Friday, 20 October 2017

The Contours of Pain

The second week out of hospital presents different challenges to the first. With the tireless T always ready to help, we are slowly adjusting to my pain and to my incapacity. In the last couple of days I’ve become able to get into and out of bed by myself. I can also put my own trousers and shoes on, although not my socks and pants. I am feeble and awkward in my movements so T supervises me carefully. I have become like a toddler who needs to be closely watched in case they get themselves into trouble. She has placed a small brass bell, shaped like a woman with a wide skirt, at my bedside which I ring if I need help. All of this progress is very recent. It has only happened because my pain is now being much better managed.

For a long time the level of pain continued unchanged. It was relentless. It began in my wound and stabbed across my ribs into my abdomen. Pain turns you in on yourself. You are stuck in an oppressive private world. You withdraw from anything that causes the pain. And you have to take a deep breath and prepare yourself for any unavoidable movement that you know will cause pain. For me, this meant any movement of my torso and arms. I moved reluctantly and remained for hours after settling in bed or in an armchair. As every step was painful, I had to force myself to walk a little and do some breathing exercises.

I recalled what the surgeon had told me about nerve pain at our meetings before the operation. He explained that nerves run along each rib in grooves that follow the top and bottom edges of the rib. In doing a thoracotomy he would place me on my side, slit the intercostal muscles that hold the two ribs together from back to front and then insert a mechanical device which spreads the ribs wide to make the space for the procedure on the diaphragm and lung beneath. He explained that some nerve damage was inevitable, but the extent of it depended on how deep or shallow the grooves in my ribs were and how well recessed my nerves were in these grooves. At night my back and ribs were so painful that I imagined that my nerves had been well and truly crushed in the surgery.

When I was on the ward in the Royal I met a Pharmacist called Mal who consulted with each patient about their pain and the options for pain relief. He told me that I couldn’t take the two main drugs they would give patients for nerve pain. Pregabalin was one, which I had been given previously and had taken an adverse reaction to. The other was Diclofenac, in a category of drug called NSAIDS, which I couldn’t take because I only had one kidney.  Instead I was put on a drug called Nefopam. I had been taking this three times a day but I didn’t think it was having much effect on my pain.

I rang the ward to ask for their help. I spoke to a junior doctor who was preoccupied with patients on the ward and who wouldn’t venture an opinion on the alternative drugs I could take. I asked her to pass on a message to Mal the Pharmacist or to ask one of the senior doctors to ring me. No-one rang. I tried the ward again the next day and asked for Mal. They told me to ring the Pharmacy Department. I rang them. They told me that Mal was at work in the hospital but they would text him my number. Hours passed, I felt that I was being left on my own with the pain.

The phone rang. It was Mal. I thanked him and explained the problem. He considered it carefully. In the short run I could take more Morphine, but this wasn’t advisable because of the bad side effects on my digestion and the risks of addiction. Indeed they wanted me on the minimum dose possible and wouldn’t want to increase it. He said the only real other option was a pain-killing patch which I would wear for 12 hours each day. It was called Lidocaine and was most often used for shingles.

Armed with this knowledge I went to my new GP practice the next day. I got a locum. He listened to my story, gave me two more weeks supply of Morphine but said he wouldn’t be able to prescribe Lidocaine without some documentation from the Hospital. I left the surgery exasperated and unhappy.  When I got home I rang the Hospital and asked for Mal again. He rang me back a couple of hours later. I explained the problem. He looked up Lidocaine and found that it was only licensed in General Practice for use against shingles. He told me I would have to get one of the senior doctors on the ward to contact my GP. My heart sank. I knew this would be next to impossible, given how busy they were.

I spent another painful and unhappy night. The next morning Mal rang me again. After our phone call yesterday he had gone back to the ward and discussed my case with one of the doctors. He wanted the name and phone number of my GP. I thanked him profusely. A couple of hours later I got a call from one of the Thoracic consultants, he had spoken to my GP and I would be prescribed Lidocaine. I thanked God for the conscientious and hardworking Mal who had helped me out after I had been discharged from his responsibility.

The Lidocaine patches are A5 in size. T sticks one down my back, below the wound, and one across my ribs at the side. They feel very cool to the skin and sting a little. They are not magic, but they do take the pain down a notch. They make it possible to for me to carefully embark on simple movements. I’m delighted that I don’t have to wake T each time I want to get into or out of bed. They make short walks manageable. They also make it possible to try too much and get severe stabs of pain during, and aching soreness after, some movements. Despite this, I toddle on. 


Wednesday, 11 October 2017

Easement

The first week out of hospital isn’t easy. T has cared for me tirelessly. But away from hospital you are left with your wound, your incapacity and your drugs. There is no doctor or nurse on hand to check you over when you are feeling strange. You are at the start of a long journey of recovery that will take many weeks. Most of the online advice seems to suggest that you should expect some initial setbacks.

My bed is comfortable but not in any way adjustable. On the first night we piled up all the pillows from the house and T carefully lowered me back against them. The slow descent was very painful. I gasped with relief when resting semi-upright against the pillows and managed to sleep for a few hours. I woke up stiff and in pain. T helped me up and I walked to the toilet to unstiffen my bones. I took a shot of morphine before she lowered me back against the pillows. This performance was repeated before morning and has been every night since.

T also has to help dress me. I can’t bend sideways or downwards. It is like being a child again. She holds my pants and trousers open for me and I put one leg in and then the other. I can put my top on myself but she has to put my socks on and do my laces up for me. After this I can get around the house alright. After breakfast I make myself walk for five minutes before I sit in the armchair, which I can just about get into and out of myself. Daytime TV is as bad as it was last year.

The pain in my ribs is always there, it rises and falls: sometimes a sharp stab or burning sensation, other times a grinding ache. Its constancy wears you down. The morphine only takes the edge off it. I’m very tired and sleep for a couple of hours each afternoon. I don’t have any energy or enthusiasm but I make myself go for little walks and do my breathing exercises. I also don’t have much appetite; I’m managing about half of what I would normally eat. Despite their challenges, all of these problems are to some degree anticipatable or normal for the situation I am in.

The problem with my guts was different and worrying. Since the operation I have been very bloated with cramping in my bowels. Despite taking four packets of laxatives a day, I had not passed anything, not even wind since I was discharged. Indeed, the only bowel motion I’d had at all was due to an enema in the Royal and felt very abnormal. I’d had enemas prior to discharge on each of my previous times in hospital. They had followed the same pattern. The enema softened an impacted stool and induced cramping and convulsions in your rectum sufficient to pass it. After the log was gone the bowels began to work normally. But this time there had been no impacted stool, just minor cramping and a small amount of diarrhoea.

