Staying strong

Ok, so little tree has visibly become weather-beaten. I noticed today when I was cutting the grass that leaves were curling and the top ones had become wind-singed. It alarmed me, I won't lie.

But as I stared at it, I noticed also that the wooden steak was steadfast, holding our little tree firmly in its growing position. Moreover, I noticed what the jasmine behind it was doing. And that was clinging on, firmly tight, to the trunk - reaching, clinging, holding up our tree up. Supporting. Cuddling. Backing it battle against the elements.

And this is what our family and friends do, daily. I've written about how much love and support we've had but here's a graphic representation of how we're coping through cancer:

Thank you for holding us up, for supporting, for feeding, for believing. We're thankful for life and growth and for our tomorrows. 

Man creaks when he stands up, we're not sure why. All meds from Round 2 are now finished and we're eagerly awaiting Tuesday's oncology appointment for answers. Perhaps all we'll get from it is posh coffee and steroids but we wait anxiously for reasons why Man's mobility is getting worse. 

Hang tight, cos we are! 

Memento mori

So Chemo Cycle 1 is complete 😃 A well earned week off for my man but I just can't believe the irony that the treatment is classed as 'cycles'. From now on, I'll refer to them as 'rounds'. Like a boxer, using every second to prove his physicality, diligence and defensive skills. Ding bloody ding.

Hubby has been in discomfort this week. It might stem from having an active weekend with his boys. They attended Brands Hatch for the German Touring Car races, quality time with them but not so forgiving on his pelvis. Still, he's reported to be feeling much better today. I don't know how much of the tumour gives him discomfort and how much the meds are affecting him. All we know is that we're on this one-way path and have to ride it and overtake obstacles whenever we can.

We have plans to spend a few days in France with some of our very best friends during the chemo break. Man is not supposed to travel but we are literally within driving distance of home so we're flipping the bird to myeloma and are going to spend time with our favourite Scottish people for laughs, hugs and great food. Bread and cheese, here we come!

I read the following on Monday, I want to share with anyone reading and everyone who feels challenged:

'To those living life without consideration, take time to appreciate those closest...we can't all do it alone. ...stop being a dickhead, cherish the ones that go out of their way to speak to you and ask you if your day was ok...Don't be careless, everyone's been through shit...turn the negative into positive, push through and be something they never thought you'd be. 

If I could have something to remember me by it would be this: forget your past troubles, appreciate the present and DON'T anticipate the future. Live and LOVE every day as it comes, life's too short to get caught up and bitter...live life without nonsense and drama.'

TW, aged 22. Died of a broken heart but left us with the wisest words. Be at peace xxx

Rain

Yesterday after chemo, Man felt well enough to drive his eldest to Shoreham (Dex is a wonderful thing!). And as much as I wanted to see inside a airline cockpit simulator, I didn't want to invade father/son time and so I toddled into Canterbury for some me-time. It was ridiculously busy, puddles everywhere and the rain was relentless. After wandering around a couple of clothes shops I conceded that I wouldn't buy any more clothes until I'd lost my holiday (Christmas!) weight. I promptly went and consoled myself with a fat sandwich and coffee 😄

Waiting for my bus home, I joined others under the shelter, with soaking feet and the wind whipping my hair around. Boarding the bus, I had to scramble around in the depths of my bag for the change that the driver was patiently waiting for. A queue of impatient older ladies formed behind me, stating how wet they were getting. All eyes were glaring at me for making their journey home uncomfortable. I suggested to the driver that he serve them before me whilst I looked for my final 20p as moans and complaints about the rain became ever more audible.  Weirdly, he just fixed his eyes on me and gave me a wry smile. He was on my team. As my ticket was finally being printed, I looked back at the queue and thought 'Stop bloody whinging. You can stand, you can walk, you've obviously led a longer life than many and yes, you can feel the rain. Aren't you lucky?'

There's good luck and there's bad luck but mostly luck is shades of grey. Luck, I feel, is how you perceive it.  Something so sad or traumatic will always bring out the best in people, if your eyes are open.  It's unfortunate that our lives now harbour a cancer diagnosis but yesterday Man said "I'm so lucky".

