Food and Follicles

The expectation had been set by my oncologist that the chemo drug I was to receive would not make my hair fall out, which was a minor relief in the overall scheme of things.  What he most certainly didn’t tell me was the effect that the radiotherapy would have on various follicles on my head, face and neck.

So let’s deal with the face and neck first, now I was never what you could call a heavily stubbled man, I have always thought that the extremely light growth that I exhibited went someway in helping me maintain my boyish good looks.  However my volumes of growth on my cheeks and neck currently are about on par with a pre-pubescent teenager.

The right side of my face and neck, the side where the cancer festered, is completely bereft of any hair growth at all. You know the expression as smooth as a baby’s bottom, well in this instance it really is the case. If we carried out a blind touch test, you really wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between my right cheek and Georgina’s backside.  The left side is not much better but I do have one patch of growth just below the side burn. I swear if I tried to grow a beard I would look like a cross between Worzel Gummidge and a Cabbage Patch Doll.

But wait there is a strange twist to this thread. So I have absolutely no facial hair on my right cheek/neck and virtually none on my left, yet above my top lip, since the treatment ended, has displayed a considerably heavier growth pattern.  I have gone from being able to not shave for a day and no one would notice to this permanent five o’clock shadow over my top lip.

When discussing this phenomenon with Emma a few weeks ago, she helpfully pointed out that indeed it did look strange and that I would look like a 1980’s porn star if I left my top lip unshaven for a few days. Ignoring the ridicule for a minute, I couldn’t help but wonder what sort of childhood my new wife had been exposed to.  A quick bit of mental arithmetic told me that at the end of the 80’s she would have just turned 12, how the hell did she even know what a 1980’s porn star looked like. Had she, at a very tender age, somehow stumbled across a stash of her father’s “special interest” VHS cassettes? Her natural enquiring mind driving her to load the VHS recorder and press down the heavy play key only to be confronted by Debbie Does Dallas and other Oscar nominated classics. I shook my head to empty it of these ridiculous thoughts.

The facial hair does seem to be a bit of a moving feast, as just this week I have a new patch of growth appearing.  Imagine a perfectly formed inverted equilateral triangle of bristles sitting neatly below my bottom lip and you will not be far off.  With Emma away in Cornwall this week, she is in for a surprise when she returns, she will think that D'artagnan has moved in with her – wishful thinking on her account one thinks.

The dashing D'artagnan

I have suggested to Emma now that it appears I may actually be able to grow a half decent moustache, that I do so for Movember this year.  I am not sure this is a sensible suggestion and will see if I am brave enough to withstand the huge amount of stick I would quite rightly get from various mates.  If I do undertake the challenge and start to resemble a 1980’s porn star then I will need a porn star name to which I am open to any suggestions you may have. The old adage that you take your first pet’s name along with your Mother’s maiden name means I would be Ruff Doherty, which I think has a certain ring to it.

That addresses the front of house, so now let’s move on to the hair on the back of my head. The radiotherapy beams entered me from one side and exited my head at the back just passed my ear at the base of my skull. The lasertron (as I have come to call it) is extremely precise and with the gimp mask holding  me in the exact same position on each of the 30 treatments, the beams entered and exited me in precisely the same place everytime.  The exit point was through my skull and I found out half way through the treatment that hair doesn’t like radio beams and so I have a flawless square bald patch of about 5 x 5cm’s on the back of head (luckily at the base of my hair line rather than in the middle of my head). In fact the patch is not completely bald as there is some light fluffy stuff still covering the skin, however to the casual by passer it looks like I have had some precision hair art work carried out to form this perfect razor edged square of baldness.

On my last trip to the barbers and without any reference to me the barber tried to even up the look across the back of my neck and so now I cannot decide if I look like GI Joe or some sad 53 year old trying to be down with the kids.

 

How do you do, fellow kids?

 

Moving on to the food side of things.  One of the toughest things that I have had to deal during my treatment with was my inability to eat solid food for more than 2 months.  Living on the dreaded “Ensure” shakes each containing around 300 calories, I was supposed to be shoveling down 8 a day.  I don’t know about Ensure, they should have been called Endure as I really disliked them and found it tough to get 8 down me in a day. But if I needed any encouragement to drink them, I didn’t have to look far, my new wife and the clan of Townend women (mum and two sisters) were all on hand to encourage me  (i.e. nag the living day lights out of me) to ensure I got my fill of Endures.

