It really did feel like an episode of DIY SOS

It’s been a while since my last post, mainly because the first chemo session on 30^th November hit me like a knee in the nuts, except when that happens you know you will be sore for a short period, but the magic sponge and a quick rearrangement of the furniture was never going to be enough to remedy the ill-effects of chemo.

The nauseous feeling I suffered reminded me of one of those mother of all hangovers I used to get back when I was a rugby playing pup, when binge drinking on a Saturday night was a regular activity and often ended in me kneeling to pray at the porcelain altar, calling for Larry as I delivered the evenings contents for recycling.

The next day would be spent confined to bed, with a banging headache and feeling sick, asking myself why did I do it (again).  One of the many differences between the regular Sunday affliction of my youth and the Chemo sickness is that with the hangover I knew that 24 hours (in extreme cases 48 hours) later I would be back to normal. With my chemo ills I had no real idea, I heard rumour it was a few days and therefore I had set myself a false expectation and as 2 days, turned to 3 then 4 then 5, I started to wonder when will it ever end.  The answer was after 10 days.

This timing could have been a lot worse as having exchanged contracts on a house sale and purchase we moved into our new home on Monday this week.  The thought of doing that when all I really would have wanted was to be curled up in the fetal position in my bed was less than appealing.

As it happens the move went well.  We moved Emma’s house contents in on Monday, with the exceptional support of the Wilkins removal firm and overseen by Emma's sister Rachel whilst Emma was at work.  My eldest daughter Megan and boyfriend Tom also put in a hard shift.

We had briefed Wilkins in advance that the Lady of the House was the size of a barrage balloon due to being 8 months pregnant and that the Lord of the Manor was old, decrepit and riddled with cancer and so not to expect too much physical help on the day.

On Wednesday this week the contents of my house arrived , which had been in storage for a few months. We also had Emma's mum and sister Sarah spending the whole day assembling the dreaded flat pack furniture for the baby's nursery  - a little slowly for my liking but what can I say. Also my youngest, Milly assisted in the bed building department, and so with everyone chipping in it really did feel like an episode of DIY SOS but without the tears.

 

The only problem now is that we have multiple items, 2 dishwashers, 2 washing machines, 3 Fridge Freezers and 5, yes 5 sofas.  Clearly if I have my way we will set fire to Emma’s two down filled monstrosities to eliminate the constant need for poofing but my cancer treatment has not in fact left me delusional whereby I actually think I will get my way, but one can live in hope.

The window of feeling better was very short lived but as I said thankfully very well timed. As expected my throat and mouth have started to deteriorate within the past 48 hours due to the daily radiotherapy sessions.  The bowl of porridge that I had been having to kick start my day has now become too painful to swallow, the pre-prepared soups that were being taken for lunch now aggravate my mouth due to the seasonings they contain and so I am virtually down to a liquids only diet.

The hospital supply me with protein shakes which they say towards the end of the treatment will probably be all that I can manage but reassuringly they have all the vitamins and minerals you need to live off.  Having said that they want me to try and use them to supplement “normal” foods for as long as possible rather than replace them.

On a positive note 13 Radiotherapy sessions down and only 17 to go. Rapidly approaching the half way stage which is a big mental milestone for me – if only I didn’t have that pesky second chemo session next week.  At least this time around I know better what to expect and the Oncologist has modified my anti-sickness drugs to try and better manage things so fingers crossed on that one.

I would like to end with a request from my lovely wife Emma.  Please can people stop sending me food items – I have had some very kind gifts including cakes and chocolates none of which I am able to eat however to a heavily pregnant woman it can be a little too easy to spend an hour scavenging in the darker recesses of the kitchen cupboards looking for food to graze on and to put it simply, she says if it’s there she’s going to eat it.  I would also like to second this request as Emma has let herself go a little recently – now only managing to get to 2-3 boot camp sessions a week and she needs to get a grip, it’s a slippery slope and I never bought into a fat lass when I walked her down the aisle not 6 months ago.

 

 

 

Suspect it may change post baby !