During the surgery my stomach and bowels had been moved from my thorax into my abdomen. This meant that there was the potential for some obstruction. The symptoms for a partial obstruction were those that I was having. After several days the bloating and cramping became worse. We went to see the GP. She felt and sounded my abdomen. She wasn’t sure whether there was an obstruction or not and sent me for an X-ray.

I had the X-ray done at a shiny new health centre in Banbridge on Friday. The pictures were sent to Craigavon Hospital marked ‘urgent’. By the end of the day the GP rang to say no report had come through. She advised us to go to A&E if my symptoms got worse over the weekend. On Sunday I was more bloated and crampy. T rang the Out of Hours service. They asked me to come in that evening for an examination at Daisy Hill Hospital. The doctor gave me a cursory glance and a quick prod without using her stethoscope and sent me away with gelatine suppositories.

I woke early on Monday morning in more pain. We decided to go to A&E at Craigavon. Arriving at 9am, the waiting room was fairly empty and I was attended to quickly. They checked my X-ray and told me there was no obstruction visible. They said that my colon was full two thirds of the way around, but my rectum was empty. So the enema in the Royal had only shifted a little of the constipation. They said another enema wouldn’t help and I would have to increase the dose of laxatives and that eventually this would work. The source of the problem was the morphine, which had the side effect of slowing my bowels almost to a standstill.

Reassured we went home. I took more laxatives and waited. Later on I had a semi-normal bowel motion. After thirteen days it felt so good to have my normal functions restored. As the bloating and cramping began to reduce, my mind turned to the grand medieval toilet I had seen at a ruined monastery near York. The monks had diverted a stream and built several dozen stone seats back-to-back over it. As far as ancient toilets go, it was an advanced design complete with running water. The building was called the House of Easement. 


Tuesday, 3 October 2017

Confessions of a Morphine-drinker

I’m home from hospital. The surgery was last Tuesday afternoon and took three hours. After several more hours in the recovery room, I was back on the ward. The surgeon told me that the procedure had been a success. I had a foot-long wound across my back and around my side, held together by a line of surgical clips. But I felt little pain, only mild discomfort in my shoulder. I had an epidural line inserted into my spine between my shoulder blades which pumped in Fentanyl, a very strong synthetic opiate, making the central band of my ribs completely numb. This had been there throughout the operation and would stay to enable me to reinflate my lung without pain.

The surgeon found that my stomach had become twisted through the hole in my diaphragm and had stuck to the lower part of my left lung, with my spleen compressed against my ribcage. No wonder I had gastric and breathing problems. The surgeon also said that correcting these defects had been very timely as serious and potentially fatal problems could easily have developed. He told me that my diaphragm was thick and healthy with a good blood supply (a legacy from many years of running and mountaineering) so that the mesh repair should be strong and lasting. I was very relieved, as I went into this surgery not knowing what exactly would be found and whether a repair would be possible.

For the first two days I was attached to eight different devices. My vital signs were recorded and monitored, I had an oxygen mask, a saline drip, the Fentanyl was pumped in through the epidural, and my chest was drained of fluid as was my bladder. There were tubes and lines everywhere. I felt exhausted and lightheaded. On the second day I was got out of bed for several hours and moved around the ward by two physiotherapists who carried all the equipment and shouted encouragement.

On the third day the chest drain and the epidural were removed. Then came the pain. It stabbed across my back around my side and into the centre of my chest with every little move of my torso. They gave me morphine, but it wasn’t enough. They increased the dose. It still wasn’t enough. They added in another type of painkiller and gave me liquid morphine on demand. This began to take the edge of the pain.

They said I would soon be ready to go home. I complained, I was barely able to move myself off the bed and into the chair. My prostate came to my aid. When they took out the catheter I was hardly able to pee. They put the catheter back in, at the third attempt, and put me on prostate reducing drugs. I sat in bed with a very sore penis and stabbing pains across my chest.

Nights were the worst. However comfortably the bed had been set up, I would invariably wake up a few hours later in agony. I would ring the nurse and request my morphine. She would bring it in a small needle-less syringe. I would squirt the morphine into my mouth and suck the end of the syringe. It tasted both salty and remotely fruity. But it worked and quickly. A warmth spread across my wounded chest and I would relax into sleep, until I again woke in agony.

After two more days the catheter was taken out and my pee was normal. They gave me an enema, which worked, and pronounced me fit to be discharged. I said I wasn’t sure that I was ready to go home because my guts didn't feel right and asked to stay for one more night. They told me firmly that I was being discharged and that my bed had been booked for another patient who needed surgery.

After work, T drove me home. People rushed past us, scooting back for tea or to the supermarket. The busyness of everything seemed faintly absurd. The sun was setting and newly fallen leaves skidded on the wind. I was glad to be at her side again. Despite the challenges, we would make the best of it. After all I had a big bag of medications with me, including my own bottle of liquid morphine.



Saturday, 23 September 2017

Apple Picking, Scan and Surgery

Our house is suffused with mellow fruitfulness. The apple tree produced a bumper crop of about a thousand apples. We cooked loads and stored the fruit in the freezer. We gave bagfuls of them away to friends and neighbours. Still hundreds of apples lie on newspapers in the living room and lounge. After apple picking came two weighty pieces of medical news. Both arrived on the same day.

First I learnt that my latest CT scan is clear. Needless to say this is an enormous relief. It means that I have been clear of cancer for one whole year, as I was discharged from hospital in September last year after cancer surgery. Following months of recuperation, I was left with a nagging pain in my side. I was told by the surgeon that this was nerve damage. Over recent months the pain has slowly diminished and today I only feel it on a bad day.

Second I got a letter from the Royal Hospital Belfast telling me I am planned to be admitted next Monday for surgery on Tuesday. This was a bit of a shock. I had been expecting this call in June and when it didn’t come I put the surgery to the back of my mind and got on with enjoying the summer. We had a lovely staycation with plenty of fine trips. Now this stay of execution has been suddenly rescinded.

The surgery is to repair a hernia in my left diaphragm that was caused by the first big cancer operation I had in 2011. Since then much of my stomach has been in my thorax depressing my left lung. After a while I got used to this problem and managed to live an active life despite it. But I have been persuaded that it is important to get this hernia fixed to improve my symptoms and to guard against future problems and deterioration. I have been getting troublesome gastric symptoms (IBS) over the last year and am now on the FODMAP diet.

This is a big operation, a thoracotomy. This means that they cut between my ribs and open my thorax. Then the surgeon can see the exact nature of the hernia and the level of difficulty of the repair. This is not clear on the imaging that has been done thus far. The surgeon with then cut my stomach from the diaphragm, reposition it in my abdomen and patch the hole with mesh.