We take our lives for granted until we are faced with not having one or not living the way we'd planned to. Mental strength is not about mind over matter, rather it's being mindful with eyes wide open. Sure, cancer sucks but it also sharpens up the good stuff: friends, time, good food and music, flowers and all that jazz. Hubby now reads actual books (I've never known him to pick one up despite all my keen suggestions) and he savours whole food. He walks when he can and spends quality time with his boys. He's being treated by a top team and we don't have any real money worries just yet.  His blood results are good, he doesn't have any real side effects of chemo yet (well nothing that a little Senna won't sort out!). We live on the doorstep of farmland and woods, a short distance from beautiful beaches and all our boys are healthy. How can we be mad with the world, it's bloody great!

'Staying positive doesn't mean you're happy all the time. It means that even on hard days you know that there are better ones coming'.

Anew

Myeloma is a blood cancer. It affects the plasma cells within the bone marrow. There is no rhyme or reason as to why someone should develop it and it's uncommon in people under the age of 70. Currently, there is no cure.

Within days of my husband's diagnosis, we were sitting in a rather dingy consulting room nervous and afraid. The doctor was a young man, softly spoken who did not exude confidence in either what he was saying or what he thought the prognosis would be. Also in the room was a chatty, personable Irish nurse who smiled a lot. She made us smile too. After taking lots of bloods from Man's arm, we were then directed to the haematologist consultant, Dr L. It was she who showed us the scan imagery and explained the extent of the damage that the myeloma had already caused. A huge tumour was not only growing in Man's pelvis but was also eating it. In a nutshell, half of is pelvis was missing. It was a miracle he was walking.

Dazed days and sleepless nights led us to a bone specialist, Mr M, again, another smiley friendly Irish face. It had been swiftly discovered that Man was eligible to take advantage of his employers' medical insurance which led us to these fine consultants. Endless bloods, scans, biopsies, paperwork and appointments guided our medical team to be able to offer the best care that could be offered. Man was immediately put on a dose of dexamethasone - a ridiculously strong steroid which started to shrink the tumour and took pressure of his spinal cord. It worked almost immediately and Man's pain subsided.

But dex wasn't going to be enough. Whilst Man battled with missing out on his annual trip to the Alps with his friends, Dr L put together a chemo regime.

"No riding". Words that Man could not comprehend. He was/is a very keen cyclist and it's the sole cause of his fitness and lean, strong legs.
"But I have an Alps trip booked, could I start chemo after that?" implored Man.
"I do not recommend. I anticipate that if you continue to ride you will be in a wheelchair for the rest of your life".
He relented and I witnessed how hard he took this news.

Chemo started. A course of Zometa was dripped into his veins to help rebuild bone growth. Velcade was injected to stop the cancer cells. Revlimid to be taken every evening to assist Man's immune system. The nurses were wonderful, the coffee good and spirits were high. We were sent off after the first session with a bag of goodies: blood thinners, anti-sickness, calcium tablets, tummy settlers, kidney protectors and three types of anti-biotics. Injections to be twice a week at the hospital and a very strict tablet regime started at home. The process had begun.

Meanwhile, Man sat in his anti-gravity chair in the sun developing a very envious tan. He continued to work from home whilst receiving supportive messages from his fabulous friends in the Alps. Their frequent messages made him smile as he still felt part of the gang, and yet I could see the sadness that he felt about his body letting him down, about the very riding he loved so much had contributed to his pelvis being fractured and dissolved. Now it was time to say 'life's not fair'.

In the space of 6 weeks, my husband's life turned upside down. Some of it painful, some of it frustrating but most of it filled with love and support. Friends have stepped up in a way we couldn't have imagined. They make life worthwhile, they are the laughs, they are the daily positives. Man has said that he's 'happy'. By this I imagine it's because he's experiencing life to the fullest, feeling every emotion and feeling grateful to be. It's hard to wake up to find your husband in the garden, been kept awake by steroids, struggling to bend, stand, walk. BUT we do what we do because we can. And he will again one day.