BILL'S BLOG

The waiting room was quite crowded when I arrived at Level 4 of the Royal Sussex County Hospital last Monday morning (16 March). I was there for my latest brain MRI scan, and a particularly important one at that. It’s now almost four months since I had the CyberKnife radiotherapy at the Royal Marsden in Chelsea – these scans should therefore reveal whether the procedures were successful and the tumours have shrunk, as well as establishing if any new tumours had developed.

 

So I had to wait a while, but I never complain if there is a delay in my cancer treatment – they are extending my life after all, and a little patience isn’t a bad thing. Along with loyalty.

 

Why loyalty? Well for some strange reason that’s where my mind drifted while my head was being clamped to the frame and I was manoeuvred into the claustrophobic metal doughnut to be assaulted by a the cacophony of noise which I have become used to over the years but never find any the less unpleasant.

 

I’m a loyal person. I’m still with the same bank that I joined back in 1972 when I got my first paycheque. All my insurance policies are still with the same firm I’ve supported almost as long as my bank. I’ve no doubt if I shopped around I could get better premiums elsewhere, but I think my loyalty has been repaid – like the time when I was driving home from the office very late one evening, slid on some black ice and ended up bashing the side of my first beloved Merc AMG on a crash barrier. The insurers paid up, despite the fact that I had two tyres that were under the legal tread limit.

 

Likewise, when we are travelling I will always fly with British Airways. I get their reward points, which is an attraction, but it’s more a case of being loyal to the brand and the comfort of knowing that in the event of any problems, whether it be my health issues or whatever, they will always do their upmost to get us to or from our destination. My loyalty has been rewarded by BA several times over.

 

Coffee bars and other high street chains have had loyalty schemes where you get a little card stamped – they don’t interest me but I was really excited to find out that my local pub has just introduced a similar loyalty scheme. I’m a regular there anyway, but a free pint now and again will certainly be a bonus.

 

The banging and crashing around my head finally and mercifully finished and the plank on which I had been secured glided out of the machine. Rose, the friendly radiographer who I recognised from earlier visits, lifted the (useless) headphones away from my ears and helped me to my feet.

 

“All done Bill – all OK?”

 

‘Yes, Rose” I replied. “I must have had over thirty of those bloody scans over the last ten years, and they don’t get any easier.”

 

“That’s true, you are a very regular customer, one of the best!”

 

“I guess I am, Rose, perhaps you could introduce some kind of loyalty reward scheme!?”

 

“Good idea.” She replied.

 

“Ok then, next time I’m lying there on my back, getting my senses totally assaulted I’ll expect a loyalty card stamped and a free cup of coffee as a reward afterwards at the very least.”

 

“Ha ha , I’ll see what I can do” she replied, with a cheeky giggle.

Oh no, I missed it. I was browsing through the website of my local council the other day, The People’s Republic of Brighton & Hove, trying in vain to find justification for the massive increase in my Council Tax when every single service has deteriorated, potholes getting bigger, crime figures soaring, graffiti everywhere, bins left unemptied etc, when I noticed the announcement that last Sunday 8 March was a day of reflection.

 

And I missed it. Bugger. This was no normal day of reflection eiether, when generally useless and vastly overpaid “WFH” civil servants sit reflecting on what they are going to watch on Netflix.

 

No this was a special day of reflection as part of the National Covid-19 Day of Reflection. The council were going to mark the occasion by planting a memorial tree and having a short ceremony, led by council leader Bella Sankey and attended by all her purple-haired, dungaree-wearing vegan deputies. For reflection.

 

It’s a shame I missed it as I would like to have gone along for a bit of reflection myself.

 

 I’d have reflected on how covid could kill you if you stood up to walk to the toilet in a pub without a mask but not if you were sitting down eating a pie. And how groups of eight from mixed households could meet in a pub garden but not their own garden.

 

Reflect on how you could take your dog for a walk and meet up and socialise with all your pals and their dogs in a park, but not play golf, even a two-ball.