I am expected to be in hospital for around two weeks. The recuperation is long and slow as I can’t put any strain on my diaphragm for at least three months. And my rejoined ribs will be extremely painful. I hope that next year I can begin to build up my strength and fitness and restart singing, hillwalking and cycling.

Unlike each of my other operations, this is elective surgery. It is my choice whether to have it. And since the letter came I have been plagued by fears that I will be worse off after the surgery. Alongside this is the resentment that I have to go through another year of pain and incapacity just because of a mistake that a surgeon made.

As the surgery is elective, it is also the NHS’s choice when to do it. I have to ring the ward on Monday morning and check if I can still be admitted that day. A more urgent case could have come along over the weekend and I would be displaced and postponed.

There is of course a long list of things that need to be done around the house before I go in to hospital. I am steadily working my way through them with much trepidation. T is doing similarly, in the knowledge that she will have to look after me and Rex together over the coming months. It’s not going to be easy.




Sunday, 10 September 2017

Rex

The old farmer down the lane got a new dog and wanted rid of his old dog, Rex. He told us that Rex was ‘no bloody good’ and he was going to shoot him. We said that Rex was a fine, friendly dog. The old farmer insisted Rex was ‘no bloody good’, but said he would give him to us if we wanted him. We thought for a while. Now Rex the farm dog is our dog.

The old farmer kept Rex chained up for most of the day. Sometimes Rex would be loose and would often walk with us when we went down to the bottom of the lane and back. Sometimes he would come all the way up to our house and then stay around in our garden until dusk, when I would walk him back to the farm.

Rex always seemed hungry. We made a point of giving him food whenever we could because we thought that the old farmer wasn’t feeding him properly. This situation got worse when the new dog arrived. Rex was displaced from his spot in the yard and shut away somewhere each evening. He seemed hungrier and thinner; the new dog was being given most of the food.

We bought Rex a large wooden kennel and put it under the bay window at the front of the house. We were told that we would have to keep him chained up for a while before he got used to his new surroundings. I got a long chain, twenty five feet, which was tethered beside the kennel. He could run onto the lawn and go as far as the front door.

The first night Rex refused to go into the kennel and slept on the doormat inside the front porch. He howled during the small hours. The next day I tried to coax him into the kennel with food, but he still refused to enter it. That night he again slept on the doormat and howled. The next morning T stroked him and sang, ‘How much is that Doggie in the Window?’ for him. He enjoyed it.

I quizzed several local dog owners about why he wouldn’t go into the kennel. The first said that he was bound to go in, just give him time. The other said perhaps he was scared of it because he had been locked up in a small dark space. This seemed most likely, and probably happened after he was displaced by the new dog at the farm.

The third night he again slept on the doormat but didn’t howl. Rex seems to have rapidly got used to us and his new home. He is only 18 months old and seems eager to learn. We take him on walks on a lead as, whilst at the farm, he developed a bad habit of chasing cars. When a car comes by we make him sit and when he tries to leap up and chase it we say firmly no and push him back down to sitting. After the car has gone and he remains sitting we give him a treat.

Yesterday, I let him off the chain and he happily ran around our large garden and didn’t try to run back to the farm. He went into our neighbour’s garden, but came back when called. I patted him on the head enthusiastically. His head was wet and sticky. He had been rolling in fox shit. Ah, the joys of dog ownership.


Sunday, 3 September 2017

Revisiting Donegal

To mark the end of summer we headed to Dunfanaghy for a short break. T was keen to revisit places where she had holidayed as a child. And my first holiday after moving to NI nineteen years ago had been a cycle-tour of Donegal. The weather forecast was for rain, but we struck it lucky. On each day of our trip the sun shone brightly, the sea sparkled and the hills gleamed. Whilst there was the occasional rain shower too, they soon passed and the sunshine was restored.

We stayed at The Mill in Dunfanaghy, an award-winning restaurant with well appointed rooms. It was formerly a flax mill and then the home and studio of Frank Eggington, who painted acclaimed watercolours of Donegal. The Mill is run by the grand-daughter of the artist and her husband is the head chef. Paintings line the walls throughout, many by Frank Eggington himself, alongside collections of oriental pottery. Our room looked out over a reed-lined lake towards Muckish.

Building on a succession of awards for its food and hospitality, The Mill won the prize of best restaurant in Ulster this year. It offers a six-course menu. You relax in armchairs in the lounge and make your selections, appetite whetted by home-smoked olives and a small glass of gazpacho. For my starter I had goat from Horn Head on a bed of finely chopped bacon and potatoes. After a sorbet, my main was local lamb, served three different ways: a chop, a steak and a croquette, garnished with samphire and kale. My dessert was lemon tart with lime sorbet coated with meringue. Afterwards we struggled back to the lounge for coffee and petit-fours. And after a sound sleep we went  down to an indulgent breakfast, with home-made carragheen, preserves, stewed fruits and breads, followed by the best fry I have ever tasted, with organic meats, duck eggs and home-made potato bread.

No wonder The Mill has won so many awards, every course of each meal was extremely well prepared and presented. After such luxurious repasts we needed to be active. On the first day we went to Ards Friary and walked around the coast and into the Forest Park. It is a very unspoilt peninsula: just sea, sandy beaches, rocky outcrops and trees. Across Sheephaven Bay you could see the long strand of Tramore and the developments around Downings.

On the second day I went cycling, as T searched for the old haunts from her childhood. She drove me to Creeslough and I cycled to Carrigart then across the new bridge onto the Fanad and around the coast to Fanad Head. As I arrived a rainstorm began, just as it had nineteen years before, and I ended up sheltering under the same trees. After half an hour it cleared. I then returned via Milford and around Mulroy Bay back to Creeslough. I had forgotten how hilly the roads of Donegal are. I had climbed to the top of Slieve Donard in the 52 miles I covered. By the end I was so tired that I had to rest on the bed before I was able to summon the energy to go down for the evening meal.

On the third day we went sightseeing. T delightedly showed me the places she had visited the day before. We drove and walked around Horn Head, got fantastic views out to Tory Island, climbed to the battlements of Doe Castle, had lunch in McNutt’s Cafe at Downings and went walking on Tramore Strand. After we did the Atlantic Drive and then went over the new bridge to Fanad, ending up at the lighthouse. As the sun began to slide down towards the shining sea we had to set off for our return journey. We had packed plenty into our break and we were pretty tired. But it was good to know that all these riches were only three and a half hours drive from our house. And the past was not such a far country.



