and get some more done? She also needs a urine test. We co-ordinate diaries and I put the kettle back on. Once I’ve made her a cup of tea, I take a biscuit from the big tin and make my way to the annexe, leaving the dogs in the main house. The biscuits have been put back in their plastic tray ever since Mum knocked them over in her mania to have them put in a place just-so. She has been telling Mr Mason that if you don’t eat biscuits, they go bad. We think this is a subtle hint that she wants a biscuit, even though she is perfectly welcome to help herself.

She’s in a good mood this morning and we have a chat about this and that. She has forgotten about Dad again, who he is, what he looks like, where Mr Mason has gone and why but she rolls with the punches and I get her out of bed, put her dressing gown and coat on and take her into the main house until the carers come. When I get into the house I can hear Lark doing her best “I’ve been totally abandoned” impression interspersed with short renditions of the song of her people, some of which sound suspiciously like God Save the Queen.  I give Mum a puzzle book to keep her occupied while I put a load of washing on. She came to us with very few clothes as she was used to wearing just summer dresses and cardigans inside the house so I’ve been buying warm clothes and replacing bras which were ludicrous sizes and hung like elastic hula hoops around her thin chest. There are more phone calls – finally one from our Social Services key worker (whatever she does). She seemed to think a call would be enough but I suggested instead of talking on the phone, she comes over and sees for herself what our situation is like and what kind of support we might need. It’s a novel concept but she goes with it and agrees to come the next day. I speak to the financial advisor about the sensitivity of my pension company who will only consider not taxing my pension if I can persuade someone to attest to the fact that I will be dead by the end of the year.

The Waitrose delivery arrives which means the conservatory is littered with individual items as they don’t do bags for houses unless we buy them every week which I resent. I have to hurry to get it all put away because the hairdresser is coming, a lovely young lady called Abbie. Right at the part where I put the last things away, she arrives and we get Mum upstairs. She asks questions about the landlord and does he know she’s there? She’s in showing off mode as she says “You’ve got more boxes in there that we’ve got in our garage! You need to tidy up”.

Abbie asks Mum again about the style she wants and when her hair is washed, checks with me about how much should be cut off. There is quite a lot of curl left in it so she suggests she just cuts and sets her hair this time and perms it next time. We all agree. Mum thinks our bathroom is Abbie’s hair salon. Gavin, our ex-SAS Macmillan gardener and all-round-carer arrives to have a chat to see if I am OK and, as he has had experience of his own mother having dementia, can give me some useful tips. Then Abbie has finished and asks me to come and view the finished product. Mum’s hair looks really lovely. A slightly more modern style and less Queen-like. We bring her downstairs and Gavin gives her his hairdressing joke which is about his wife saying she’s going to the hairdresser and when she gets back he says “Oh, it was closed then?” He is a bit of a dinosaur in some respects but a decent and kind man. He and Abbie both leave at which point Mum starts bewailing her hair, over and over again. “What will I do with it?” She asks at least 20 times if she has any hairspray which I confirm she does in her bedroom. The more tired she becomes, the more questions come and there doesn’t seem a minute to do anything because no sooner than you have fulfilled one request, another one pops up. It is exhausting, mentally and physically.

On this particular night, the carers don’t arrive until ten past eight which is very tiring for both of us. As soon as Mum is in bed, I go to bed, too, in pain, topping myself up with morphine and falling fast asleep.

The toddler-like behaviour is showing off when people arrive, telling tales, refusing food on the basis of “I don’t like it”. Have you tried it? “No, I don’t like it”. Picking silly arguments, pretending bad things have happened like one of the dogs has bitten her, saying NO! just for the hell of it.

Other behaviour is more upsetting. Today we discuss the funeral. Over the last couple of weeks we’ve been asked about people who died many years ago and why they haven’t got in touch. “I’m worried about Mark Mason” she says, referring to her son. Mr Mason points out he is her son. “Oh”, she says, processing a difficult piece of information. Sometimes she acts and refers to Mr Mason as though he is her husband. She talks affectionately about her grandchildren very often and particularly wants to speak to Mrs Safaie. Each time we tell her she is pregnant, there is a genuine burst of joy. But the worst times are when she worries about Dad. She hasn’t heard from him. Have we heard from him? We explain each time that he died, that it was a peaceful death and that she was with him. There are never any tears. Today we explain again that he is dead and then go through the whole funeral service, including photographs I have printed out. I sit on the sofa next to her and I show her the rough copy of the order of service, telling her about the music and all the readings. I cry as I go through it. We discuss the music, we talk about who will be speaking, which photographs will go where. I stand up and cross the room to sit with my laptop to answer emails. No sooner have I go there than she asks the same question again about where George is. It must be all of 30 seconds. This time I leave it to Mr Mason to explain it again. I suspect this will go on for some time, particularly about Dad and the funeral although she finds it hard to find her way through a set of 3 inter-connecting rooms.

