Category Archives: Killing Time

The Bookworm

πŸ“šπŸ“–πŸ“šπŸ“–πŸ“šπŸ“–πŸ“šπŸ“–πŸ“šπŸ“–πŸ“šπŸ“–πŸ“š

I find it difficult to concentrate; this is not new. My concentration level or lack of it, is not something that is within my control and I am never sure whether this is a fact that reassures me or not. It is the fault of the drugs. If in doubt always blame the drugs. Drugs R Bad. Since the first day I was given Oramorph, I have never looked back and to varying degrees, I have been zoning out ever since.

Not being able to concentrate is debilitating. I find it incredibly embarrassing. At it’s worst, at the start of my treatment and around my transplant, holding a conversation was a challenge and would usually be proceeded by a lengthy snooze. Films would not be watched unless I had seen them before and even if I had seen them before, they would have to be watched in batches. Even the season 3 finale of The Killing had to be viewed in four 15 minute sessions. Sarah Lund would not be pleased. It’s also the reason why I cannot follow Game of Thrones.

The present, with just 60mg of MST a day and the fortnightly injection of velcade, my concentration is the best it has been since somebody said myeloma. I have a memory and at least two days per week, I can follow a film I have not previously seen from start to finish, in one go. Unfortunately, I have limited control over what day this will fall on. Needless to say, this issue has led to me watching a lot of bad, formulaic television.

Books have been the real victim of My Myeloma. Forget the ebook, myeloma is the death to hardbacks. Upon hearing I was unwell, many people purchased books for me to read, to kill time. I even received two copies of Fifty Shades of Grey. I have not read them, which is probably for the best as myeloma has made me a sexual pariah and I do not need any additional stimulation. I have attempted many times to read a book. I open the front page, I read it. I might even read four pages, but then I have to read the pages again because I am unable to recall what I have read. It jumps all over the page as I think about what I am having for dinner and become infuriated that I cannot follow the plot, even in a Jilly Cooper novel.

I joined a book club and that died a death, though I believe the failure of that was not purely my fault. I tried audiobooks and I became enthralled by the Candy Crush Saga and stopped listening. At least I can now read articles in a magazine or the occasional newspaper. I can fully recommend the Guardian’s recipes and the film reviews in Sight and Sound read whilst in the bath.

As my concentration has improved, I have become certain that my ability to read something with a beginning, middle and end, will return. Let us be clear, I am no ignoramus, but I was not what one would have called a great reader before. I find reading all consuming, so I usually reserved reading to periods of annual leave when it would be acceptable to stay up until 4am promising myself that the chapter I was reading would be the last for the night. That said, I have a reasonable knowledge and book shelf. Last year, I was outraged when somebody had the audacity to tell me who Hanif Kureishi was. Fool.

I find the lack of an ability to read still, embarrassing and it ranks high in the things that suck about myeloma. It would make my journeys to Wakefield far more productive.

On my recent travels, I had long decided that I was going to read a book. I took four. As I said yesterday, I did suffer from the fatigue on holiday and it quickly became apparent that four was but a pipe dream. I am pleased to say that I did read one book. One whole book. I have been planning and hoping for this celebratory blog for a long time, so I will repeat the fact that I read one whole book. Sure, it was no War and Peace. It was not even a novel, but it had a beginning, a middle and a sleep, so I can say that I have read a whole book.

The book in question, The Old Man and the Sea was loaned to me an age ago as an ‘easy read’. At it’s 97 pages, it took until Day 5 to finish said book. I am sure I read the same pages again and again, but that is not the point. The point is, I read it. I am capable of reading a wholebook.

It may not sound like much, but to me, it is another example of how I am slowly, very slowly, rebuilding some sort of life. It is a gain.

I was told a few weeks ago that I am to join another book club. It’s a challenge that I almost have the confidence to endure.

πŸ“šπŸ“–πŸ“šπŸ“–πŸ“šπŸ“–πŸ“šπŸ“–πŸ“šπŸ“–πŸ“šπŸ“–πŸ“š

“Do you know who Hanef Kureishi is? He’s a writer.” Pwah. You have no idea how this comment annoyed me. I’m a culture vulture don’t you know.