Monday, 28 August 2017

Tour of Meath

This sounds like a cycle race. But it was a tour that T and I just did by car. We were exploring ancient sites chosen by Peter Harbison, the former head of the National Museum of Ireland. I was given a copy of his guide book ‘Monuments of Ireland’ as a going away present from my job in England when I left to join Queen’s. The book was given to me by Des, a young colleague from Mayo, and it has been by far the best and most used present I received.

That was in December 1997, during those almost twenty years I have travelled through every county of this island by bicycle searching out the ancient sites he picked out as the most interesting. It has been a process of exploration as many of these ancient sites are difficult to find. They are often in fields surrounded by cattle, behind new bungalows and rarely signposted. You need a good OS map to find most of the sites in the guide and even then some still remained undiscovered.

The Irish approach to antiquity appears to be benign neglect. The ruins are usually left alone and rarely exploited by the heritage industry. I am all for this. I can’t stand interpretative centres with their mock ups and models, as you often get in England, I want to experience the real thing.

We started in Ardee. This is the only town I know with three castles on the main street. They are tower houses. The sort that you got a government grant to help build in medieval times. You find these throughout the Pale. Then we went on to Cruicetown, which was a settlement built by the de Crys family around 1200. They were Normans. All that remains is a ruined church in the middle of a field of cattle with later family tombs in it. We picnicked there using a large flat tomb as a table. Interestingly, over centuries the spelling of the family name changes to Cruise. So is this quiet site now in danger of being overrun by Scientologists and film fans?

The next stop was Kells, which had a large monastery founded by monks from Iona who were fleeing the Vikings. The Book of Kells was said to have been written there in the 9th Century. But the monastery was raided repeatedly by the Vikings and the Irish and burnt and the Book stolen. All that remains of this is a large round tower and four high crosses, most of which are in a dilapidated state.

Travelling back in time, we went on to the Hill of Ward. This is a splendid isolated hill with earthworks. It was said to have been founded by Lug and dedicated to the sacred fire. For thousands of years there were gatherings here to celebrate the passing of autumn and the beginning of winter. In ancient times, all the men of Ireland were called to take part. This was the feast of Samhain, which has been sort of transposed into Halloween. From the top of the hill you can clearly see Slieve Gullion and the Wicklow mountains.

We spent a good while at Trim, the town with the greatest concentration of ancient sites in Meath. It has the largest and best preserved Norman castle in Ireland, which featured in Braveheart (this Australian-Scottish epic was all filmed in Ireland)). Along a lovely riverside path beside the Boyne is a huge 12th century monastic settlement, as well as remnants of a 14th century abbey, town walls and tower.

Then we followed the Boyne up to Bective Abbey, a well preserved Cistercian monastery with a fine cloister. We ended up at Duleek at the remains of an Augustinian priory, where the youth of the town were hanging out, smoking dope and having pizza delivered. They sat on a large flat tombstone and ate their repast. We repaired to the restaurant next door, which happened to be in an old church. It had been a grand day out that had ranged over many centuries, a salutary lesson in learning from the past and living for today.

Wednesday, 16 August 2017

FODMAP

I’ve begun a diet. I’m not trying to lose weight but to improve my digestion. Over the past year in particular I’ve been getting symptoms of bloating, cramping, wind and diarrhoea. I don’t have these uncomfortable symptoms all of the time, they seem to flare up intermittently and unpredictably. T, who had previously suffered from IBS, did some research into my problems and came up with the FODMAP diet. I’ve tried it for a week and there has been a marked improvement.

The diet originates from research done at Monash University in Australia. They looked at the chemical structures of food and its absorption through the digestive system. They found that some foods were very poorly absorbed and the residues of these foods became fermented by the bacteria present in your gut, producing the bad symptoms. They then classified different foods by how absorbable they were. The FODMAP diet has been tried and tested over the past decade and is now recommended by the NHS.

For the past week I’ve been eating only foods that are relatively easily absorbable and doing my best to avoid those that are not. The FODMAP chart is quite odd. The badly absorbed vegetables include onion and garlic (two foods that I already instinctively avoided) but also peas, mushrooms and cauliflower. The easily absorbed fruit includes bananas and grapes but not raisins and sultanas as their chemical structure is changed by the drying process. You have to keep checking the list. I keep a copy in my pocket

I reckon that my flare-ups could easily have been associated with eating foods from the poorly absorbed list. It’s particularly difficult where processed foods are concerned as you have to scan a long list of ingredients. Indeed many of the sweeteners used in low-calorie foods and drinks are on the avoid list. The research also suggested that having bowel surgery (which I had a year ago) was likely to increase the irritability of your bowel.

The recommendation is that you eat only foods that are easily absorbable for at least four weeks to see if your symptoms improve. After that you can try and reintroduce foods from the poorly absorbed list as some people can tolerate some of these, but you should only do this one food at a time.

I’ve found that my symptoms have improved after only one week. Yesterday I went for a long bike ride. Previously all my long bike rides had left me with bloating and cramps in the latter stages. I changed my Kit-Kats and Snickers for nut and cereal bars and ate only dark chocolate. I also took some cheese and oatcakes. I kept the bananas. I was delighted that I managed a round trip of 65 miles through Co Meath without any gut problems. 


Sunday, 6 August 2017

Of Mice and Mother-in-Laws

Les Dawson built a comedy career around a series of mother-in-law jokes. A notorious one goes: ‘I can always tell when my mother-in-law is coming to stay, the mice come out and throw themselves onto the traps.’ It was the day before T’s mother was due to stay with us. T suddenly screamed. I rushed from my study to see what was happening. T was in the corridor, one hand to her mouth, the other pointing. Streaking past me along the corridor was a mouse.

The mouse ran into the front room.

We pursued it and closed the door behind us.

‘Now we’ve got it’, I said.

The mouse was lying low.

I slowly moved an armchair and peeked behind it.

T screamed again.

The mouse ran out, along the skirting board and behind the TV unit.

I strode forward, trying to flush it out.

The mouse stayed under cover.

T handed me an umbrella.

I looked quizzically at her.

‘You can bash it’, she said.

The mouse must have heard. It ran across the room and past the fireplace.

T screamed piercingly.

The mouse was behind us at the closed door. It was small and brown and desperately trying to find a way out.

I glanced at the crooked handle of the umbrella and back to the mouse. I didn’t want to kill it.

‘Can we catch it?’, I said.

We scanned the room, there was nothing to hand that would work.

The mouse was running backwards and forwards along the base of the door.

Resignedly, I grasped the umbrella.