First day of chemo completed today and followed by my second radiotherapy session, so a long day in “the office” – almost 11 hours.

Emma had suggested a day or two earlier that, as my wedding ring had fallen off a few times since the weight loss, that it would be better to take it off and keep it safe and reinstate it after the treatment,  when I should put the weight back on.

Having safely stored the ring this morning I informed Emma of the fact. In turn Emma says that it will feel strange for me when it comes to putting it back on. I said I didn’t think so as I seemed to manage it OK every time I go out with the boys for a night out.  I looked for the death stare (believe me you don’t want to be on the receiving end of that) but no, she just laughed.  It’s at times like this when I really appreciate that Emma played hockey because as with anyone who has played team sport, she so gets the banter and she still finds my sense of humour funny. I put this down to the fact that we are somehow still in the honeymoon period of our relationship but suspect it may change post baby !

Everything went reasonably well today but in particular I was pleased with the pre-chemo health check where my pulse was recorded at 56 BPM and the lovely Nurse (Jane) asked me if I was an athlete and said that I had the pulse of a marathon runner.  She probably had spotted the lack of a wedding ring and was hitting on me. The fact that Emma was sat there was not a problem as I took the opportunity to introduce her as my older sister.

Given that a couple of weeks ago at Bootcamp my metabolic age was measured using highly accurate scales which suggested that I had the metabolic age of a 37 year old, I therefore think I had every right to suggest Emma was older than me, as far as suggesting she might be my sister – I suspect that the death stare was not that far away!

Look who was waiting for me at hospital this morning.

Really wasn't expecting that - so sweet girls and thank you Ali also for bringing them.

I knew things must be serious as they agreed, without a single groan, to have a selfie with me immediately after the tears.

First treatment done, 29 more to go.

Now if I think I have had bad luck

As I wandered the relatively quiet corridors at the Churchill Hospital shortly after 08.00am this morning, for some reason the enormity of what my body is about to go through hit home for the first time.

I’m not sure why today it finally sank in, after all the start date of my treatment has been known for several weeks now and so I have had plenty of time to contemplate things. Being a man though, I am expert at burying my head in the sand and have lived most of my life by the mantra of “I will worry about that when I have to”. I guess with Radiotherapy starting at 08.15 tomorrow morning and Chemotherapy on Wednesday now would seem an appropriate time to commence that process.

My mind started to think about how well I was going to get to know these corridors, already I can find my way through the maze of walkways that join up the various departments and wards across the sprawling campus and this from a guy who has an appalling sense of direction. Then I contemplated the medical team with whom, over the next few months, no years, you surely cannot help but build relationships with.  It was already in a strange way starting to feel like a home from home.

The walk in blood test centre was not open until 08.30 and so this meant I was front of the queue and was done and dusted a few minutes after it opened, so rather than tackle the snarled up London bound rush hour traffic on the way home, I thought I would have a cup of tea and wait for the roads to clear a little.

I had been told about the Cancer Support Centre “Maggie’s”, where patients and their families and friends can drop in for emotional, practical and social support or simply for a cup of tea or coffee in a nice environment. I thought I would take the opportunity to check it out and it turned out to be one of my smarter moves.

Maggie's at The Churchill, Oxford.

I walked in and headed over to the kitchen area.  I immediately knew I was going to like this place as I spotted the distinctive yellow box of Twining’s Lemon and Ginger Tea neatly standing to attention amongst an array of other brightly coloured boxes, the kettle conveniently positioned nearby.

A couple of members of Maggie’s team introduce themselves (Clare and Atif) and instantly I am made to feel welcome.  Clare, when hearing that I am about to start treatment for throat cancer, asks an unsuspecting man if he would mind sharing with me his experiences of having been treated for throat cancer and he agrees.

I took an instant liking to Pete and not just because we have throat cancer as a common bond. No Pete has that kind of face and smile and general demeanour that I would suggest would cause most people to quickly come to the same conclusion – he’s a thoroughly decent bloke.  

