Round 2, ding ding

Wow, three days in France make a lot of difference! Man and I drove to Vendee with our best Scots and lived in a refurbed farmhouse in between corn fields and a cow field, bliss. Long straight roads led us to long, warm days full of food, laughs and exploration. And boy, did we eat well. Galetts are my new favourite for lunch and breakfast was usually a cheese-fest.

On medical orders, Man isn't allowed to travel, certainly not by air, but a cheeky ferry and a days' drive equated to popping north of our own border so we took our chances. All meds were taken with extra penicillin for precaution on account of Man getting a sore throat with a threatening cold. Fortunately his temperature remained steady and the anti-Bs weren't required (although he took his prescribed three other types!)

Other than the meds, the only other cancery thing we took was Man's anti-gravity chair and goodness, he used it and some! On it, Man achieves the most comfortable positions as weight is evenly distributed throughout his body and pressure is taken off his pelvis. And yes, we even took the trusty chair to the sandy beach at Saint Gilles where he plugged in music to his ears and viewed the Atlantic ocean and her hunky surfing instructors from a 45 degree angle.

On day 1, it was decided that the women and children would venture out to get supplies from a supermarket. A feat in itself and we crossed many miles before we found a half-hearted shop. At one point I felt certain I could see the Eiffel Tower such was the length of our outing. The Scottish girls made their requests for favoured French treats and Man jokingly requested a 'new pelvis'. We said that should we come across a Lidl I'm sure we'd find one in the crazy centre aisle. Pink or blue? Plastic or durable ceramic? As it is, we'll settle for Zometa to do its crazy bone making thing.

Having abandoned our friends at the farmhouse to fend for themselves with sweetcorn stolen from said fields, we set sail, arrived home and bounced straight into Round 2 of chemo - on Man's son's birthday. Birthdays are becoming significant as it was on his mum's birthday that he was given the myeloma diagnosis, so a birthday bonus for everyone.

Back at Beckett's ward this morning, we were greeted with the usual steadfast smiles and professionalism from our oncology nurses. God, they're good. Their patience, experience, humour and warmth make the visits all that more humane. True to form, Man drank copious amounts of 'free' coffee whilst he sat in his recliner whilst the drugs were dripped into his arm. But ever the attention seeker, he also logged on to a voice conference call where his work colleagues acted surprised to hear from him. Hey, it's only chemo and the world still turns round right?!

Symptom-wise, Man lost his sense of taste, has been constipated and the dex is not forgiving when it comes to slumber. But, with a diagnosis as his, he's almost grateful that they're all he's suffered. Mobility has slowed down and I put that down to the Zometa attacking the bones. I say attacking, I mean strengthening, of which the effects must surely be felt.

We see Dr L on Tuesday (the private sector doesn't work on Bank holidays) and hopefully she'll give us the good news that para protein levels in Man's blood have gone down again. Two months ago they were at 58. After the first course of dex they went down to 34. I'm hopeful they've done down further and that Man's PP levels will meet mine at 0.

In the meantime, he's gone out for a cheeky beer with a very cherished pal who misses his riding buddy. Maybe frequenting local establishments will be the new riding!

Messing around on lac du Jaunay

Band wagon

If EVER there was a more apt phrase to etimpise the news about Aretha this week it would be 'bandwagon'. Back in the day, a bandwagon was a device that took musicians and circus folk all around the counties, enabling them to showcase their creative skills. I'm jumping firmly on that shiz!

I grew up in a household led by a musician. Music, melody and artistry is subjective. But I did learn from an early age that good music was to be appreciated. In the 80s our entertainment was vinyl and my dad's collection was extensive - from Pink Floyd to Mozart. I'm forever grateful.

The news that Aretha Franklin has passed [to an arguably better side] has nudged many people's curiosity, not least my own. I asked Siri (modern day Oracle) to play me her songs. For two days I've had her sweet, amazing, soulful voice coursing through my sound-waves at home. But here's what is evident early on - many of Aretha's vocals are recordings of other artists' songs, namely Ottis Reading, Gloria Ganor, Marvin Gaye. I've even heard a fucking-fantastic version of Adele's 'Rolling in the Deep', a kid from Tottenham witnessed a goddess singing her melody and lyrics. Beyonce should be eternally grateful for Aretha's nod to Survivor and I just hope Prince heard her 'Nothing compares to you' in the most jazziest jazz style ever.