On the positive side, Mum is much stronger physically. She can get herself out of a chair without help, walk unaided (although she does put on a bit of a frailty show if she thinks it’s necessary) and get herself dressed and undressed if the carers are late. She has accepted the urinary incontinence problem and now wears a pad which is a huge relief for all. Like the rest of us, she is being bombarded by appointments, social workers, occupational therapists, doctors, nurses – all things which are needed but which take up so much time. It’s like being back at the beginning of my cancer diagnosis. And where we go, Mum also goes at the moment until we’ve managed to sort out sitters and encouraged her to join in one or two of the local lunch clubs. I haven’t been doing my speech therapy exercises and I’ve been trying to continue small pieces of work. On Saturday I am booked to record a group of ladies tell their stories of breast cancer for an organisation called EPOC. The night before, I think this is a bad idea. I am not in the right place, I feel crap, I feel tearful and tired. I wake on Saturday and decide this is exactly what I need. To go and talk about cancer as a change of subject, to forget about Dad’s death and Mum’s dementia and deafness. We start filming and the other women confess they feel scared, heart rates soaring, trembling etc. I sit in front of the camera and feel not a tremble. I feel totally in control, happy, content, in a world I feel comfortable in. Now it’s the dementia world which scares me. I don’t understand it or the way the system works. I feel out of my depth. At the recording, Mr Mason and Mum accompany me and are found a comfortable room to sit in with drinks and lunch. I feel I have an entourage – a slightly strange one, admittedly.

This week I am going to speak to one of the local Commissioning Groups and we have arranged for Gavin to come and sit with Mum while we go. With her sitting in the meeting, I can just hear her saying “I used to work at Boots so I know what goes on, what they do”. And thus would be the end of my speaking career.

Dad 25.12.16

Fort Zinderneuf

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It’s about 10am and Mr Mason is talking to the man who has come to fix the dishwasher. The phone rings, disrupting their conversation and the caller is a man called Terry who is a neighbour of Mr and Mrs Mason snr. Briefly, he says he noticed the blinds were all closed at Mr and Mrs Mason snr’s house so he knocked the door. He could hear Mrs Mason so tried his doorkey. It wouldn’t work as the bolts were engaged behind the door. He got a ladder and removed  louvres about the front door and managed to climb in. Mrs Mason says she can’t wake Mr Mason up. Terry calls 999 and is asked if he can perform CPR which he does. Later he says he knew it was too late but he valiantly carried on until the paramedics arrived. Using their defibrilator, the sign comes up says not to resuscitate so Mr Mason is taken away to the morgue at a local hospital.

The blow is phenomenal. Mr Mason comes upstairs to tell me his father has just died and we are distraught. We start grabbing toothbrushes and clothes, dog food and anything else we can think of, shoving them into unsuitable bags, get in the car after asking a neighbour to watch out for a parcel which is due to be delivered and drive down to Hampshire.

This blog would be too long if I included a lot of detail but I’ll pick out the most important parts. Firstly, my father-in-law was a great man; kind, considerate, funny, well-travelled and a great but unassuming raconteur. He loved his wife, his son and the rest of the family unconditionally and could never do enough for us. We loved him back the same way, always looking forward to seeing him and the annual singing of ‘Happy Birthday’ over the phone for whoever was in line to hear the strangled version. His penchant for sticking things to his forehead was another welcome party piece.