Now if I think I have had bad luck – let me tell you there is always someone worse off than you and Pete certainly was when he got dealt the “C” card. When diagnosed with throat cancer Pete had a PET scan.  Not only did it confirm the suspicion of cancer which turned out to be at the base of his tongue and also the Lymph nodes in his neck, but a completely unrelated cancer also showed up in one of his kidneys.  He finished his treatment earlier this year and today had travelled from Hungerford for one of his routine checks and I am pleased to report that everything was good and his checkups have now been moved out to every two months.

On recounting his story to me Pete points to his neck and says “that was the cloud” and pointing to his back “and that was the silver lining”.  Without the throat cancer there’s every chance the kidney cancer would not have been found in time to treat it successfully.  His outlook on life is fantastic and I hope he doesn’t mind me giving his age away but I seriously hope that I am in his shape at 76 years old. I would never have guessed his age anywhere near that.

We exchanged contact details and this is the mark of the man, this afternoon he emailed me and said he would call me later this week to see how my first chemo session has gone.

A new inspirational figure has touched my life today, call it fate, call it what you like but the timing is impeccable.

Food for Thought

I was warned that one of the side effects of the Tonsillectomy and the tongue biopsies was that my taste buds would be adversely effected. Reading up on this on various medical web sites and forums, a lot of reference is made to food having a strange metallic taste to it.

I can’t claim to have ever had what could be described as a sophisticated palate.  For me the most exotic dish I could claim to have eaten in my early adult years was a deep fried pineapple ring accompanied with chips expertly fried and served by the staff at Powney Road fish and chip shop as I stumbled home from the regular Friday night pub crawl into Maidenhead. 

I say expertly fried when actually given the condition that I and my companions were more often than not in, the fare could have been fried in battery acid and we wouldn’t have batted an eyelid.  So given this lack of sophistication when it comes to dining, the potential change to my taste senses was not something that concerned me greatly in the lead up to going under the knife.

Powney Road Chippy - still going strong!

 

In the first week or so after the op, I was having so much trouble simply swallowing, that what the food tasted like seemed immaterial.  But here we are rapidly approaching 5 weeks later and getting the food down is pretty much back to normal but unfortunately the taste sensations are certainly not. 

For me personally, I would not so much describe it as a metallic taste but more a bitter taste. This bitterness varies depending on the food I’m eating.  With savoury/spicy food the bitterness, whilst still there, is masked and doesn’t detract too greatly from the eating experience but when it comes to anything sweet, the bitterness is so pronounced that it has put me off sweet things pretty much altogether.  Now given that I have (or may that should be had) a really sweet tooth and ate far too much sugar, this might not be a bad thing, but the problem is that the craving for something sweet at the end of a meal has not yet gone away, nor the desire for a Saturday night treat of tea with lashings of Revels, Minstrels, Maltesers or in fact anything coated in milk chocolate (dark chocolate is the work of the devil).

My research tells me that my taste buds may return to normal after a while and that I shouldn’t give up on a particular food but try it again after a week or so.  I have therefore implemented a sugar taste test every 4 or 5 days.  The produce I have selected to measure signs of taste improvements are “fun size” Mars bars. I have never worked out why they called them fun size as eating a full size Mars bar is way more fun than eating the mini ones and whoever thought up the marketing campaign around them being “two bites big” was clearly way of the mark. As far as I am concerned “one and done” would have been a far more appropriate strap line.

The anticipation as I unwrap the treat and pray that this is the occasion when I will once again enjoy the taste of sugar is palpable.  The immediate taste gives me a split second of hope and then as I swallow, the bitter aftertaste kicks in and hangs around my mouth like a lady of the night hangs around a dimly lit street corner.  Never mind perhaps next time.

Another side effect of the eating difficulties I have experienced is that I lost weight in the immediate aftermath of the operation - almost half a stone.  Now anyone who knows me will know that I don’t exactly carry much excess baggage and I seriously need to keep my weight up ready for the treatment which starts next week.

Due to the cancer being in my neck and throat, the radiation treatment will take me back to a dark place where eating food will again become a challenge along with further adverse effects on how food tastes.   I am told that the salivary glands on the right hand side of my mouth will permanently cease to function adding even more joy to my delightful dining experiences.    