Then in more recent weeks (probably 6 or so) I have taken to solid foods once more, slowly at first but as each week has passed I have managed to get more solids down which in turn meant I could reduce the Endures.  You would have thought that now I was eating solids the “encouragement” might ease off a little.  How foolish of me, oh no Mein Führer Emma Marsh had other ideas and has instigated a brutal feeding regime in an attempt to put back on my skeletal frame the 1.5 stone I have lost during treatment. And when I say skeletal frame I mean it.  The other morning having exited the shower I spotted what I could only describe as a concentration camp survivor staring back at me.

So the daily feeding frenzy consists of 2 x Endure shakes, breakfast, mid-morning snack, lunch, mid-afternoon snack and dinner. Now that may sound all well and good but when for over two months you have survived on nothing but liquids, the stomach shrinks and you completely lose your appetite.

At times I wondered if this was what it felt like for the poor geese being force feed corn to fatten them up in order to make foie gras from their expanded livers.

Anyway one positive thing on the eating front is that most foods now taste OK with various exceptions, primarily anything with spices or vinegar is a big no as it sets my mouth on fire.  Just last weekend, having clear a plate of fish of chips on the Friday night (salt but no vinegar), I got over confident and as Emma was out, suggested to my older two daughters (I wasn’t sure Georgina was quite ready yet) that we get a takeaway curry.  I felt sure that a creamy korma would go down OK, but I can assure you that I will not be trying that again for a very long time.  It felt like I was eating an extra hot chicken phall. After one taste my mouth was on fire, I started sweating like a pregnant nun and my mouth stung as though a swarm of angry hornets had lay siege to it.

So I am pleased to report that in general I have made huge steps on my road to recovery, particularly over the past 2-3 weeks.  I still have some stubborn ulcers in my mouth and my throat and mouth get extremely dry very quickly if I do not take on water, but in general I am in a really good place, if still a little (a lot really) too skinny.

I have even started back at work, only from my home office and not full time yet, but that will follow in the coming weeks.  I forgot quite how much I enjoy my work and what a great bunch of people I work with and as for the senior executives, they have been so incredibly supportive of me during this time, something I will always be extremely thankful for.

Anyway the next big steps in my recovery are the April reviews, I have a date for the MRI scan and I'm waiting on the date for the all important PET scan for around the same time.  Once those results are in we will see the oncologist to review them and find out if I get the all clear or if further treatment is needed.

I will post an update as soon as I have the results.  I have had so many words of support and encouragement from people following my blog, all of which have really helped me through the past few months, so I feel it is only fair that I share with you the news be it good or bad.

Here’s to good news in April.

 

PS. Just between you and me, with Emma being away for 8 days as much as I am missing her and Georgina, I have not missed having to poof those bloody cushions each night. Better make sure I do a good job Sunday evening.

Shhh, mum's the word

Radio Silence - an apology

I feel that I owe an apology for going radio silent for so long on the blog.  I have been asked on a few occasions by various followers as to when would the next instalment be posted and so here it is and apologies for the delay.

The simple fact is that my cancer treatment has taken its toll and the whole process has certainly been a lot tougher than I imagined. The chemo sessions seem a dim and distant memory but the effects of the radiotherapy treatments are still there, like a nagging wife constantly chipping away at my very being.  

The effects of the radiotherapy are heightened by the soft and sensitive tissues of the mouth and throat and are aggravated by the need to continue to eat and drink despite the pain involved. If however it ultimately does the job I will be thankful and in time the nagging witch will also be consigned to a deep and dark corner of my mind and I will be able to start enjoying life again.

Christmas and New Year passed in a morphine induced blur with me spending most of the time in bed experiencing some rather strange dreams and a few hallucinations, with everyday objects in the bedroom appearing cartoon like or seeming to move unaided across the room. Whilst I am still on Morphine (along with Paracetamol, Ibuprofen and Aspirin) my dosage has now reduced greatly and my dreams have returned to far more mundane matters.