 

Reflect on how covid didn’t affect people that worked throughout the pandemic in supermarkets, bus drivers and anybody self-employed, but forced the closure of every single public office…

 

Also, how children were not allowed to play outside or attend school, playgrounds were taped off, all contact was forbidden despite there being an infinitely minimal risk to kids of catching, let alone suffering from, the disease…

 

People drove their cars, alone, wearing a face mask…

 

Loved ones were banned from attending the bedside of elderly dying relatives – and then barred from their funerals…

 

Influenza disappeared – hundreds of thousands of cases of good old-fashioned flu were diagnosed in 2019 but not a single case in 2020…

 

You couldn’t spend more than 60 minutes outside in the fresh air because covid was out there and it would kill you – while also being encouraged to open our windows to let in the very same fresh air that would kill you outdoors…

 

Reflect on anyone who’d had covid and died of ANYTHING (car crash/drowned/fell off a cliff/eaten by a Rottweiler etc) within 90 days was recorded as a “covid death.”

 

And so it goes on. The list of reflections is almost endless – enough to fill every house of mirrors from here to Timbuktu.

 

But mostly I’d reflect on the letter I received from the Health Secretary himself telling me that as I was a “vulnerable” cancer patient I should not leave the house on any account, not open the door to any caller, live like a hermit in a cupboard under the stairs, cut off from all mankind. Stay indoors and await the slow and painful death that surely awaited me if I dared to touch an undisinfected jar of pickles from the food delivery service that could be provided for me.

 

Then, thankfully, I reflect that I very quickly saw through all this insanity and soon introduced long walks along the seafront into my daily routine, despite those ridiculous regulations, which did so much to protect my mental and physical wellbeing. I still today enjoy those walks, enormously; the only difference being that I can now make some very pleasant stops along the way. It also convinced me, not that I didn’t know already, that life is for living and live it to the full so – don’t worry!

 

It was a special day on Monday (2^nd March), and I’m not talking about the round of golf first thing with the lads. Having said that, I did play better than I have for a while and a few long putts fell in the hole for a change. Maybe it had something to do with the weather. It was like the first real day of spring, we even got down to two layers of clothing by the back nine, and we all seemed to have a spring in our step.

 

No, it wasn’t the golf, it was what happened much later that day when I presented myself to my “second home,” the chemo ward in the Cancer Centre at the Royal Sussex County Hospital. My old pal Brad was there – he’s a lead nurse now – and as usual they did my “obs,” temperature, oxygen levels and blood pressure etc before the cannula was inserted in my arm. It’s funny, even after all these years of treatment I still get really nervous when I climb those steps up to the chemo ward to get my six-weekly infusion of Pembrolizumab, the immunotherapy drug (‘JJ”) that has kept my cancer reasonably stable far beyond any expectation.

 

So, being a “regular,” Brad wasn’t overly worried when my blood pressure spiked and was a little higher than they’d like, he knows I tend to get a bit anxious, and he called over a very young trainee nurse called Holly who I’d never met before to deliver those magic two words “sharp scratch” and get the cannula in my arm while he went off to mix the drug. They prepare each dose as prescribed individually and freshly – mine is 400mg, not a single mg over or under, and they make sure every last diluted drop finds its way down the plastic tube that leads from the bag suspended over my shoulder into my vein.

 

The infusion itself is really quick. It only takes thirty minutes, followed by a flush of saline which is just a preventative measure taking another ten minutes or so. Fortunately I’m not one of those patients that needs to spend hours on end in the chair. One of the lucky ones I guess.

 

Following that it’s just a matter of making sure I’ve got my appointment card completed and the blood form for the next time. Plus of course the cannula had to be removed from my arm. Brad called young Holly over, she pulled on her blue latex gloves and meticulously got to work.

 

“All OK, Bill?” she asked as she completed her task and carefully put some cotton wool over the small spot of blood on my arm and a small plaster to protect it.

 

“Exquisite.” I replied, smiling. “Absolutely exquisite.”

 

She looked at me like I had just landed from Mars.

 

“What’s that mean? Exquisite?”

 

Now I’ll freely concede that my vocabulary is generally more inspired by the likes of Ray Winstone than Jacob Rees-Mogg, but I was surprised that a young girl, presumably not long out of nursing college, had never come across that word. It’s not one I’ll use with any great frequency but I know what it means.