Unlike with the tonsillectomy where I was back to eating normally (despite impaired taste) after 4 weeks, as the treatment is over 6 weeks and recovery over several weeks post treatment there is the risk that I lose even more weight.  So with the aim of bulking me back up to my fighting weight of 11 stone, my carer (AKA Emma) has taken on the role of chief nutritionist and this involves her nagging me what feels like 24 hours a day to ensure that not only have I eaten my normal 3 meals a day but that I have taken a mid-morning and mid-afternoon snack.

In the early post operation days, swallowing was so painful that I really didn’t look forward to meal times at all and it would take me an absolute age to finish any meal.  The situation got to the point where Emma would sit and force feed me food and like a petulant child I would refuse saying that it hurt too much or “Donny don’t like” as I pushed my plate away.  We would then barter over the food left on the plate and Emma would divide it up and say “just finish that bit up, there’s a good boy”.  It didn’t quite get to the stage were Emma picked up a spoon full of grub and made choo choo train noises in an attempt to encourage me to open wide, but it wasn’t far off.

How it must have felt to Emma

 

When Emma was at work or not with me at meal times she must have set an alarm because I would, at the designated hour, receive a text asking what I was going to have to eat. In order to put her mind at rest that the appropriate amount of calories had been consumed, I would send a photograph of my plate before and after the meal. But please don’t get me started on photographs of food. What is it about people photographing their dinner and putting it on Facebook – it needs to be one hell of a spectacular meal to warrant a photograph being shared with all of your friends. Whilst this may be a pet hate of mine, I have a very good friend (Dave Clarke) who is driven to distraction if he spots such a posting. “Why the bloody hell do they think that anyone might be interested in what they had for bloody dinner last night”  or some similar rant is spewed out upon sighting fish fingers and chips on someone's timeline.

 

So Dave this is for you:



Breakfast - Before

Breakfast - After











As a footnote, I genuinely appreciate all of the positive comments and likes that the blog is getting (mostly via Facebook) so thank you all.  These signs of support absolutely encourage me to continue which in turn gives me a distraction which I will certainly be appreciative of over the coming months.  

 

I thought you might like to see how international we have become – keep spreading the word folks! x

 



Kids or no Kids

After my first marriage broke up shortly after I had turned 40, a common question posed to me by inquisitive friends was when I eventually met someone who I wanted to settle down with would I have more children.  My answer in the early years was always the same.  I love my daughters and genuinely cherish the time I spend with them and if I met the right person then yes I would absolutely consider having more kids but I would have to be 100% sure about the person.

As the years ticked by and as I rapidly approached 50 having not met anyone who I was willing to commit to, my answer changed to say that as much as I love kids, I’m too old now - enter stage right Emma Townend!

Emma and I met at Immortal Fitness Bootcamp (there you go Stu a free plug for you!).  We trained at 6am in the parks and countryside around Marlow and I remember when Emma first joined thinking who is this long legged beauty that has the audacity to think she can take me on in hill sprints.  Emma in turn was probably thinking how can someone so old continually beat me up a hill – surely he will croak it soon if he’s not careful.

Anyway after a long, competitive and flirtatious 12 months and encouraged by several members of the Bootcamp crew who pointed out the apparent obvious chemistry between us, I eventually grew a pair and asked Emma out in October 2014.

Early on in our relationship (in fact on the first date) we had a very open discussion regarding children. I was then rapidly approaching 51 and Emma had turned 37 in the summer. Emma stated that she was not sure that she actually wanted children as she enjoyed her life too much to sacrifice the travel and ski adventures that regularly punctuated her years.

From memory, I said something along the lines of “well that’s fine by me as I have my girls already and in case you hadn’t noticed I’m getting on a bit.”  Thinking little more of it we proceeded to fill the coming months with travel, adventures and the most amazing fun times.

So with this back drop, how does a 52 year old man who had a vasectomy in his late thirties now end up as an expectant father?  Well one thing’s for sure – it didn’t happen by accident!