The mouse stopped halfway along the door and began to squirm under. It’s rear legs and tail wriggled, then it disappeared.

I snatched open the door and peered along the corridor.

The mouse was nowhere to be seen.

We called him Usain and put down traps. It was the first mouse I had seen in the house for years. The next day T’s mother arrived. The visit went well. Each morning we checked the traps but Usain hadn’t thrown himself onto any of them. In Cyril’s continuing absence, we also thought about putting a poster on the front door: Cat Wanted, Enquire Within.




Sunday, 30 July 2017

Anniversary Days Out

The pattern of this summer seems to be set: good weather for a couple of days followed by three or more bad. We check the forecasts regularly and are primed to make the most of the good days. We have even become adroit at snatching the couple of hours of good sunshine that can appear amidst a rainy and windy day. We have also passed an auspicious milestone: our four-year anniversary.

The sun shone strongly on our anniversary day and we drove south to tour Co Louth. We started in Dromiskin which has the remains of a 5th century monastery with fine round tower and oddly a stone Viking longship which was built 5 years ago: commemorating both the monks and their raiders. We had a picnic lunch at the coast and went rockpooling and then paddling. Later we went to Monasterboice and saw the high crosses and round tower and then to Mellifont abbey. T had never been to either place and was very impressed. We rounded off the day with a trip to a Lebanese restaurant in Drogheda, reputedly the best in Co Louth. The food tasted fine but we both had bad guts after.

I’ve been keeping up my regular cycling. I drove down to Duleek, just beyond Drogheda and did a tour of scenic Co Meath. I rode past Tara and down the Boyne valley to Bective Abbey, another Cistercian monastery with plenty of its structure remaining beautifully situated beside the river. I had a snack lunch sitting on the monastery steps, entirely alone until a teenage girl in skimpy shorts and a bikini top came and lay down on the grass just a few feet away.

I rode on to Trim, a lovely heritage town with the largest Norman castle in Ireland (used in Braveheart) a medieval gate and monastery. Then back to Duleek through mostly quiet roads. It was a lovely day out and at 50 miles, my longest ride so far this year. I felt fine throughout with no gut problems and only got a bit tired in the last five miles. I’ve ridden over 100 miles in each of the past three weeks so I’m feeling cycling fit at present. I’m sleeping pretty well and have mostly stopped worrying about the impending surgery.

We also had a day out at the John Hewitt Summer School. This has a special place in our hearts as it was where we first met. After an excellent early evening meal at the Castle Tower restaurant we enjoyed Garrett Carr’s multimedia presentation of his Borderlands book and the exceptional poetry of Mark Doty. The Market Place Theatre during this week is somewhere you are bound to meet old friends and have the opportunity to make new ones.

I’m absolutely delighted I met T there four years ago. My life has changed so much for the good since then. The challenges that come along (such as my two recent cancer recurrences) are so much more easily faced together. A loving relationship makes all the difference.

Wednesday, 19 July 2017

Our Days Out

We inhabit an island with unpredictable weather. T’s mother says that there is only one rule for living here: when the sun shines drop everything and go out. On our staycation we have been doing our best to follow her advice. Our two long sunny days out were good in the main, but with an unexpected twist. And it is bucketing down as I write this.

Monday promised to be a hot day with unbroken sunshine. T arranged to meet a pal of hers in Belfast for lunch and some shopping. I took the bike down to Castlebellingham in Co Louth and followed the coast road south. My bike computer showed 80 degrees F with a cooling breeze coming off the sea. I stopped at Termonfeckin for lunch. It sounded like a place out of Father Ted, but the cafe brought me a good bowl of soup and bread. When cycling with my herniated diaphragm and restricted stomach, I know I need to eat foods that are easily digested.

I headed on into Drogheda, a pretty undistinguished place apart from one medieval gate. Turning inland I lost the sea breeze, the sun got hotter and the hills began. By the time I got to Mellifont Abbey, the remains of the first Cistercian monastery in Ireland, I was feeling rough. The lunch had disagreed with me, my stomach was inflating with wind and was depressing my left lung. I was overheating. I tried to drink more but it wouldn’t go down.

From there it was a lumpy 15 miles back to the car. I struggled up the hills, very salty sweat running into my eyes. The bike computer showed 92 F, the highest I had seen on this island. As I cycled on, via Monasterboice, I began to have irrational thoughts, almost delusions. I saw myself standing by the side of the road watching me inch my way up the hill in bottom gear. It felt a little like when I was cycling in Sri Lanka around ten years ago and I got a touch of heat stroke.

I managed to keep on going and thankfully reached the car. It was 6pm and still 80F. Despite the bad guts, depressed lung and dehydration, I had just completed my longest ride this year: 46 miles. I rested for a while; then drove home very slowly. T was already home and tended me caringly. I lay on the bed and drank rehydration salts. Enormous farts began and continued all through the night. I didn’t sleep much. Although I am accustomed to the sun, my face, arms and legs felt sore. The next morning I had the runs. My light lunch in Termonfeckin had indeed proved costly.

By midday I was starting to perk up and T was keen to go out into the clear blue afternoon. ‘It’s boiling’, she said. Unlike the day before, I packed a hat. We did a tour of Lecale by car, starting off at the stone circle in Ballynoe, which is the largest in NI and has a lovely holloway down to it. Unfortunately over recent years it has become festooned with hippy tat; ribbons, wool, bits of shiny metal dangle beside your head as you make your way there. Thankfully we were alone at the stones themselves.

We drove on through Killough and Ardglass, which was a major medieval port and a holiday resort for early Victorians, with a ladies’ bathing house in the harbour. At Kilclief Bay we had a picnic, went paddling and spotted small flatfish and a hermit crab in rock pools. After ice cream at Strangford we walked to Audley’s Castle and around the coast to Castle Ward.

Two grand days out in warm sunshine before four days forecast with unseasonable wind and rain. Mammy T had indeed been right.




Thursday, 13 July 2017

The Staycation

The deadline for confirming our hotel break was nigh but the weather forecasted for Mayo was very unstable. T and I had to make a decision about whether we would take the room or not. We talked it through but found it hard to decide. Then I confessed that I had first made the hotel reservation because I thought she wanted to go away. T confessed that she had agreed to this trip because she thought I wanted to go away. We laughed. We were both trying to please the other when each of us would have preferred something else.

O Henry wrote a story that illustrates this type of misunderstanding. A young but very poor couple want to buy each other a special present for Xmas. The woman has long, beautiful hair but sells it to buy her husband a gold chain for the pocket watch that he has inherited from his grandfather. The man sells his grandfather’s watch to buy his wife a jewelled comb for her beautiful hair.