 

“Well, Holly, it’s a big compliment. It’s commonly used to describe something really special, like a painting, a piece of music, maybe a work of art, a Michelin star meal, something elegant, delicate, refined, talented, or just simply very beautiful. How you took my cannula out without pulling half the hairs off my arm, stopped the bleed and put that plaster on, that was exquisite.”

 

“Oh, right, okay, I get ya, lovely, a bit like ‘cracking’? Cheers for that Bill, I’ll remember that one. Enjoy the rest of your day, ta-ta.”

 

With that she drifted off to see to her next patient. Exquisite indeed, in her own way as are all the wonderful staff that look after me so well at the Royal Sussex.

I went up That London the other day, to meet my dear friend Simon. It was early evening, still daylight, when I arrived at London Bridge Station and an unseasonably warm day. I had plenty of time so I decided I wouldn’t jump in a cab to get the mile or so to the restaurant he had chosen in Southwark – I’d walk.

 

Now, I was born and bred in London, but it ain’t what it was. Under Sadiq Kahnt’s leadership crime figures, especially street crime, have gone through the roof. I set off from the station with my watch covered up under the sleeve of my jacket, my phone permanently in my pocket, and my wits about me.

 

But I quickly discovered it wasn’t marauding gangs of muggers that I had to be wary of. It was the scourge of two wheels. London is awash with cycling maniacs.

 

It started with the Lime “Boris” bikers. Horrible people, none of them wear a helmet, thinking they are so bloody virtuous, smug bastards, saving the planet by leaving their EV at home, definitely vegan, pro-Palestinian and oblivious to the difference between a pavement and a road, normally riding three abreast. And when they have arrived at their destination, some poxy Gastropub selling craft beer and organic falafels, they will leave their sodding rental-bike in the middle of the pavement for blind people and old people (like me) to trip over.

 

Just as bad are the Deliveroo / Just Eat illegal immigrants on their souped-up electric death traps who really don’t give a toss about the rules of the road as they hurtle about delivering large portions of poisonous fatty cold cheeseburgers to lazy lard arses who can’t be bothered with getting off the sofa to go and collect their XXL pizza with extra gravy. That’s when the dodgy buggers in their all-black outfits along with balaclava and face mask aren’t doing their proper job – selling and delivering heroin to school children and mugging old ladies for their pension. Riding around with those big light blue coloured bags on their back, looking like a clandestine Smurf turtle fools nobody, Asif.

 

But the worst, by far the worst, and I’ve mentioned them before in these pages, are the mamils. There is a special place in hell for those tossers with their carbon frames, racing handlebars, those soppy little shoes with clips on, wrap around shades and lycra shorts that would put you off your dinner. I think there must be a design fault with those shades as they seem to render the wearer colourblind. Only that will explain how, when I was crossing the road at the top of St Thomas Street by Borough Market with the pelican thingy clearly indicating I was free to cross, that one of those weapons-grade knobs came careering down off London Bridge, straight through a red light and came within an inch of knocking me over. And then, as I stumbled, he swerved past and had the bare-faced cheek to call me a ****. A very kindly and attractive blonde lady driving a Porsche Cayenne pulled over and enquired whether I was OK. I assured her that I was and with all the dignity I could muster I dusted myself down and continued on my way, mumbling all the way to the restaurant about how bloody cyclists should get insurance, carry a registration plate, pay road tax, observe the rules of the Highway Code. And sod off to Amsterdam.

There are a few common sayings that old people, such as myself, are likely to use, that you’d never expect to hear from Gen Zs or Xs or whatever they’re called. For example there’s “ooh, you’ll catch your death of cold” when seeing a young person scantily dressed in cold weather. There’s “put a sock in it” when asking someone to quieten down, and “burning the candle at both ends” when someone is overdoing things and working too hard.