I’m not certain how far into the relationship that Emma had a change of heart but I do recall the conversation that took place and suspect that it was around 10 or 12 months down the line.

If we fast forward to when Emma started to tell her friends that she was pregnant their universal initial reaction was that of complete shock as they questioned, “But I thought you didn’t want children?” On more than one occasion I have heard Emma explain that seeing me with my daughters and the good relationship I have with them, she felt she would be missing out if she didn’t have children.  Of course my interpretation of that is a little different – “Don is such an amazing dad and clearly given how beautiful his two daughters are and what wonderful girls they are he must have some magic loin beans that produce amazing off-spring and I want me some of them there beans!”

Of course by the time this change of heart was announced to me I had completely fallen for Emma and not only couldn’t imagine life without her but also it felt that having a child with her was the most natural and obvious thing to do.

Clearly the decision was not an instant one, I needed to think it through before committing and over a few days many thoughts sprung in to my mind: 

• I would almost certainly be the oldest dad waiting at the school gates
• I would undoubtedly and frequently be mistaken for grandad
• How would my daughters (Megan & Milly) react if Emma and I announced that we were expecting a baby?
• Was it fair on the new child to have such an old dad
• Did I really want to be going through the baby years again
• It would be good training for Emma as she would need to wipe my dribble and change my nappies in a few years

After a period of reflection the decision was made that we would investigate the possibility of having a baby together.  Emma’s view was that if it was not possibly then that is fine too and we would just fill our life with travel and exciting adventures.  Her level headedness whilst reassuring was irrelevant – I wanted a child with her and I for one would have been extremely disappointed if it did not happen.

So one vasectomy reversal later and several visits to the fertility clinic at the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital ensued including for me to make a couple of deposits of the magic beans - I can definitely say that the sterile nature of the experience was not something I especially enjoyed, but here we are expecting a baby girl (currently referred to as Frogmella) due on the 16^th January  - one week after my treatment finishes. Amazing!!

The Day Ended with Some Good News

Every cloud has a silver lining, today I received in the post my NHS Prescription exemption card and so for the next 5 years I don’t have to pay for any NHS prescriptions. Bring on the drugs!

Last week was a busy old week with several trips along the well-trodden path to the Churchill Hospital in Oxford. Below are a couple of highlights:

Wednesday 9^th November

Today I had a tooth removed by a dental surgeon, though the way he went about digging out the roots he might as well have been a tree surgeon. I was half expecting to hear a stump grinder start up as he struggled to excavate the stubborn tooth.

The procedure was a precautionary move as you want to try and avoid tooth extractions any time after the radiotherapy as the jaw bone will be permanently weakened and the risk is that when pulling out a tooth, half of your jaw bone will come with it.

 

I know I went to hospital for the procedure but I wasn’t prepared for them to have me strip down and get fully gowned up complete with some fetching compression socks.  I was just pleased that I had put a clean thong on that morning. Easy ladies – I’m a married man now, control yourselves.

The whole thing was over, complete with a couple of stitches duly dispatched, within 40 minutes and I was released back into the community along with yet more drugs and mouthwashes.

 

Thursday 10^th of November

Over the past 6 weeks I have had more than my fair share of examinations and scans, from X-rays, MRI’s, CT’s and ultrasounds but today I had yet another type of examination and this one was a new one on me.  I had never before heard of a PET scan and in a fit of wishful escapism I convince myself that the term "pet" in this instance actually referred to the fact that a young and outrageously attractive nurse with a ludicrously short and overly tight uniform would stroke me affectionately whilst yet another picture of my decaying body was taken.

Alas, a brief search via google burst my bubble and educated me that a Positron Emission Tomography (PET) scan is an imaging test that uses a special radioactive dye that is injected into a vein in your arm.

The purpose of the scan in my case was two-fold.  Firstly to identify the precise position of the cancer in my neck and where my right tonsil had been and secondly whilst they are at it they will have a good rummage around the rest of my body in case there are any other nasty surprises tucked away that might have been missed.