The good thing is that we confessed to each other before any disappointment could occur. Otherwise we might have ended up driving all the way to Mayo, watching the rain beating against the hotel room window and feeling some resentment against the other. So we cancelled the hotel reservation and began to plan days out and days at home.

T wanted time to sort out her clothes, books and other things, having been hard at work and dealing with me in and out of hospital since she moved in a year ago. I wanted time to do a series of good long bike rides before I went back into hospital and became incapacitated for months.

The next day the sun shone and we embarked on both of these plans. T pulled out all of her things that had been stored in boxes and began to sort through them. She put them in piles to keep and piles to give to the charity shop. Then she set about rearranging her books and other possessions. It was a grand summer spring clean.

I got out my maps and planned to redo a bike ride that I had last done before I got cancer. I drove to Ardee in Co Louth and rode through winding back roads to Kells in Co Meath. I had lunch in a second-hand bookshop with a cafe and then returned via a new set of back roads to Ardee. It was a grand day out in warm sunshine, the bike ride was 42 miles and took me the best part of five hours in total. The drive to Ardee down the motorway took less than an hour.

At the end of the day we both felt happy and satisfied. Our staycation had begun well.




Tuesday, 4 July 2017

The Getaway

June elapsed, day by anxious day. I was sleeping fitfully with bad dreams and plenty of wakeful episodes with worrying thoughts. I arose most mornings feeling worn out. My hospital bag was packed and sat on the bed in the spare room. I twitched every time the phone rang and again when the post dropped through the letter box. By not being called in to hospital I had a ‘stay of execution’, but it was an unhappy and stressful escape. After pondering for a while, I decided to face my demons. I would ring the hospital to find out when my surgery, planned for June, would actually take place.

I began with my surgeon’s secretary, but I couldn’t get through. I left a message on her voicemail. The next day she rang me back. I explained that I was waiting for surgery and had been told I would be operated on in June. She gave me the phone number of the person who scheduled cardio-thoracic surgery at the Royal. I got another answerphone and I left another message. The scheduler rang me back several hours later. I told her my story.

‘The soonest you could be admitted for surgery would be September,’ she said.

I gasped.

She went on. ‘His theatre list is already full for the summer with people needing surgery for cancer.’  

‘I understand,’ I said, ‘I’m only ringing because the surgeon himself told me that I would be brought in during June.’

‘That was a little unrealistic,’ she said, ‘he’s only in theatre one day every two weeks.’

I thanked her, put the phone down and sighed with relief. A heavy weight had fallen away from me. I told T. She was delighted.

‘We’ve been given the summer back,’ she said.

I grinned. ‘Let’s book a holiday.’ 

I turned to my computer and found the website of our favourite hotel: The Mulranny Park. It overlooks Clew Bay and Croagh Patrick. They were offering short breaks and we booked one. That evening we went out for a meal at our favourite restaurant: The Mourne Seafood Bar. The food was excellent as usual. Afterwards we walked on the beach at Murlough, fresh sea air blowing into our faces. And that night I slept more soundly than I had for many weeks.


Sunday, 25 June 2017

Long Runs The Fox

The fox walked steadily up the centre of our lawn, nose to the ground. I grabbed my camera and took this picture through the bay window as it passed about fifteen feet away. The fox proceeded to the top of the garden and then came back down following the hedge. It was an adult fox, more brown than red, and the first fox I have ever seen in our garden. Although we live in the country, foxes are infrequently seen hereabouts. But the very next day, I saw a different fox, smaller and redder, coming towards me down the lane from our house. What should I make of this visitation?

The fox appears in mythology and folklore all over the world. It is an animal that is clever and resourceful, able to outwit the efforts of the more powerful to hamper or persecute it. For many cultures the fox is a magical creature, a spirit messenger. The fox can also take human form, most often as a woman. The fox is intelligent and passionate but rarely a malevolent spirit. The fox is most often a helper, offering its qualities of quick thinking and adaptability to those in need.

Meanwhile, I still twitch when the post arrives or jerk when the phone rings. But I have heard nothing from the hospital. My first thought was to phone them and chase up my admission for surgery. But then I thought that no news is also good news. I don’t have to ring and remind them. I have a ‘stay of execution’ in which I can enjoy more of the good weather of the summer and do a few more bike rides in the fresh country air. It also means that I am able to attend the end of year parties of my Writers Group and of the Sing for Life Choir.

I take it one day at a time and do my best not to think about the ordeal to come. However, anxious thoughts about the dangers of the surgery and the pain I will be in afterwards still come to me regularly. Sometimes I also imagine myself as crippled by the procedure and in permanent pain. I do my best to calm myself and dismiss these thoughts, but they still come to me unbidden, most often at night.

I am even starting to bargain with myself about the impending surgery. A little voice keeps saying to me – ‘well you are fine at the moment and can do most of the things you want to, so why do you need to have that terrible surgery at all? Haven’t you suffered enough already?’ I know there are a lot of good reasons why I should have the surgery but it seems so much easier to run away from it at the moment.

My hospital bag remains packed and sits on the bed in the spare room. I wonder if that fox was trying to tell me something?  After all, isn’t the fox an archetypal survivor?


Monday, 12 June 2017

Double, Double, Toil and Trouble

It has been an eventful week, during which my mind has turned to the Scottish play. After a campaign of smears and mud-slinging by the right-wing press, I’m delighted the national electorate swung towards a message of hope. Discredited Theresa May is now said to be on ‘death row’ and there have been street protests in Britain about her new friends, the DUP. Locally, I’m sad that our hard-working constituency MP, Margaret Ritchie, has been beaten by an abstensionist. This effectively silences us on any issue, as our new MP will not turn up to do anything on our behalf at Westminster.

I have my hospital bag packed. But I’ve not had a call from Admissions. So I wait anxiously, try to stay well and don’t make plans. It’s not exactly ‘death row’ but each day I wonder if this will be the last time I am able to go for a bike ride, or mow the lawn, or go out for a meal, before I have the surgery and become incapacitated for a long while. I’m living normal life with a heightened intensity as there is an underlying sense of grief at the losses I will suffer for many months to come after going under the knife again. Allied to this is also the fear that something might go wrong and I could be incapacitated forever.

Being experienced at major surgery (having come through two episodes of it in the last 18 months) means that I also know how tough an ordeal it is. I know my body can recover but I have no illusions about the severity of the pain that has to be endured and the long, hard struggle of recovery.