 

A particular favourite of mine is “I don’t know how I found the time to go to work.” Working folk wonder how us retirees fill our days, but it’s true, we do manage to potter about and keep ourselves busy. I know some people in their 60s that are still working hard, sometimes seven days a week, and building empires, who will surely go on to achieve great things. I admire them immensely but that’s not for me. I suppose getting diagnosed with Bastard Cancer when I was fifty-nine had something to do with it…

 

Anyway, an example of my point about keeping busy occurred on Tuesday and Wednesday this week when I managed to squeeze four medical appointments into two days. Young people don’t see a doctor or medical practitioner for months on end – I typically saw four in the space of just 48 hours.

 

In no particular order I had to see my GP as my blood pressure had spiked recently. He reassured me that given my situation and stress leading up to receiving scan results etc it was no wonder my blood pressure shot up now again. My average readings were perfectly fine though, which was nice to hear.

 

Then I had to get my “Plates of Meat” looked at. I have regular appointments with an Iranian guy called Ali. One of the few side-effects I experience from prolonged exposure to immunotherapy is extremely hard skin on the soles of my feet. Ali and his trusty file sorts me out, but he always makes a point of telling me about some of the more unsavoury procedures he has to undertake. I wouldn’t do his job for all the tea in China (there I go, that’s another old git saying….).

 

Thirdly the old “King Lears.” I get ear infections which a specialist sorts out for me. (I’m a bit Mutt & Jeff too, but that’s a story for another day). He must be the most softly spoken gentlemen I ever met. Lovely fella, extremely capable, but with almost all his patients having hearing issues I can’t help but think he chose the wrong career path.

 

The fourth and final appointment was by far the most important, and probably caused my blood pressure to rocket again. It was to see the fragrant Dr Sarah Westwell to ascertain the results of my most recent CT body scan. You may recall that my latest MRI brain scan results were stable and satisfactory; the CT checks the rest of my body to see if there are any new growths and if the tumour in my lung is behaving itself. To no great surprise when I presented myself at the Cancer Centre for my 16:00 appointment I was informed there would be a delay of about one and a half hours but that I wouldn’t be seeing Sarah, it would be a registrar I’ve never met before called Charlie. I took that as a good sign – I hoped that if there was anything untoward Sarah would have seen me herself.

 

The waiting was still stressful, but my presumption was well founded. When I did eventually get to see Charlie, a charming young man with ginger hair, which I won’t hold against him, he confirmed that yes, everything from the neck down looked stable as well, so all good till the next set of scans which kick off next month.

 

Yes, not long to wait till it all starts over again. They come along like London buses these blooming scans… Ooops, there I go again.

 

 

I’m grateful, of course I am, that I achieved a milestone seventieth birthday, had a good “knees up” to celebrate it, and received some good scan results a few days later. But from having all of that to focus on I’ve been in a kind of limbo recently.

 

I was trying to explain the sensation to a good friend a few days ago and they totally got it. They described it quite simply as “WHAT NOW?” which summed it up perfectly. I’m still living my life in three-month chunks, although my MRI brain scans and CT body scans are a little out of synch at the moment, but after all the excitement in January it’s all a bit dull and something of an anti-climax now.  Where do I go from here, what can I find to look forward to? It’s all a bit flat, a bit meh, a bit “what now?”

 

Friends of a similar age to me are currently doing things like planning tours of the Far East, buying new cars or moving house etc. I’m pleased for them, obviously, but just living from scan to scan removes all that excitement and anticipation from my life; I just hope for the best when my scan results are delivered and stumble on till the next lot, some three months later. Life in twelve-week instalments, with no early redemption.

 

So if I can’t enjoy planning in the medium or long term, what am I to do with myself during those periods when my cancer remains stable and under control? Grow old gracefully? Nah, what a waste that would be. I haven’t got this far just to sit around all day watching daytime TV with a blanket over my knees, wearing a Big Slipper. Nor am I about to subscribe to Puzzler magazine or take up DIY. That particular ship sailed many years ago and I still struggle to tell one end of a screwdriver from the other. Open University degrees hold little interest to me either, and there’s very little call for geriatric graduates specialising in 18^th century Ethiopian ceramicware in my part of Brighton anyway.