Before I can have the scan I need to have my mask made.  No, I am not prioritizing my attendance at the annual Fox and Hounds Masquerade Ball before my medical needs.  The mask will be used to ensure that my head and neck are kept perfectly still during treatment and also today I had to wear it during the 30 minute PET scan so that the radiography team can mark on the mask precisely where the radiotherapy beams need to be consistently delivered. 

The mask fitting was a strangely enjoyable experience.  I felt like I was being pampered at some bargain basement health spa as a lovely chap called Will went about moulding the plastic material to my chest, neck and head.  First the flat sheet of plastic had to be warmed and this was done by submerging it in a tank of hot water which made the material pliable.  Then, still warm, it was placed on me and shaped by hand around me ensuring that every crevice and contour was followed precisely.

The lattice structure of the mask was manipulated tightly against my skin and I had no option but to close my eyes as Will’s fingers smoothed the warm material over my eyelids.  Not being able to see had it’s benefits as my overly active imagination took me to a sandy Hawaiian beach where Will was suddenly transformed into Luana a dusky Hawaiian maid who quietly and seductively whispered the words of a traditional Polynesian love song in to my ear as she gently massaged me with warm coconut oil.

Alas I was returned to the real world as Luana’s gruff voice informed me that the mask was completed and it was time to take it off. 

Whilst the mask fitting was an enjoyable experience wearing it for the scan was less pleasurable.  Once I was lying flat on the scanner table the mask was put over me and clipped into place securing me firmly to the table.  Then the radiographers left the room or at least I assumed they had as my eyes where yet again forced shut.  Whilst I lay there in silence, clamped to the table waiting for the scanner to start up I couldn’t help but wonder if I had somehow been duped and was about to become part of some horrible sadomasicistic experiment. My hearing became more acute as I listened out for the faintest jangle of manacles, my lips were kept tightly shut even though the mask would have prevented a tangerine from being forced into my mouth.

Then much to my relief a soothing voice of one of the radiographers came over a speaker to say the scanner was about to kick into action and there I lay motionless for 30 minutes.

The claustrophobic feeling that crept up on me as the scan proceeded left me glad that the 30 daily radiotherapy sessions that I am about to undertake only last about 10 – 15 minutes.

 



Don's Gimp Mask

The day ended with some good news, I finally received the start date for my treatments. Radiotherapy starts 29^th November – 5 days a week through to the last session on 9^th January.  I have two full day sessions of Chemotherapy – one on 30^th November and one on 21^st December.  Bring it on!

 

UPDATE: Today I have received some good news with the results of the PET scan. Whilst the scan showed up a couple of things that need to have a close eye kept on, the clinical team report that it appears that the cancer is restricted to where the right tonsil was and the lymph nodes in the right side of my neck. When waiting for critical results like these you cannot help but play the “what if” game and so this has given us a real boost accompanied with a huge sense of relief.

 

 

 

Tales from a Hospital Bed

Tuesday afternoon (1^st of November) laying in my hospital bed trying to comprehend what has gone on over the past week.  My tonsils were removed on the 25^th October as part of investigating the suspected throat cancer – which is now confirmed.  Never again shall I be disregarding when someone tells me they have had or are planning to have their tonsils removed.

I had always taken a tonsillectomy as being a routine procedure where by you are in and out of hospital in a day or two, followed by a week of your parents or partner spoon feeding you your favorite flavor of Haggan Daz whilst reassuring you what a brave boy/girl you are.

Apparently not if you’re an adult, then the procedure is less straightforward and can result in some serious complications which we only learned about after the fact.

The operation itself went well and I was in and out the same day and the shopping bag full of pain killers, throat sprays and stomach protection tablets issued to me all helped to get me through the days that followed.  Despite the vast amounts of medication, swallowing has and still remains painful and Emma is constantly force feeding me as I need to keep my weight up ready for the course of treatment that will ensue.

Anyway Sunday 30^th October was when my recovery from the operation took a turn for the worst.  Emma had just gone up stairs to bed and I was carrying out the tedious task of invigorating the cushions on the sofa before joining her.