Arriving at the house, Mrs Mason snr is sitting on the sofa in a kind of daze. We are also in a daze. People drift in and out. She asks repeatedly where Dad is. We tell her straight that he has died rather than the well-meaning person who tells her he has just gone out. It’s an extraordinary pain to hear devastating news repeatedly. We decide to stay the night and put Mrs Mason Snr in the single bed. The bedding on the double bed is a curious mix of sheets and blankets and we’re told they don’t normally sleep on the bottom sheet as such but sleep on top of the bed. What they cover themselves with, we don’t know. We go to bed early. I haven’t slept at all the night before for some reason and am living on adrenaline. To be honest, the house smells and it’s rather off-putting getting into bed, especially as that’s where Dad (as he will be known forthwith) died a few hours ago. Just before midnight, a confused Mum (as she will be called) comes into the bedroom, muttering about her feet being cold and she slides into bed next to Mr Mason, calling him George and holding his hand. I slide out the other side of the bed and putting a jumper on, go to sleep in a chair in the sitting room, covering myself with a coat. I don’t risk the single bed due to the urinary incontinence which has long been denied but is certainly present and get an hour or two’s uncomfortable sleep. In the morning, we have a cursory look for papers, eventually get a certificate from the local GP, pack a few clothes and leave for home but not before Mum finds a set of false teeth under the pillow I slept on. Hmmmmm.

Mum asks questions repeatedly, the same questions over and over, but she does get into the car without complaining which, given she hasn’t been out of the house for over 5 years, is quite something.

The days after that (and it’s only 4 since I last wrote in this blog) are a whirl of confusion for all of us. We start to get support services into place and I talk to so many people I can’t remember who is from what organisation or what they do. Every time we leave the house we come back to messages on the answerphone. At home, Mum can’t remember the layout of the house which, given she is restricted to kitchen, dining room and sitting room gets a bit frustrating. “Why don’t you go and sit down, Mum?” “Where shall I sit?” “In the sitting room, on the sofa”. “Where’s that?” “The room just through there, with the sofa in it” “Shall I sit on this chair?”, pointing to dining room chair. “No, sit on the sofa, it’s more comfortable”. “Where is it?” and so the conversation goes on until I physically take her there. There are moments of naughtiness when she can’t get out of a chair when her carers come. She becomes a very doddery old lady and the frustrating questions, like “Can I sit here? Am I taking your place? Is it all right if I put my arm on this cushion? Should I turn it over?” The very worst and most annoying repetetive phrases are “I can’t eat this” and “I can’t drink this”, both delivered at the same time as the food and drink are given to her. With the amount of shock and grief she is enduring, it’s not surprising she isn’t hungry but when it’s said every time and several times through a meal, it gets really irritating. There was one exception yesterday when she ate a cream eclair without a single word. Hurrah!

I can only imagine how she feels inside. We have some small chats when I go and sit beside her, mainly because she is quite deaf but also it’s a good excuse to go and hold hands and find out how she feels. Today she feels sad, not sad with us in the house but sad in her heart. She feels she’s been left. She regularly forgets Dad has died and I can only imagine the impact of that. We’re also grieving amongst the paperwork, wending out way through social services and trying to find papers so we can organise a funeral.

Oh, and yes, there’s me. On Friday we go to see the oncologist to get the results of the bone scan I had before Christmas. There is no sign of cancer in the bone but apparently I am riddled with arthritis. Woo hoo! Never have I been so happy to be diagnosed with arthritis. My oncologist is pleased that my tumour markers are gradually decreasing as well. The arthritis is in my neck, shoulders and spine, hips, knees and ankles. Riddled seems an appropriate term but it explains the pain I have experienced. He is keen for me to reduce my morphine to what I call ouch level – so that I can be aware of the pain and treat it accordingly. I am too tired to think about it or argue. Every appointment I have means we have to take Mum with us so she accompanies us to Chemotherapy, an appointment which only finishes at 6pm, an appointment at the Hospice and another to see the oncologist. She doesn’t complain too much but suggests repeatedly to Mr Mason that they just go home.

So, back to Dad. While the children were young, they spent a lot of time with him during the summer. He loved taking them to the beach, driving them to Marwell Park (when it was open) and they planned to buy a beach hut on Hayling Island until a storm blew most of them down in 1987. While driving them along, he would periodically sing or shout out random phrases or poems. There was the famous “Oh, wiggly stick!” but the classic was “Fort Zinderneuf”, shouted as they drove past the forts along the top of Portsdown Hill.

I can’t really do justice to a man who was so kind to me, who behaved as though it was a privilige to be in my company and who loved me unconditionally. He loved his son and grandchildren in just the same way and we will all miss him incredibly, as will Mum who was married to him for over 70 years and now feels lost and bereft. There are no words for that.