My daily regime includes taking my temperature to ensure my body is not showing signs of fighting  infection. Even picking up a cold can lead to serious complications as my body’s immune system is on its knees due to the extreme nature of the treatment.  Unfortunately in the New Year due to my body exhibiting a raised temperature I was taken into hospital where I spent 6 days at the end of my course of treatment, firstly on a general ward but then as I was diagnosed with a strain of flu, in a private room.

Whilst not the best thing in the world, being hospitalised certainly made the last few radiotherapy sessions easier, as each morning looking like Wee Willie Winkie I wandered through the corridors of the hospital to the dreaded torture chamber to don my gimp mask for the final few sessions of treatment. 

I certainly didn’t miss the 40 minute each way trip to and from Oxford which on more than one occasion resulted in me standing at the side of a road bringing up what little contents I had in my stomach. On one trip having almost made it home, I had to demand that the car be stopped immediately. As I rapidly made my exit on to the lovely residential street in central Marlow, I frantically looked for somewhere to discretely make my deposit but alas, some things wait for no man and so leaning against a garden wall an extremely thin crust pavement pizza was presented.  As the curtains twitched and passers-by crossed to the other side of the road, I couldn’t help but wonder what they must have thought.   For sure none of them would have thought, “I bet he’s going through cancer treatment the poor chap” no it was probably more like “well I jolly never, the standards in Marlow are slipping somewhat, why only yesterday I saw a homeless man in the high street and now an alcoholic stumbling down Glade Road at 10 o’clock in the morning, whatever next”.

The timing of my hospitalisation provided some benefits as we were rapidly approaching the due date for the arrival of my third daughter and having me safely tucked up in the Churchill Hospital brought Emma some peace of mind and gave her one less thing to worry about.

As it happened Georgina was born on the 10^th January, the day after my last Radiotherapy treatment so there was double cause to celebrate that week. Whilst under strict instructions from Emma not to travel the 10 minute journey from my hospital bed at the Churchill to the John Radcliffe where Georgina was born, wild horses wouldn’t have stopped me from holding the latest addition to the Marsh clan on the day she was born.  So with the help of one of Emma’s sisters I made a brief surprise visit and got to see both Emma and Georgina whilst they were still in the recovery room.   Georgie came in at 8lb 10oz and despite only having been in the world for less than an hour looked absolutely amazing – and so I gave a little celebratory jig as clearly the Marsh love beans had struck again, producing yet another beautiful girl!

Georgina at home with a couple of the very many lovely companions she has received as gifts.

Emma went home with Georgina on the morning of the 12^th January and it seemed a long wait for me to get discharged and be able to join them on the evening of 13^th.

On the subject of beautiful girls my two older daughters were desperate to come over and meet their new sister but unfortunately they both had been suffering with colds/flu and we felt terrible in having to make them wait a few days before they could visit.

I really wasn’t too sure how they would both react to having a baby sister but I needn’t have worried.  They both clearly adore her and are amazing with her. 

Just last weekend Emma invited Milly to do her first nappy change and anyone who knows Emma will know when she “asks you”, it’s not optional it’s more like an order from a Commandant in the SS and so like a condemned man on his way to the gallows Milly followed Emma upstairs. By all accounts Milly did a great job though apparently she got off lightly as it turned out to be one of the cleaner nappies we have seen.  Better luck next time J

Megan also got to do her first bottle feed and so all in all we had a lovely few days together.

So just to finish off with an update on my progress. Generally huge positive steps have been taken since completing the treatment though the slightest task (an hour or two at the laptop, a short walk with the pram etc.) leaves me feeling exhausted and needing rest. Whilst the throat and mouth is generally progressing well there is one area that has not really improved and in fact in the past few days has deteriorated slightly.  If I spend more than a few minutes talking the mouth gets very painful – great I hear a few of my nearest and dearest shouting , no more long rambles from Marshy.  I have been told that often the painful lesions that result from Radiotherapy can take several months to completely clear up and in fact can reappear again later (I look forward to that one!).

In summary the recovery is going to be a lot longer than I naively expected and the oncologist recently said it will be 9 -12 months before I feel anywhere near to fully recovered.

The next big milestone is the middle of April when follow up MRI and PET scans will take place and these will tell us if everything is looking clear or, dread the thought, further treatment is required.

One very positive sign is that the lump in my neck has completely gone with the oncologist admitting he can no longer locate it when conducting a physical examination last week.

I will leave it at that for now and wish you all health and happiness for 2017.

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