 

But the other day it occurred to me. Like millions of others I’ve been paying my direct debit membership to my local gym without stepping foot in it for months on end. It was time to get back. I plucked up the courage and set off in the pouring rain to David Lloyd in Brighton Marina. It’s always difficult to make that first trip back when you’ve been absent for many months, but once I got my foot over the threshold and looked around I felt quite at ease. I had got it in my head it would be all tanned Adonises in Lycra pumping iron and swigging from those three litre water bottles they carry around like some kind of camel, sweating that much they should be declared a biohazard….

 

But it wasn’t. It was mostly old blokes like me in baggy shorts and ironic t-shirts with skinny legs wheezing on the rowing machines. I fitted in, didn’t go mad, didn’t overdo it as I “didn’t want to do myself a mischief” but surprisingly found it enjoyable, and dare I say, fun.

 

Yes, it was fun, and that’s what life should be all about when you’re walking in my shoes isn’t it? Having fun.

It was a warm spring day in the early 1990’s. I was sitting at the boardroom table in our offices near Heathrow opposite my business partner Martin Reynolds. We had just concluded a meeting with our company accountant and bank manager. The mood was subdued and the two of us sat silently, which was unusual for us.

 

We had called the meeting as we had discovered just a few days earlier that we had been mercilessly ripped off by our “financial director.” He had left the company under a cloud, but not before he had emptied the company account of many thousands of pounds, leaving us potless.

 

As a consequence we called the meeting with our financial advisers. In their opinion we were totally insolvent, with no possible way out of the mess we had been left in by that f**king thief. We were warned that to carry on trading on that basis was borderline illegal, which could leave us open to criminal prosecution. We should liquidate the company with immediate effect.

 

Finally Martin looked me straight in the eye and told me he had a brilliant idea.

 

“Let’s go the pub and get pissed.”

 

And that’s what we did. But we both turned up back at the office early the next morning with a new determination to turn things around despite the odds, and with the help of fantastic support from staff and suppliers we managed it. It was really tough and we had some tricky moments but we turned disaster into success. And a definite contributory part of that success was due to Martin’s infatigable optimism and enthusiasm, which never left him, along with his love for his wife Gill, Italian red wine and Arsenal FC.

 

A few years later Martin and I went our separate ways professionally; the firm was flying by then but he wanted to pursue other opportunities outside of the world of freight, so I bought his shares. Our parting was totally amicable though and we remained the best of friends. Some of his new business ventures were successful, others not so, but we still enjoyed great times together, often ending up drunk in a pub somewhere where Martin would invariably slip into his alter ego, the actor Norman Wisdom bellowing out “Mr Grimsdale” at the top of his voice to our massive amusement but the bemusement of other pubgoers.

 

Martin suffered a freak accident in 2017, a one-in-a-million incident that left him paralysed from the chest down and wheelchair bound for the rest of his life. But that positivity, optimism and upbeat disposition never left him. We stayed in touch but didn’t see as much of each other recently as of course he couldn’t drive and I had to surrender my licence following the diagnosis of Bastard Cancer spreading to my brain.

 

But Gill would bring him to Brighton periodically. We’d have huge lunches, drink far too much red wine and laugh about the old days.

 

We spoke on the phone in December and he promised to attend my 70^th birthday “knees up” a couple of weeks ago, despite falling out of his wheelchair a few weeks earlier at the Arsenal stadium and breaking both his legs. Being paralysed, he didn’t feel a thing at the time, although he was bedbound for a couple of months to allow the legs to heal. He reminded me that he loved a challenge and he would be in Brighton for the bash. Ever the optimist.

 

But sadly he didn’t make it.

 

Tragically Martin succumbed to a sudden heart defect on Christmas Eve and died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. I’m relating his story now as yesterday (5^th February) we attended his funeral. I raised a large glass of Italian red last night and drank a toast to my dear mate. RIP Mr Grimsdale.

Storm Chandra finally blew itself out over the south coast on Tuesday afternoon, so I decided to take myself off for a nice walk along the seafront. It was still windy but no rain forecast for the rest of the day; the front was deserted so just me and the seagulls – just the way I like it. I’m trying to build up my fitness following my recent radiotherapy treatments, and a lengthy stroll at a brisk pace is just the ticket.