Christmas 2015

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I’d like to write that the company arrived in carriages during a light shower of snow, bonnets and shawls were divested and outdoor shoes were changed for indoor calf slippers while mulled wine was served to all. And on and on I could go although it would never make me Austen. So we go to Pilgrim Hospital on Monday to have my bone scan. It takes 6 attempts to put the catheter in and in the end, I go to the Chemo suite where the nurse hits the vein first time. Back again to the nuclear department where they inject the radioactive stuff and then we are free to go until 3pm. I tell the team that I am a bit claustrophobic and don’t like having things over my face (including the sheets and blankets held firmly over my face at night by my father who thought my screams of terror were hilarious) and they are very sympathetic. The male nurse says he will stay in with me all the time and tell me when the plate is off my face so I can move my head and he does, touching me gently on the shoulder. The staff were absolutely brilliant and made it a much better experience. In between the injection and the scan, Mr Mason and I entertain ourselves by going to Asda to pick up a few last minute things which pretty much fill the car. After the scan, we go to Boston station and collect Mr Mason jnr. Archie, sitting in the boot of the car, maintains a steady beat of his tail in his excitement when he sees who we are picking up.

The next morning, Mr Mason sets off early to collect the aged relatives. It’s a tricky moment because although the trip has been agreed, it would not be surprising if it was vetoed at the very last moment. Mr Mason jnr and I continue putting the house to rights, including getting jolly cross with the dishwasher which refuses to work properly and leaves steamy trails of what appears to be grit across all the glasses. A decision is made that everything must be handwashed as it is used. I do not make the decision and inside know there will be at least one member of the family who will struggle with the concept of doing something immediately. There are some personality traits which are impossible to change, no matter how hard one tries, even using logic which is accepted but ignored. With Mr Mason away it becomes my task to get up in the night with the dogs should they need to go outside. Sometimes they do it for a laugh. After the first time, I put puppy pads down in the kitchen and go back for a bit more sleep.

In the morning, Mr Mason Jnr sets up the new tv in the big sitting room and I decorate the tree. The cleaner arrives in time to help sort out the chaos and make beds up and Mr Mason and his parents arrive just before lunchtime having made better time than Han Solo on the Kessel Run. He decants 2 elderly and slightly confused parents and just as we are settling them on puppy pads on the new sofas, Mr and Mrs Safaie and Mrs Safaie Snr arrive. Mrs Mason Snr has some kind of dementia. She tells me I look just like Shelley but calls me Jean. I tell her Jean was the one who threw herself behind the sofa and kicked her legs in a tantrum when she was in advanced years but she doesn’t understand.  She asks repeatedly where the driver is as he  has been so kind. Mr Mason Snr says he’s been sent home. “But I wanted to thank him”, she says. “I don’t know how I got here. I feel confused”. But when she says she’s confused, they are somehow her most lucid moments when it’s possible to ask whether she feels frightened or not. She says not. She says she’s surrounded by family and that makes her happy but she just doesn’t understand how she got here. She is, and always has been an ace manipulator of people and it’s like when she is confused, she is being genuine and authentic and understands we will look after her in a way that is acceptable to her. She asks who the tall young man is who is so solicitous to her. I tell her it’s her grandson. “He’s a lovely man” she says and, of course, he is. He is the one who makes sure she gets from a to b without tripping and in her own time, who suggests she might be tired and helps her to her room and who sits with her watching endless re-runs of Jonathan Creek and almost anything else which is on over the Christmas period. The people who perplex her most are Mr Safaie and his mother. The latter she hasn’t met before and has only seen Mr Safaie a few times. “Do you know that lady?” she asks, as Mrs Safaie Snr exits the room. “She’s very nice” and indeed, she chats away to them to make them feel at home but Mrs Mason Snr doesn’t really understand why Mrs Safaie Snr is there. We explain she is a family member and we wanted her to come and spend time with us. Finally, she finds a connection when it’s said for the umpteenth time that Mrs Safaie Snr is Mr Safaie’s mother. “Your son is very handsome”, she responds. Sitting down with Mrs Safaie, she asks her where she lives. “In Bangkok, grandma”. “Oh, Francesca lives in Bangkok!” she says. “I am Francesca, grandma”. It’s a very confusing world but she manages really well and we’re all so amazed that she got in the car to be driven from Hampshire to Lincolnshire when she hasn’t even been in the garden for the last 5 years or so. Before she travels, we have to check she has shoes to wear and a coat. When we go out for a trip to the beach and a walk with the dogs in the forest, she gets in the car happily. I sit with her while the rest go battling with the elements at the beach. She sits behind me and frequently asks “Are you tired, Shelley?” followed by a sharp “Are you asleep, Shelley?” If I was, my status would certainly have changed. When we go to the woods, she insists on taking a walk. She manages about 50 yards with an entourage of family members each side and one at the back in case she falls backwards.