Now don’t get me started on that bloody sofa. Emma is highly sensitive when it comes to criticism in the sofa department probably because she paid a lot of her hard earned money for it.  The problem is that it has down filled cushions and so after every use you have to go through a major work out to poof the huge cushions back into some sort of shape.  Wow betide you if you fail to do this after sitting on them – the wrath of Emma is not something you would wish on your worst enemy.  It is a task I despise with a passion, so much so that the amount of television I watch has dramatically reduced since moving in with Emma – not necessarily a bad thing.

So there I am poofing away and I suddenly become aware of the sensation of warm blood filling my mouth and so I quickly retreat to the bathroom.  Emma played Florence Nightingale rubbing my back and continually asking me if I am alright whilst we waited for the paramedic to arrive.  If I didn’t have a constant flow of blood coming from my mouth I would have been tempted to say “yes, I’m absolutely fine darling , stick the kettle on, there’s a good girl and we can have tea and crumpets before bed”  I managed to refrain and answered each enquiry with “yes I'm fine darling”

In Emma’s estimation I lost about 5 or 6 cup fulls of blood leant over the sink. 

So an ambulance ride to the John Radcliffe hospital followed and I was admitted for observation as the bleeding had stopped by the time I arrived.

I was released the next day and got home at 6pm and by 9pm I was back at the hospital after a couple of minor bleeds, this time chauffeured by the unflappable wife.  As I’m sat there in A&E waiting to be seen, with my cardboard bowl on my lap, suddenly another vessel ruptures but this time it was deep at the back of the mouth where they had taken a number of biopsies from my tongue.  The bleed was producing similar volumes as the night before but was so far back in my mouth that the blood was going down my throat and I was forced to repeatedly regurgitate before I swallowed it.

I had little regard for my surroundings as I was bent over, head down trying to drag up the large volume of fluid that was sliding down my larynx, but Emma pointed out after the event that all eyes were on me as it would have appeared to the audience gathered in the busy A&E department that I was vomiting up the blood as if the bleed was from deep inside my stomach and Emma was in fact getting the pity stare from the assembled masses as the assumption was being made that I was an alcoholic whose long and severe history of alcohol abuse had finally caught up with him and his days were clearly numbered and Emma was only a matter of hours away from becoming a widow.

One of the benefits of this fairly impressive mess that I was making was that we immediately jumped the queue and got fast tracked through to the resuscitation room.  I must admit on seeing where they had taken us, I got slightly concerned that perhaps it was worse than I first thought, but after being hooked up to a drip, attached to some monitoring equipment and given some vial tasting mouth wash, the bleeding eased and I was admitted under “nil by mouth” on the basis that if I bled again within the next 12 hours then they would take me immediately to theatre.

Now I strongly believe you need to make the most of every opportunity that life presents you and therefore I quickly blamed the extreme effort that I had exerted in man handling the cushions as the reason for the initial bleed and have suggested that during my recovery and on-going treatment it is probably best if I leave the cushion poofing to Emma.  She is thinking about it.

UPDATE: On the second visit to hospital I was kept in for 2 nights before being released and have had no further complications. Happy Days J

It Could Have Been So Different

As I think about the joy of the proposal on New Year’s Eve (as per previous post), I cannot help but look a little bit further back because although Emma and I had been discussing building a life together, December had proved to be more than a little bit rocky on the relationship front with several major rows and also unbeknown to Emma, her father (John) had put up a good effort at trying to put me off marrying his eldest daughter when I had called in unexpectedly to ask for his permission to marry Emma. Let me explain:

On one dark and damp December evening I wandered the short distance from our home to Gill(Emma’s mother) and  John's house to ask for John’s permission to wed Emma. After some pleasantries and small talk over tea and biscuits I manoeuvred the conversation to the forthcoming ski trip and my intention to propose to Emma on New Year’s Eve and that I would like to have John’s blessing before doing so.