Our dear ginger cat, Cyril, has been missing for several weeks now. We’ve looked everywhere for him, and have put posters up offering a reward. Next door were feeding him each day in the porch of our house whilst we were away in England for a long weekend. But he has been missing since then, whilst his nemesis the big grey feral cat has been very evident in the garden. We think Cyril was beaten up and chased away so that the big grey cat could take all the food. One day last week the big grey feral cat sat in our back yard all afternoon in heavy rain. He just shook his wet pointy-eared head and glowered at us, green eyes glinting. We have renamed him Grey Malkin after the witches’ cat in the Scottish play.

Perhaps I now need to boil a brew of toad, newt, snake, bat, frog, lizard and owl to help foretell my future. But even then I probably wouldn’t be much better off, as the witches’ spells for Macbeth were highly equivocal. The only way to reliably get to the future is to dig deep and live through whatever ordeal you are presently confronted with. This is as true for me as it is for the UK.



Sunday, 4 June 2017

Surgery Again

I am delighted with the all clear on my latest cancer surveillance scan. But there is a downside. It means I will shortly have to go into hospital for surgery: a thoracotomy to repair a diaphragmatic hernia. Last month I met the surgeon at the Royal Victoria Hospital. He explained the procedure and the risks and I signed the consent form. He told me that the surgery would be scheduled for this month, conditional on my scan being all clear. So now I am waiting for the phone call from the hospital. Frankly, I am dreading it.

This surgery is needed to repair a hole in my left diaphragm that was caused by the first big operation I had in 2011. I then needed open heart surgery to safely remove the tumour that had grown up my vena cava. My chest was opened up and the diaphragm cut as part of this procedure. At the conclusion of this long and complex operation, either the diaphragm was not sewn up properly or some of the stitches did not hold.

Some six months after the big operation I was offered surgery to repair the diaphragmatic hernia. I was still in a lot of pain from the big surgery, so I deferred it. Six months later I was again offered the surgery, I wasn’t mentally ready to go back in for another big operation so I deferred it again. At the next review, as I had learned to adapt to my limitations, the surgeon suggested that I continue to manage the problem conservatively (i.e. without surgery).

I did this for another year or so, but then I developed asthma. The specialist reckoned this was due to my left lung being under stress because my stomach was wedged in the diaphragm. I was living with restricted breathing, particularly after eating. He recommended that I again consider surgery to repair the hernia. I met the surgeon two years ago and was discussing having elective surgery when I got the first of my cancer recurrences, followed by the first of my post-operative lung collapses.

So to cut a long story short, here I am nine months after the surgery to remove the second cancer recurrence and I am now preparing to go back in to have more surgery. It aims to restore my normal anatomy and should prevent further lung collapses. Fingers crossed that this will be the end of it.

Because of the two recent operations I was forced to have, I am now much more experienced and know that I can recover from the ordeal of major surgery. But I realise that this operation is bigger than the two previous ones. And when the surgeon tells you that you will be ‘sore’ for three months afterwards (they normally minimise these cautions), it means you will be in a lot of pain for some considerable time: at least six months and probably longer.

A thoracotomy means that your ribs are split open to gain access to your lung and diaphragm. The muscles between the ribs are cut and they take a long time to repair. Nerves run along the edges of the ribs too and are easily damaged (one of the risks). Anyone who has had bruised ribs will know how painful it is just breathing, let alone coughing and sneezing.

The other issue is that the exact nature of the hernia and the extent of the repair will only be known after I am opened up. So how likely the procedure is to be successful is also unknown in advance.

My stomach has become fused to my diaphragm, so they have to be surgically separated. This means the very delicate cutting away of the tissues of the diaphragm from the stomach, being careful not to injure it (one of the main risks). Then the hole in the diaphragm is repaired with a polypropylene mesh patch that is stitched in place.

I am told I will be in hospital for up to two weeks and incapacitated at home for three months or more. I will also have to be very careful for a good while and not undertake any activity which could pull the stitches in my hernia repair.

I have met the surgeon three times and have asked lots of questions. But when I signed the consent form my heart sank. The rational part of my mind realises that it is sensible to have this surgery, but the rest of me is in a state of fear. I've had enough of hospitals and surgery. I am dreading the call. It could come any day now.


Saturday, 27 May 2017

Two Awards

I’ve just had the results of my cancer surveillance CT scan. Thankfully I continue to be all clear. After the long anxious wait, it feels like an award. It’s a bigger prize than the one I was shortlisted for in England. I’m relieved and delighted. My Oncologist says she is pleased with my progress. She still thinks I’m at medium to high risk of a further recurrence. But she will relax the surveillance regime a little. For the next year I will be scanned every four months (rather than every three).

Going away on a short break was a good strategy for coping with the enormous anxiety of waiting for the scan results. We stayed with my oldest friend Phil, who lives in the New Forest. We first met aged eleven. He lost his wife, Jean, to cancer four years ago.

Phil is a volunteer ranger in the National Park. He took us to some woodland near Lyndhurst which is being looked after by a local woodland management and charcoal-making charity. They take people on guided days out in the forest, show them how they manage the woodland, help them to make garden chairs from coppiced hazel and have a modern charcoal oven. Their guided days out are very popular and they will shortly be featured in a Channel Five documentary.

We walked through dense woodland, ungrazed by deer and ponies (kept out by high fences), and came across some ditches that dated from Saxon times. Wandering amongst the heavy green foliage felt like we had gone back in time to when the country was largely covered by broadleaved trees. It was a great distraction from the worry of waiting.

Phil drove us to the awards ceremony in Berkshire. The prizes for the Stanley Spencer Poetry Competition were presented by Lord Young in the little art gallery in Cookham. My heart raced as the names were read out. Alas, I was not called. My award was to be selected for the shortlist of this major prize.

At the reception afterwards I met the grandson of Stanley Spencer who is compiling his letters for publication in three volumes. Stanley had a very colourful personal life. He became infatuated with his life model and left his wife and children for her. After the divorce, he married the life model only to discover she was a lesbian and just interested in his money. He then sought reconciliation with his first wife and wrote very long letters to her, one of which was over 20,000 words. Understandably, his first wife remained unmoved. Stanley remained unhappily married to the life model, the marriage was never consummated and he kept writing to his first wife, even after her death.

On the way back we visited the Sandham Memorial Chapel near Newbury. It is a wonderful place, entirely covered with murals from Spencer’s experience as a medical orderly in the First World War. The chapel is filled with panels each detailing the everyday life of the soldiers: their work, encampments, relaxation, hospital treatment, death and resurrection. The place has an early Renaissance feel, indeed the chapel is based on one painted by Giotto in Padua. The central mural is the Resurrection of the Soldiers, where men and animals climb from their graves or from where they had fallen, carrying crosses. As a medical orderly, Spencer saw a lot of carnage and had to do all the worst jobs. He said he had buried so many dead bodies that he felt sure there must be something beyond death.