So I guess what I'm getting at is this: no matter your talent, your calling, your autonomy, you will always learn from others. We can all take tunes from others' lives and experiences and make them our own. Anyone's who's read about myeloma will be familiar with the word 'individual'. And it's true; each patient feels their experience very differently from others. Different regimes, blood counts and sarcomas separate each patient from the next. Therefore, we all run our race. A brutal marathon that takes courage and acceptance. My husband has both in abundance.

We secured ferry tickets for France, sailing tomorrow. We're jumping on our friends' holibob, with their invitation, but we're pleased for it. We'll savour the experience, we'll be gratuitous for the opportunity and we'll enjoy it singing our own song.

Bring on The France, time to forget about chemo, scans and regimes. Fun in the sun, here we come!

'When she sings your songs, she takes them and don't give them back.' Stevie Wonder speaking about Aretha, yet articulating my sentiment about life. 

A journey

After nine years of procrastinating, my gorgeous man proposed marriage to me. We were 'second time arounders' and between us had a house, a (redundant) bachelor pad, five teenage boys and a cat. To all appearances, we had a family home and were a fully functioning team, albeit suffering struggles that children can bring. We were in love, feisty, shared the good things in life and, quite frankly, I wanted to cement the union with rings and a pretty dress. More importantly I believe in marriage; it tells the world that you are in the long haul forever, good, bad and ugly. And so, on Christmas Eve 2015 my Man took me to the venue of our first date and surprised me completely by producing a ring. I cried as he worked his way through a speech he had prepared. Afterwards, I wish my nail polish wasn't so chipped!

We married 18 months later, at a palace on the River Medway with our closest friends and family. We (I) chose music for the service that was uniquely personal to us and afterwards we took our guests for a boat cruise with fizz. Celebrations continued at our local pub where we had previously celebrated birthdays, Valentines days and Mother's days. It was perfect, topped off with a road trip to the Italian lakes.

Wedded life came easy; it felt different to having just lived together. Better different, committed, caring, special and warmer. Families now united, the romance was easy to see. Even though I fiercely held on to my maiden name, I was now my Man's wife and it felt like the punctuation that our relationship had longed for.

For ease, we had bought a new build house. Both of us worked full time and a ready purpose home made easy living for our large brood. Neither of us are particularly into interior design - all we need is a few sight and sound gadgets and a functioning kitchen. Whilst Man developed his cave in the garage surrounded by bikes and their paraphernalia, my attention turned to our little garden. A square patch of scratchy grass has developed into established shrubs and pretty flowers with a bit of landscaping completed by Man's own hands. Some of the plants had come with me from my previous home and were nearly 30 years old! I lovingly care for these growing miracles, sheltering them from the wind that is so prevalent up in the high village where we live. Fences became covered with hydrangeas and jasmine, roses and grape vines. The lawn is still patchy thanks mainly to the golden retriever who uses it as a loo but we forgive her. She is part of our family and the garden is hers too.

In Spring this year, we had many coffees on the patio, admiring how pretty and settled the garden looked. My husband commented that had he been left to the garden it would still be a square patch of scrub and he greatly appreciated the time and planning I'd put into creating our outdoor living room.

"But there's a gap by the fence" I noted one day. "We need a tree for more structure".

So off we popped on a very warm April afternoon to our local garden centre. After an hour, literally, of um-ing and ar-ing we selected a lime-leaved locust tree. I drew back the sunroof of my teeny car and drove the tree home sticking mostly out of the top! My husband dug a hole and we planted little locust and admired our choice. Weirdly, the tree felt like the missing piece from our home. Trees grow roots so strong and I had wanted to mirror the sentiment of the reading we had read at our wedding:

' ...Those that truly love have roots that grow towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossoms have fallen from their branches, they find that they are one tree and not two.'

For the first month, the tree struggled to survive. It needed gallons of water and shelter from the high winds. I watched it every day bending and twisting to stay up right, watching leaves curl and unfurl from dehydration to content. Such was my wish for its success I whispered to it "stay strong, little tree". And so it did - new growth appeared, like little spines, each one giving hope, marking the beginning of our married life, growing roots deep into the soil and providing shade for my ferns. We would watch this tree grow and mature and will provide us with happy memories when we became old and retired.

Two months later, as spring turned into a stifling hot summer, a bolt of unexpected news hit our world. My husband came home on a Tuesday afternoon. He sat me on the patio and cried, mumbled something about cancer, not curable, blood, bones....but I couldn't hear. I stared at the little tree and knew from that moment that our roots would be tested.