Mr Mason Snr gets the chance to re-visit some of his old RAF haunts and to talk more about his post-war experiences, some of which were alarming in a Dad’s Army kind of way. Mr Mason cooks with help from everyone but me. I feel utterly exhausted but so pleased to have the family around us and to be able to accommodate them without feeling like we’re tripping over each other. On Boxing Day, Mrs Safaie Snr cooks us an amazing Iranian meal. She spends all afternoon preparing it, even doing a separate mild dish for the older Masons in case they don’t like the spicing of the other dishes. It is a beautiful meal with enough left-overs to put in the freezer for a treat later on. For some reason (I believe it is at my insistence) we play a card game called Exploding Kittens. It’s for ages 7 and up and they are apparently supposed to be able to pick up the rules within minutes. The combined ages of the table being several hundred years old finds it bewildering. Mr Mason is the only one who appears to have any grasp on the rules (mostly because he has the instructions) and by some fluke, none of my kittens explode and I apparently win. I am triumphant and float up to bed in a haze of glory.

After Boxing Day, the party starts to break up. The dogs are sad at losing so many of the pack. Mrs Safaie Snr departs the day after and we are happily joined by Ms Atherton. Much tail wagging in the dog department. Mr Mason Jnr has saved his stocking from Santa so they can open it together and then she can open her presents. I have to say, Mr Mason Jnr has come up trumps with ideas this year and it is bug themed, which pleases Ms Atherton very much. I go off-piste with a print from a Hungarian artist of a cat who has adopted a baby rat and also tickets to Bounce Below! which I heard Ms Atherton mention during a car journey earlier in the year. I miss nothing! Mrs Mason Snr asks quietly if we know Ms Atherton. We confirm we do indeed. “Why has she got so many presents?” she asks. “Is it her birthday?” No, it’s Christmas. “Christmas?” she says, puzzled. The large decorated tree in front of her gives her no clue. It must be strange and frightening to be in a world where you can’t remember how you got where you are, when you don’t always recognise the people around you and don’t want to accept a cup of tea in case people think she is sponging off us. The Safaies stay on another day and visit Lincoln with Mr Mason Jnr and Ms Atherton, catching up with friends. Mr Mason takes the oldies back home without incident and arrives back in time to take Mr Mason Jnr and Ms Atherton to the train station to get back to the smoke and work.

The house is quieter again now and we can get on with the mundane chores of getting the dishwasher fixed (it broke down the day before Christmas Eve) and sorting finances out but it was a terrific Christmas, one I had always wanted. Although I missed quite a bit by being in bed and felt stressed before the event, it was worth it. It’s certainly one for us all to remember.

Happy new year!

Deck the halls!

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It is mayhem in our house. I know, most homes have a period of stress before Christmas but this exceeds anything I have experienced before. Firstly, the dogs think I am wasting too much time writing Christmas cards and wrapping presents that need to go in the post. There is the buying food online and discovering some things just do not travel outside London unless you find the smallest retailer who will do it because he loves food. And the local smokery who catch local eels and the American crayfish who are taking over our waters and can deliver to the door the day before Christmas Eve (we hope). The dogs care nothing for the present ordering, sorting the sleeping arrangements out and trying to work out how to decorate the 30 foot tree growing in the front garden. Luckily we discover a power socket located outside the house so we think we will be OK. Now all we need is a powerful trampoline and a small child to put the lights near the top. Actually, it is Gavin, our ex-SAS gardener who is coming to help us and I have every faith in a man whose solution to everything is a lump hammer.