The murals are an immensely powerful work, most people in the chapel gaze at them without speaking. They capture the detail of everyday life and reveal the extraordinary that is within it. This forms the great theme of Spencer’s work, which he realises with such passion and intensity. Indeed, isn’t this exactly what poetry is seeking to achieve?




Tuesday, 16 May 2017

Scans and Writing

I’ve just had another cancer surveillance CT scan and I’m again waiting for the results. It’s now eight months since my surgery to remove the tumour and this is my third scan since then. The two standard resolution CT scans I had earlier were thankfully clear. I can’t have high-resolution scans because I am allergic to the fluid they inject you with to enhance the images. And even though I’m prepared to take the risk of the injection to get enhanced images, the radiologists won’t allow it. So if there is a regrowth of the tumour, I reckon that it should be big enough by now to show up on my standard resolution scan. And if not, I can then breathe a large sigh of relief.

But before any of that, there are the two long weeks of waiting until I see the oncologist and get the results of the scan. I’ve been in this situation before, of course, and it doesn’t seem to get any easier. I’ve just become more practiced at the coping strategies. One day at a time and do your best to keep busy. This works some of the time but certainly not for all of it, especially the wee small hours, when your fears stalk you remorselessly.  

This time around I am trying a new strategy: going away on a short trip. All the other times I have stayed at home, often pacing distractedly like an animal in its cage. We will be heading away to England to visit family and friends. I am also going to attend the awards evening of a major poetry competition that I have been shortlisted for.

When I got cancer in 2011, I stopped writing poetry. The poor prognosis I was given embroiled me in the biggest struggle for survival that I had ever experienced. Confronted by that, I could hardly function let alone write.

My first piece of writing was a memoir, which I embarked on for obvious reasons (it remains unfinished). And then I began this blog. Finally, after a couple of years, as I was still alive (to the surprise of one of my specialists), I tried writing poetry again. I didn’t write about my illness, that was too stark and raw, I set myself challenges to write poems around random words from the dictionary. I produced plenty of poems, but few of them were much good.

In 2014 I went on holiday to Orkney and found a fascinating place with layer upon layer of history – visiting the oldest house in Europe (from 5,500 years ago) on a windswept remote island and a series of magnificent Neolithic monuments built before Stonehenge. From this experience began to emerge a series of new poems, situated in time and place. In the end I wrote a sequence of ten Orkney poems.

After this I wrote poems in a different style. All were situated in place and time. Often they were stimulated by stories I had read in newspapers. They weren’t ‘found’ poems. The news story provided the jumping off point for the poem. Ciaran Carson called them ‘discovered poems’.

I began submitting my new poetry to competitions a couple of years ago. And I’m delighted to have had some success. I’ve won seven awards in poetry competitions and been shortlisted for at least another seven without gaining an award. I’ve only been sending my new work out to journals recently, but have already had poems published in The Honest Ulsterman and The Interpreter’s House. I think this confirms that I am pursuing a fruitful new direction in my writing.

My fingers are crossed for the upcoming Stanley Spencer Poetry Award. Indeed, it’s the biggest prize (£3500) that I’ve been shortlisted for. Reaching the final twelve in this competition is an honour in itself. Wish me luck.


Friday, 5 May 2017

A Dose of Books

I’m normally pretty healthy. I know that’s an odd thing to say, as I’m a cancer patient and I’m regularly in acute hospitals for treatment, scans and reviews with specialists. But apart from the Big C, which as far as I know I don’t have at present, I get ill infrequently and I lead an active life. So this past ten days has come as a bit of a shock, for I’ve been laid low with a bad dose of the ‘flu.

It began with a very sore throat, which quickly spread to my sinuses and chest. I went to bed surrounded by all the paraphernalia of a dose: boxes of tissues, bottles of Covonia expectorant and packets of Lem-Sip Max. I lay there for a whole week, blowing a nose which seemed to offer a never-ending font of mucous and coughing up a seemingly bottomless supply of green-yellow phlegm. I quickly became a Lem-Sip and Covonia addict.

The noble T ministered to me unstintingly. Meals were brought on a tray, binfuls of used tissues were dumped and regular trips to the chemist for fresh supplies of my drugs of choice were undertaken. When I wasn’t dozing, I lay propped on a pile of pillows. My only diversions were watching Cyril stretch, lick himself and go back to sleep at the end of the bed. Occasionally he would groan and twitch his way through a cat dream. I then moved on to Laurel and Hardy videos on Youtube.

After a few days I could concentrate enough to be able to read. I had a pile of books waiting. I began with ‘God’s Own Country’, a novel by Ross Raisin. It’s set in the North York Moors, an area I knew, and the narrator is a strange young man who lives on a farm, talks to himself and the creatures around him but has problems with other people. It is a compelling voice. The novel charts a peculiar relationship that develops between him and a young woman.

The next day I read ‘The Outrun’, a memoir by Amy Liptrot. It’s set in the Orkneys, another place I knew, where she grew up and where she returned, after a hedonistic decade in London where she became an alcoholic. The book describes her odd family and her recovery by spending time alone as a wildlife observer on one of the remotest Orkney islands (which I had also visited). It’s a brave journey of recovery through immersion in wildlife and the natural world.

Then I began ‘The Narrow Road to the Deep North’ by Richard Flanagan. This is a powerful multilayered novel of love and loss that brings together a passionate affair between a young man and woman, with the man’s later terrible experience as a POW forced to work on the building of the Burma railway by the Japanese. The book spans the entire life of the central character and gives voice to many of the other significant characters, weaving their extraordinary stories together very affectingly. I found it un-put-downable. It won the Man Booker Prize in 2014.

Finally I read ‘Beatlebone’ by Kevin Barry. It’s a whimsical novel that imagines a trip that John Lennon made to Mayo in 1978 to visit a deserted island in Clew Bay that he had bought anonymously. John encounters some very odd people including an incompetent local fixer and a group of Primal Screamers and he has some strange adventures. The book has some very witty and entertaining chapters but I felt it began to lose its way a little two thirds through.

After the week in bed I tried a couple of hours up, despite the sinuses and chest still troubling me. I switched from reading to watching TV in my dressing-gown and, despite not doing much, I felt tired. The next day I stepped outside for a short time. The weather was lovely, but I felt the keen wind. The day after, I began to feel that the bug was starting to dissipate a little. I sat at the computer and tried to write, ending up with this blog. I hope tomorrow will again be better. I’m still taking it easy, I know that real ‘flu often takes several weeks to clear.