Well to say the mood in the room lightened would be an understatement. There was an immediate and distinct feeling of joy, which touched me as I thought how nice it was that both John and Gill seemed so happy about the prospect of me joining their family. Then, as the minutes ticked by, I started to pick up a different emotion as the smell of relief wafted up my nostrils.  I soon came to the realisation that the euphoria reverberating around the room was not so much about Mr & Mrs T gaining the effervescent and boyishly good-looking Don Marsh as a son-in-law, but more that finally someone was going to take Emma off their hands. By the end of my visit I genuinely sensed it could have been Shrek, Darth Vader or even Hannibal Lecter popping the question and the jubilation displayed would have been the same.

The meeting however took an even stranger turn and to this day I am not precisely sure what was going through John’s mind at the time because after the clear and genuine joy came a period of what I can only assume was delirium as he spouted a number of lines which left me in a somewhat agitated state:  “are you sure you know what you’re taking on?” followed very quickly by “she can be very difficult you know …. She’s just like her mother” and finishing off with “but you’re a strong character Don so you should be alright”.

So within 2 minutes of being given permission to ask Emma for her hand in marriage I was already questioning my own sanity.

But that’s not the end of it, oh no, the coup de grâce was when John proceeded to explain to me that Emma was financially independent and so at least I could rest assured that she was not after me for my money.

I can honestly say that up until that night, the thought of Emma as a money grabbing vixon had never once entered my mind but on what felt like a much longer than normal walk home, I explored some deep and dark recesses in my mind but ultimately was determined not to let the experience derail the love train and the rest, as they say, is history.

2016 Wins Hand Down

Now I have had some interesting times during my 52 years on this planet, but if I was asked to pick a single year that was the most eventful, filled with the highest of highs and sprinkled with a few unexpected shocks and gut wrenching lows, it would be easy – 2016 would be the runaway winner.

As I write this, 2016 has won the Champions League of Eventful Years with two months of the season left to play.  But I suspect that the run-in to the season end will be anything but a succession of glorious exhibition matches but rather a microcosm of what has passed so far, with some more highs, lows but I pray no more shocks.  

The year started with one of those amazing highs – my regular New Year’s ski trip with my daughters to Morzine in the French Alps.  Megan, 18 at the time, had her boyfriend Tom, a novice snowboarder, to look after.  Milly 15 had her longtime friend and accomplished skier Dan in tow and as for me – I had my girlfriend of 15 months Emma to keep me in check.

As a family, the girls and I have been skiing the huge Portes du Soleil ski area for 10 years and so given that the girls know the area so well, I planned a New Year’s Eve lunch time excursion for me and Emma to our favourite restaurant, leaving the girls to their own devices.

The owner of the restaurant was fully briefed that once we are settled and drinks have been served he is to interrupt us and ask if we wanted our picture taken, then as we agree and start posing for the camera, I would get down on bended knee and present Emma with an engagement ring as I ask for her hand in marriage.  The moment being captured forever in pictures.

Now Emma has one of the weakest bladders I know and needs to empty it every 10 minutes and so my thought was to bury the ring in its box at the bottom of my ruck sack so Emma would not stumble across it if she tried to retrieve any of her items that I was I carrying. Then after the 20 minute taxi ride followed by the 1 mile  walk up the track to the Restaurant in the cold winter air, the first thing Emma would do on arrival would be to go and powder her nose, at which point I would dig out the ring and secrete it on my person ready for the Disney moment.

That is the thing with women – you think you can predict their behaviour and 9 times out of ten you can, but the times that you really need them to do what is expected of them, they lead you a merry dance.

As I sit with Emma, fidgeting like a cat on a hot tin roof, it takes all of my powers of restraint to stop myself from shouting “go to the bloody toilet you dopey mare” but I suspected that this possibly would have stolen some of the magic from the impending romantic moment.

The manager catches my eye and silently asks if he should start the charade now. Not being fluent in the language of facial mime, I do my best to say “no not yet” to which he reacts by striding purposefully to where we are sat and asks if we would like our picture taken. 

So the proposal takes place with the ring still buried at the bottom of the rucksack but the outcome was as desired – I entered 2016 engaged to the most wonderful woman as we start in earnest to plan our life together.

The picture of the magic moment as I explain to Emma if she was expecting a ring, it's in the bloody rucksack over there !