 

But as I was about to set off the Blonde called out after me. We needed a couple of bits from the shops, and could I pop into the supermarket on my way back from my walk. I was happy to oblige but dreading it. Me and supermarkets don’t get on.

 

The last time I went to a supermarket unsupervised I got involved in an argument with a transvestite over a punnet of strawberries. I also picked up a steak and kidney pie that was on offer at a special price of £1.29 which looked like a bargain to me, especially as the box said it has a “new improved recipe.”  Well all I could say is if that was the improved version I’m glad I never experienced it in its previous incarnation. Another time, I went to Lidl for a loaf of bread and a bunch of grapes but came back with a leaf blower. We live in a fourth floor flat.

 

Anyway, this mini shopping expedition was seemingly very straight forward; just two items, some toilet rolls and washing powder. Or so I thought.

 

I found the aisle with “home laundry” on the overhead sign, so far so good. But then I was confronted with a whole line of shelves with all manner of boxes and bottles of various sizes with things like “Bio, Non Bio, Colour Protect, Double Power, Formula Pro Plus, Professional, Ultra Oxi” written on them. But none of them actually said “washing powder.” If you don’t believe me check your cupboard. Nowhere does it say on washing powder containers what is inside. In desperation I plumped for a red box with “Daz” in big blue letters on it. I remember my old mum used that and my school shirts were always spotless.

 

Not far away was the toilet roll aisle. I picked up a pack of four and they were absolutely massive, a bargain, but then realised they were actually kitchen rolls. Easy mistake, I’m sure you’ll agree. Just beside the kitchen rolls, before the handy packs of tissues, there was an enormous selection of their smaller cousin, the humble toilet roll. Once again there was just too many to choose from. Quilted, three ply, four ply, and others that were allegedly “bamboo soft” and “sugar cane.” Well I’m no expert, but the last time I checked on the composition of bamboo and sugar cane there was no way I’d want to rub them on my backside. And then there were the scented options. I stood and wondered – why would anyone choose a coconut-flavoured arsewipe, how was that going to help, and why would anyone want their bottom to smell of Bounty Bars, unless they were a particularly flirtatious Alsatian dog? The same goes for aloe vera, and something called “Luna Bloom.” There was also Midnight Lang, Club Tropicana and Amber. Why?

 

But they had Andrex. I’d heard of that, and the packs had a nice picture of a Labrador puppy on the wrapping. But there was a further choice – “Complete Clean” or “Family Soft.” Why couldn’t we have both? I plumped for “Complete Clean,” that’s what we are trying to achieve with this particular product after all, but bemoaned the fact that they stopped making Izal back in the 80’s. Life was much simpler then.

 

I made my way to the queue at the tills (I don’t use the self-checkout, the bagging area is a source of constant confusion) and waited patiently in line with my two items. No, make that three, I also picked up a 64-piece socket set @£9.99, too good to miss, hoping I did OK this time.

Each January, a certain Monday carries a reputation for being the year’s most emotionally difficult. Known as “Blue Monday” it is often linked with low moods, depleted motivation and a post-Christmas slump. The weather is horrible, the nights are long and many people are struggling financially waiting for their first paycheque after Christmas. It traditionally falls on the third Monday in January, so this year arrived this week just gone, on the 19^th.

 

I can’t say I was feeling particularly blue on Monday, hard to say what colour actually, maybe a shade of beige but a trifle fuzzy. That was because it followed my “Birthday Weekend” which was full-on and a real blast, the highlight of being the “knees up” in my local on Saturday. Massive thanks to all of those who came along, and of course for the cards and gifts. I was still feeling the effects on Monday morning, a bit beige.

 

By comparison Tuesday was if anything a little grey as it matched my mood. I was eagerly waiting for Wednesday to arrive as I had a face-to-face appointment booked to see the fragrant Dr Sarah Westwell to ascertain the results of my latest brain MRI scan. As you may recall my previous scan had disappointingly shown two sites of cancerous activity on my brain. It was too early to establish whether the subsequent CyberKnife procedures had been successful – it was just to see if there were any new sites. That would have involved further radiotherapy with all the resultant side effects and the probable termination of my treatment with Pembrolizumab (“JJ”) as new tumours would evidence the drug finally losing its effectiveness after ten successful years.