On Monday and Tuesday I am on my own as Mr Mason has a meeting in London. Dogs decide this is the right time to bring as much mud into the house as possible, especially smearing it on the cream coloured carpet in the big hallway. We bought a lovely Afghan rug to cover most of the length of the hall but then Lark discovered that eating the fringing of the rug was very exciting. I retaliated with chilli powder, high strength, both sides and both ends of the rug. The battle is nearly won but it’s also a wonderful place to tear up cardboard, paper and kindling. The battle continues. 3 oranges disappeared from the side of my bed today. I have found 1. My new glasses lasted from Halloween until this week when the temptation of the chewy plastic of the arms proved just too tempting. Luckily she did not eat the lenses so I have just paid £95 to have them put back into the same frames. The optician was impressed by the destruction. He also asked why I didn’t use my Boots card when I collected my original sets of glasses (yes, I always get 2. I am not stupid). “I think you were wearing a cloak and fangs the last time I saw you and that might have put me off” I replied. He is the sort of optician – Brett – who is nice but probably wears comedy ties and socks all the time and drives his colleagues to distraction with inane jokes. I can bear it for 45 minutes but was glad it was his colleague who did my eye test.

Monday and Tuesday reinforce the idea that I find it very difficult to look after myself apart from bathing and getting dressed. Eating is a challenge, partly because I rarely feel hungry and also I feel quite unsteady in the kitchen so worry about dropping something or burning myself. Is this really me? I have always loved pottering around the house, especially the kitchen and yet now it’s somewhere I just pass through. During the two days I discover we have run out of Bonio!! It’s going to be a long two days.

Next week I have my long-awaited bone scan to see if there is anything obvious to pin the searing rib pain on. My least favourite test lasts nearly all day and the one bright moment in it is that we get to pick Mr Mason jnr up from the station so he will be with me when Mr Mason goes to collect Mr and Mrs Mason snr, a two day trip. Everyone else arrives on 23rd to much excitement and barking, I suspect.

I always enjoy Christmas and know this one will be extra special with both offspring and partners, Mrs Safaie Snr and Mr and Mrs Mason Snr making the first venture out of the house since I don’t know when. We will be 8 for Christmas lunch unless someone drops out. Whatever happens, it will be fantastic.

As a footnote, if you don’t receive a Christmas card, I do apologise. Those who read my blog will understand that with all the hospital appointments and afternoons spent in bed, I have a lot less time than usual. Those of you who don’t read the blog, well, you probably won’t miss my card anyway. And don’t think I don’t know who you are…

Don’t do drugs, kids

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Sometimes it takes me ages to write the next blog. It is usually because life gets in the way in some guise or another and, in this case, it’s because I’m feeling unwell in various ways. No sooner than we get the good CT scan, the rib pain comes on and doesn’t give up. It stops me from sleeping and I can actually point to the areas where it hurts. “It hurts when I press here” I tell Mr Mason. “Don’t press it, then” he says, with the age-old family joke. He speaks to the GP who says he will ask for an ultrasound of my liver. A couple of days later, I go to see a different GP from the practice. They are all nice, accommodating and listen to me but I am struggling to get someone to actually examine me. The second GP doubles my morphine so that we can get on top of the pain. He also writes to my oncologist to ask for a bone scan. Bone scans are my least favourite thing as they so claustrophobic. This GP tentatively examines me but really is interested in pain so that’s what his goal is. With this amount of morphine in my system, I am really off my head. I go to see another GP a day or so later (the exact chrononology is a bit muddled, unsurprisingly) to check his opinion of my  medication which he concedes is a little high but as long as it’s got on top of my pain, that’s fine. I can also take a sleeping tablet should I wish to. He also feels around the painful area on my ribs and can’t find anything untoward. He is quite reassurring.

The difficulty in taking lots of morphine is that there are side effects. I am in the car with Mr Mason when I can quite clearly see Mr Mason jnr sitting in front of me on the seat at the front of the bus carrying a big log and wearing fawn trousers. I text him to see if he will turn round but receive a text back saying “No, I’m not”. I know it’s pantomime season but I don’t get into the “Oh yes you are” repartee. He probably wouldn’t respond, either. I have conversations with people I know and people I don’t know, often deep and interesting but I find it a little concerting when Mr Mason breaks in with some real live conversation and I realise I’ve been off in my drug fuelled world again. I decide to cut down the amount I am taking gradually to see whether the pain returns or not and manage to get back to my normal level in 2 weeks which actually impresses the oncologist. He thinks that as the pain has subsided, it is probably musculo-skeletal and that it will flare up occasionally but that’s about it. He’s arranging for a bone scan which he says won’t be before Christmas and smiles with me as I realise I will get a week off chemotherapy over Christmas.

