Subsequent to my last post where I had agreed to chemotherapy, I later discussed this with Denise and looked at the pros and cons. I decided in the end that the potential downsides of chemo seemed to outweigh the possible good.
One important thing going for me at the moment is my positive attitude towards dealing with the cancer. The thought of the possible side-effects of the treatment – feeling very unwell and compromising my immune system – in relation to the possible gains – a few months at most added to my life expectancy ( the likely prognosis) – didn’t make chemo seem the right thing for me. I felt strongly that my positivity would be compromised. These were all important factors in my decision not to go ahead with the treatment.
We phoned the hospital and their response was immediate. We had several strongly supportive phone calls with the receptionist, chemo staff nurse and one of the lung cancer nurses. The receptionist made an immediate call to the staff nurse and all of the actions we needed were arranged very quickly. Both nurses gave me a lot more information so I could make a more informed decision. They suggested and then set in place a set of practical and reassuring steps. The chemo start date was put back a week to give me longer to consider and an appointment was arranged with the oncology doctor within the next week so I could have an in depth discussion.
At the meeting with the doctor the feeling was that everyone would support me in whatever I decided. The doctor said that as long as I was well enough I could begin the chemo programme at a later date if I changed my mind ( I do understand that sooner is better for this). She stressed that I would be offered the same additional palliative care whether or not I went through the chemo.
Our good friend, Kay, took me to the appointment and sat with me through it, helping me to feel more steady.
I strongly feel, that if this is the way the NHS functions then we need to fight to save it because, in my experience so far, I have been informed for making decisions and supported in finding what I wanted and treated as an individual and not a disease.
When I got back home Denise said my mood was much lighter and more buoyant. Like the hospital, my family, Denise, Matthew, Sam and Anna have all been clear about supporting whatever I decided.
I started writing about this in my previous post which you can read here.
So I ended up sitting on Sandylands Promenade, between Heysham and Morecambe, on the morning of April 22nd 1984 (I always thought it was the 21st until I checked on Google Calendar).
Called Sunshine Slopes on the photo but known to me as Sunny Slopes
Anyway, there I was, no money, nothing to drink, not sure if I had any baccy or papers but I certainly felt as though I was at the end of something.
And it was then that things changed. Continue reading
One thing I remember from my time in AA is the phrase “A bridge to normal living”. As to how far my life is ‘normal’ is not for me to judge. I certainly do lots of normal things like washing up, cooking, cleaning, shopping and providing a taxi service for my 16-year-old daughter (she’ll be 17 on Monday and at the moment has some school friends round for pizzas and drinks and Denise’s brother sent a bottle of champagne for them to drink to their successes at GCSE and the start of sixth form – for me it will be coke).
For pleasure I read (voraciously), play my guitar (not as much as I should), write this blog and spend time with my family.
That’s me with the bald head. We were at Superspirit Camp which I’ll write about at some point
Addiction doesn’t take up a huge amount of my time today, except when I’m thinking and writing about it for this blog.
So these other things are, in a sense, my recovery. I didn’t recover to spend my time thinking about alcohol and other drugs; I spent enough time doing that when I was using.
No, today I’m on that ‘bridge to normal living’, not that I believe I’ll ever get to the other side. But I’ll tell you something, the view from here is pretty good.
I had always thought that when we went to see the Mothers of Invention (that’s Steve and I) in Manchester in 1969 it was at the Free Trade Hall. I’ve just discovered, through the delights of google, that they actually played at the Palace Theatre in 1969 and didn’t play the Free Trade Hall until 1970. I know it was 1969 because of the lineup – Frank Zappa, Jimmy Carl Black, Don Preston, Roy Estrada, Euclid James Motorhead Sherwood, “Bunk” and “Buzz” Gardner, Ian Underwood and Art Tripp.
It was my first ‘big’ concert (I was 20, a slow starter) and Steve smuggled a tape recorder in and recorded the concert – it’s okay, statute of limitations and all that; anyway the tape, sadly, is long lost. They were on tour to publicise Uncle Meat, which had come out earlier that year.
I had been a fan since buying their first album, Freak Out, in Morecambe in 1967. I’d never heard of them – who had in Morecambe in 1967 – but the title, the band name and the sleeve shouted New! Strange! Different! – all magnets to me at 18 when any music that was unlike any I had heard before was, by default, worth a listen (just as an aside I remember my sister Jackie, who had moved to London, telling me about a record she had by the Stan Kenton Orchestra that was ‘really weird’ and promising to bring it up to Heysham for me. She eventually did bring it and it was weird and I didn’t like it).
We moved onto Delamere Avenue in 1950, when I was about eighteen months old. The house we moved into, number twelve, was about a third of the way down a line of semi-detached, pebble-dashed council houses facing out over the roofs of the houses opposite towards Heysham Harbour and Half Moon Bay. It was part of a new estate, Trumacar which, when we moved in, was still being built. My mum used to tell the story of how I had somehow become friendly with one of the builders and how he had taken to letting me sit with him in the cab of his lorry while he was working. One day she heard a knock at the door and opened it to find him standing there clutching a tear-stained creature covered head-to-toe in a layer of dirt – I had fallen out of the cab into a pile of gravel. Being very small and gravity being what it is, I hadn’t fallen very hard and so, apart from a few bruises and scratches, I was relatively unhurt. That was the last time I rode in the lorry.
Bill and Ben were my first heroes. I was three when it started, but my first memory is of running home from school so as not to miss it on TV. As far as I remember it was on at about half past three and school was about half a mile away at the bottom of a hill, so it was quite a rush to get back in time – and of course there was no video recording or pause-and-rewind in 1954. The funny thing is that, in my memory, I am rushing back to number 11 Delamere, not number 12, even though we didn’t move into number 11 until about five years later (that’s another story which I’ll come back to at some point). Continue reading
Living in a shed
I love my shed. It’s my own private world. Okay, it’s only about eight feet square with one window facing Half Moon Bay and a door to the back garden, but I can shut myself in here and not have to think about anything else. I’ve got a couple of comfy chairs in here and a small table and, of course, my record player (a Fergurson in a wooden case with a sort of grey leatherish lid. It’s five watts! You could buy an extension to plug in to make it stereo but I don’t have that.
In fact I’ve never heard stereo, the first time I hear a record in stereo is at my Swedish friend Mick’s flat on Euston Road. He puts on Yellow Submarine and it’s amazing, the voices moving across the room from left to right – or possibly right to left). Of course this is a long time ago and, my memory being what it is, which is mainly defunct, some of the facts may be wrong. But it’s my story and this is the way I’m telling it; think of it as a kind of unreliable biography.
But the shed is real – and the record player – and the window looking down to Half Moon Bay. Continue reading