 

So the “scanxiety” was ramping right up on Tuesday. I tried to keep myself busy but I was counting the hours till I could see Dr Westwell on the following day. Therefore the phone call I received from a “No Caller ID” was a real shocker. The lady calling from the Royal Sussex Hospital was firm yet polite but caused my stomach to turn over. She explained that the hospital was very short-staffed, additionally my MRI scan that I had on 5^th January had not been reported by the radiologist, so my appointment for the following day was cancelled. They would try to prioritise me for the next Melanoma clinic which would be the following Wednesday 28^th.

 

I already knew that Sarah would be on holiday for two weeks from the 22^nd – I’d see one of her staff, who are all very capable but they aren’t Sarah. And I would have to wait at least a further week to get my results, that was the real killer. There was nothing I could do – these things happen but it was like a big grey cloud had arrived.

 

Anyway, Wednesday came, and another call from a “No Caller ID.” I assumed it was the same lady calling to confirm my appointment for the following Wednesday.

 

I was wrong. I was greeted with dulcet tones that I instantly recognised.

 

“Hi Bill, it’s Sarah Westwell here.”

 

My heart skipped a beat. We exchanged pleasantries and she kindly asked if I had enjoyed a good birthday, before apologising for causing me further stress by having my appointment postponed. But she went on to say that she had noticed my name on the “cancelled” list from her clinic that day, had phoned one of the senior radiologists and insisted that they send her the report on my scan without further delay. She knows how much I worry and had taken time out from her incredibly busy schedule, two clinic lists, a waiting room full of patients, ward visits etc to chase up my results and make the time to phone me to share them. I couldn’t believe it.

 

And the icing on the (post birthday) cake? The results were good. The largest of the tumours on my brain had slightly increased in size, but that was considered to be consistent with trauma from being zapped in November, not growth in the tumour itself. The other tumours were stable, and most importantly there were no new sites. JJ was still delivering! We agreed on dates for the next tranche of scans and appointments and I wished her a pleasant holiday. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief, shed a small tear if I’m honest, and thanked my lucky stars or whoever it is looking over me that I have that remarkable lady on my side.

 

So if Monday was “Blue Monday,” Tuesday a grey day, Wednesday was certainly a rather striking and fabulous golden sunny shade of yellow which despite the gloomy weather has continued throughout the rest of this week.

 

Every sixth Friday I have to present myself for an appointment at the Outpatients Dept of the Royal Sussex County Hospital for a series of blood tests to be conducted. They look at all kinds of stuff, liver and kidney function, bone profile, glucose levels etc etc. It’s all to ensure that I have experienced no adverse reaction to my last infusion of Pembolizumab (“JJ’) and I’m well enough to receive a further dose on the next working day, which on this occasion will be on Monday 19^th January.

 

Today (16^th) is one of those Fridays. I’m booked in at 08:40 – I like to get it done and out of the way early. Hopefully my friend Si will be working; he’s been jabbing my arm and warning me about a “sharp scratch” since I started on this journey, and over those last ten tears or so he’s probably taken enough blood out of my arm to fill a medium sized bath. He’s a top bloke and has become quite a mate, as have so many other NHS staff involved with the treatment of my Bastard Cancer.

 

He’s a big lad and clearly likes his grub, does Si, so i think I might pop into the bakery, sorry “patisserie,” on the way to the hospital and pick up some cream cakes to hand out to him and his colleagues in the haematology ward, as today is my birthday.

 

And not just any old birthday either. I’m seventy years old today – three score years and ten no less.

 

Who would have believed it? Especially after That Bloody Doctor delivered my prognosis back in the autumn of 2015 when I was just a slip of a lad of 59 and informed me that my life expectancy was short at best. A lot of water has passed under the bridge since then but I have been truly blessed with good fortune and met some wonderful people along the way. So I Intend to celebrate this unexpected milestone with copious amounts of continental lager, very spicy Indian food, and a proper “knees-up” with friends in the pub on Saturday night when I’ll be sure to raise a glass and say a big thank you to all of you who have kindly supported me on my journey and helped me get this far against all odds.