In between all this muddle, my friend, Mrs Jones, comes to visit me from Nottingham and we take her to see the seals. Ever since I open my eyes I don’t feel right. Can’t put my finger on it but I just feel a bit icky. As we are leaving to pass the last of the seals, we see a small chap who has found some water channels and is busy swimming up and down them. In one lane, he finds it blocked by a bull seal and his little fins go twenty to the dozen to get out of there. All the while he calls for his mum who ignores him and he seems to get further and further away from her. He starts to scramble up the grassy bank towards us, calling and puffing for all he’s worth. When he gets to the top he does the one thing I suspect will kill him. He puts his head through the fence and we jump away as though burned. If you take a look at him you’ll see why someone with less self-control might just have put a hand down to stroke his head, unwittingly meaning his mother will reject him and he will die. After a few moments calling us all Mum, he flapped his way off again towards another cow with her pups but he wasn’t well received. I could never be a wildlife photographer or journalist. The plight of this one little seal pup has stayed with me.

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As we leave Donna Nook, I begin to feel worse but we haven’t eaten so maybe that will make me feel better. It doesn’t. It just makes me want to urge the tea lady to hurry up with her food and then for my companions to eat faster. I am rapidly feeling so ill I don’t even feel I can speak. I signal I need to go home. Urgently. We arrive home, I dash to the bathroom, show Mrs Jones my trumpet lights and then say that I have to go to bed. She is great about it and has a good old natter with Mr Mason downstairs while I crash out. My temperature goes up and down, I feel a bit chilly and then OK so I tough it out. Over the next few days I am in bed with aching limbs and headaches but determined not to go to hospital. One one day, Mr Mason also feels a bit yucky (or “a bit umpty” as his parents say) so I am convinced it is a virus. Gradually the symptoms subside and, due to the reduction of my morphine, I stop seeing things and having conversations whether I don’t know if I’m awake or asleep. On our wedding anniversary – 36 years this year – I write Mr Mason a card but get confused with Valentine’s Day and our anniversary. I end up writing a lot of hallucinatory stuff which will no doubt make its way through the family annals as to “This is when Granny went mad and we have it in writing”. Actually, should the day occur when I am a grandparent, I am going to be Babcia in honour of my lovely friend, Ms Baranska, who very sadly died on 22nd November 2015, another victim of cancer, this time of cancer of an unknown origin. She was just 32.

Our exciting news is that not only is Mrs Safaie snr coming to spend Christmas with us but it also looks as though Mr and Mrs Mason are also coming. This news is absolutely epic given that Mrs Mason snr hasn’t stepped outside the back door for several years and I’m not sure even owns a pair of shoes any more. In between high temperatures, headaches and exhaustion, I have been ordering a new bed and bedding, re-arranging the bedrooms and making sure the annexe is up to scratch, getting a wardrobe dismantled (not the Mr Shaya jnr way), Christmas shopping and planning work for the new year. The physical work is not mine, of course, but that of Mr Mason and our gardener, Gavin.

I was almost on the point of declaring blog bankruptcy given that it has been so long since my last episode but I enjoy writing and although it’s frustrating when I can’t write chronologically, I suppose that level of control also has to be let go. I know there have been messages on Facebook and via email that I have not answered but if the choice is between a quick nap or writing, the quick nap will often win. So just sit back and imagine how the last great storm whipped through the village making it sound as though we were on a beach and shaking the ancient trees to their foundations (none felled, though, that I saw). The owls were quiet that night but are now back with a vengeance. And at the weekend we went to the Horncastle Christmas Market which is low key but entertaining and  I got to hold a barn owl which was incredible. I wish I could sign off with Too Wit, Too Woo but alas, that’s the Tawny owl so until the next time, Eeeeek eek eeeeeek!

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An update on the good news

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As most of you will know, my last scan comes back pretty clear with no lesions to be seen and no fluid in my lungs. This is amazing and brilliant and certainly adds time onto my life. I know we’re not all cancer experts here so it seems worth a moment of clarity. I still have cancer. I will always have cancer and will need to have chemotherapy every 3 weeks until something else happens. Another story in the press today says Kadcyla is NOT going to be approved for the Cancer Drugs Fund which means I am OK until April 2016 when something else will happen.

