And…how are you?

Some time back, around the start of Mags’ illness, a GP at our local practice admitted that it’s near impossible to prognosticate in the case of a cancer patient. People always seem to have the capacity to surprise experts, defy odds, or capitulate unexpectedly. When I spoke to Mags’ oncologist last week (she was too unwell to sit in on the video call) he said it was remarkable that she had remained so well for so long. He also added, at the end of what was a difficult consultation, that he had the utmost respect and admiration for the way we have dealt with things from the outset. But he’s that sort of guy. We’ve been lucky to have benefited from his approach. Fortunate indeed that he has always treated Mags as a unique human being, not just another patient on a list. He has shared his realistic expectations and we have listened. We couldn’t have been better informed, and it was this, the clarity of information and the compassion with which it was delivered that helped immeasurably wh

Who’s ever heard of anticipatory meds? Not us, until yesterday. Earlier in the week, following a couple of particularly difficult days and, worst of all, nights, I phoned the hospice for advice. As usual the duty nurse listened carefully to my list of concerns. She then asked a series of specific questions relating to Mags’ condition before reaching the conclusion that a medical review should be carried out with some urgency. She would arrange for a home visit from a GP for the next day. The hospice would then follow up with a home visit from a nurse today.  The GP duly arrived a little after lunchtime the next day. He’s actually our GP’s registrar, so a trainee, to be accurate. He carried out his examination then told us that he had detected fluid on the left lung. He advised us to speak with the oncologist to discuss options when we see him next week. In the meantime our very personable but rather high speed registrar informed us that he would be prescribing “anticipatory meds” and m

A lot of things, of late, have become crushing concrete realities. The scenarios we, like many, have previously discussed in the abstract, now have definite form. They are at once awkward and unwieldy, confining and suffocating. They have sharp angles designed to catch a person unawares and inflict the maximum pain with the minimum of contact. They are blunt instruments that threaten the state of consciousness and instil a fear of vicious assault. A mugging for all that you hold dear. Some of these forms appear to have a degree of pliability. Perhaps enough to raise the prospect of more room to manoeuvre. The truth is quite different. Any pliability is self-serving. The shifts and changes establish themselves to securely block off any avenues of promise. An uncompromising foot jammed in the door. A muscular arm barring the way. In those quiet shared moments when stars are aligned and life could be no better, who hasn’t tried to imagine how things would look if it all ended tomorrow? Wh

My gran always had me down as an open book. Fair comment I think. What you see is what you get. Someone who is at ease with being who he is. Although there are people I admire greatly, I’ve never actually wanted to be anyone else. Furthermore I’ve never been plagued by nagging regrets. Sure, with hindsight there are things I might have done differently, other paths I could have chosen. But these things are all irrelevant. I decided what I thought was best at the time, which is all that any of us can do. Those decisions and subsequent actions are now history. They’ve faded to nothing in a place that no longer exists. My memories, at this time in my life, are clear and in the main provide a kind of comfort, but my natural inclination is always to look forwards. That’s the only real way to travel. Just before our lovely hospice nurse left on her last visit, she asked me if I was talking to anyone. By anyone she meant a counsellor. “Would you like me to refer you to our psychology and soci