At the moment I have pain in my ribs which triggers a doubling of my morphine and prospective tests to have a look to see what is going on. After the CT scan good news, we go out and buy a really nice new Egyptian Cotton duvet cover and sheets in duck egg blue. Once the rib pain really gets going, it seems as though we’ve brought it on by celebrating with new bedding. It’s the start of our week off – a week with no appointments or work. We think about going away for a few days and then decide to have a staycation – visiting the places we don’t know around us. The rib pain comes on gradually during the week and I have to seek more pain relief although it makes me slur and feel out of it. On the final day, I have an appointment with the optician who is a lovely young man from Manchester and we chat about all sorts of things as he has a sense of humour which matches mine. He quickly discovers my left eye has deteriorated more than my right and when he puts a correcting lens in, I can see properly and realise why I have been feeling so unsteady when walking around. I am now longing for my new, very expensive glasses when I shall see the world right again!

Without my diary to hand, I can’t say what day we do what but it doesn’t matter and I’m not going to argue with myself on a point of when we were somewhere. We go to Donna Nook to see the seals again as there are more there now. The carpark is overflowing and I know there are Disabled spaces so get out of the car to have a look. Now at this point, I must confess that Mr Mason and I call them Selfish spaces. Now I have a blue card, they come in jolly handy but the ‘Selfish’ tag came long ago when, in a car park, we found lotso of Disabled spaces empty. “Look” said Mr Mason, “The Disabled people can’t even be bothered to come and use their special parking spaces. How selfish”. Of course, he said it with tongue firmly wedged in cheek and now we have a blue badge, we call it our own Selfish badge. So, I set off round the car park, stick and selfish badge in hand, to see if there was a space available. Indeed there was but a car was just about to reverse into it. I approached the driver and said “Did you know this is a disabled space?” He didn’t like being approached at all and I should have taken a sharp, pointy stick with me but alas, my stick has a flat, rubber bit on the bottom. I might have to modify it…… Anyway, he tried to ignore me so I spoke to him again. “No, it’s not” he said. I pointed out the Disabled signs. “I can’t see them” he said, which made me think he may be blind and, therefore in need of a Selfish spot but equally should not be driving. I pointed out that there was a bay or 4 or 5 parking spaces. His wife was looking more uncomfortable by the moment. “Well,” he said, still not looking at me “I’ll take my chances” and reversed back into the space. I stood nearby, thinking I was not going to make this a comfortable experience for him but his wife couldn’t stand the strain and got out of the car, looking at the signs all along the fence, clearly showing it was a Selfish bay. She went quite red and got back into the car, gesticulating wildly and made him drive off. Not before his parting shot which, had Oscar Wilde still been alive, would have envied it. “Have you been here this week?” I thought about it. “No” I said, and away he drove, thinking ‘Take that, you selfish disabled person’.

The beach at Donna Nook is fantastic and has hundreds more seals than on our last visit. We walk up and down, listening to the pups crying for their mothers with an eerie “Mum! Mum!” call. I am sure one seal is due to give birth at any time and, of course, while we walk off, she does. But really, they are dropping them like crazy. I take a film of two mothers having fisticuffs over the ownership of a pup with Mr Mason talking in the background about how he is going to buy a sausage bap and a coffee. I’m sure it wasn’t this hard for David Attenbrough. There is also a video of a pup struggling through grass, not its natural medium, calling for its Mum. They sound incredibly like small children. Anyway, I’d like you to know that in downloading the baby seal video to this blog has almost made me give up the will to live. It is INCREDIBLY SLOW and we can do nothing else on the computers but sit around and sigh, poking a key or two every so often. It’s now at 96.6% and the excitement is overwhelming. If it doesn’t work (you can’t add video directly to a WordPress blog – it can only be through a link) you will hear me yelling and carrying on for miles.

But it takes me ages to write this blog because I am so, so tired. Whether it is the medication or I am just going through a tired phase, I don’t know but it means I have to finish this post here. Mr Mason is so patient while I try to write with my eyes closing and I’m not sure it all makes sense but he deserves a lot of credit for this one. A few nights’ good sleep and some fresh air will help enormously and this is why I am going to post without spell checking or anything else. Just hit the button and switch out the light. Good night.

 

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.