EJB x

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Time After Time

I am well and truly in my new treatment cycle and what I am discovering, much to my steroid dismay, is that what I used to consider to be a week, is no longer a week. It is not even close.

My new week is shorter than your work and that is a fact.

During My Limbo, all I did was complain about how bored I was and how tired I was of doing nothing… If I had known what was coming with VDT/VTD, I probably would not have complained so much. Actually, I would have still complained, who am I kidding? I complain about every part of this because so little of it is within my control. Right now, after a weekend of being bed bound, it is clear that my time, or the majority of my time and how it is spent, is no longer within my control. This has probably been the case since the 17 August, but right now, I cannot see the wood through the trees and to put it bluntly, I do not know how I am going to manage it. I am flustered and I am swear word angry. I want to scream and shout and let it all out about the injustice of this. I should be telling you about how my transplant is going, not how shit my new treatment is and how I cannot possibly fathom how this is ever going to end.

I feel like I have spent the last week playing catch up… My Limbo was possibly the worst training for my new treatment.

I have gone from My Myeloma determining 20% of my waking day, to it determining at least 80% of it. And I have hit the ground running. There was no period of adjustment. One day I was not undergoing treatment and the next day I was on a 16 week treatment with no break, shoving thalidomide down my gob daily. PADIMAC was horrible because I had to be in the clinic so much, but it seems like nothing compared to this. At least it came with a week off every three weeks. I learned to live for that week, to get through the dark times by filling my faithful good cylinder. VDT/VTD does not offer me that.

I am not one to blow my own trumpet, but I can see how somebody that does not have my smile behind their eyes would struggle with this treatment. I do not think the Medically Trained People have considered the effects VDT/VTD has on one’s mental health. Perhaps they need a chat with another department. Do Medically Trained People chat with Medically Trained People Who Specialise In Comfort? Everyday, all VDT/VTD offers you is a reminder of your diagnosis, not just a reminder, I am in a relationship with my diagnosis. I have to be home by a certain time every night to take my medication. I cannot take it when I am out because it knocks me out. I cannot take it too late, because it will effect my productivity the next day. In the mornings, on a good morning, I cannot form sentences properly, my head hurts and I probably would not be able to drive a car, if hypothetically, I was not permanently high on morphine.

I am trying to find a positive in this. I am trying because I need to, I have 13 weeks left of this after all. I really am trying… At the moment, and I have no reason to think that this is not going to get worse, I can automatically rule out two days a week with drug fatigue. Not the sort of fatigue somebody could say was okay because it is just tiredness. I am talking bed bound, lying in my own filth, incapable of following the plot of D2: The Mighty Ducks, sort of fatigue. That gives me a five day week. Oh, and these bed bound days fall over the weekend, so quality time with The Network becomes more difficult. On Fridays, I go into the clinic for my Velcade and I have to get up early to take my ‘roids, which by the way, make my perception of all of this so much rosier. That leaves me four and a half days. I have already noted my daily drug commitment… Some people may perceive my morning lie ins idle, they used to be, but these days, I feel like when I give in to it, they are a necessity. Sometimes, I just lie and my brain just hums. It hums because that all the drugs allows.

So, if we take all of that into account, I probably have three and a half days of goodness, spread over the seven.

If I have said if once, I will say it a thousand times… I do not feel like my time is my own. I really don’t. Middlesborough very wisely told me today not to work myself up, and I was of course. I was crying and dwelling on a wasted day, something I have to dwell on because the good days are now so precious. How does one manage the guilt of a wasted day? Can cancer patients actually waste a day? We have cancer for God’s sake. People cut us slack. My worst critic is me. Shoulda, could, woulda. [That might friends, is called ‘insight’]

I will however, acknowledge something good about my reduced working week, although it loathes me to say it, like complementing something on ITV… The last two and a half weeks have flown by. Literally flown by. I may feel like I have had no time to myself, but at least the time has gone quickly. Perhaps, if the rest of the time goes this quickly, I’ll be fine. It’ll be the final stretch in no time at all.

I have been trying to establish how I can exist within this. I have spent most of the last week thinking about it, with the exception of some self indulgent romanticisms, but really, this is what is more important. My options are simple, shut myself off like I did during my weeks on PADIMAC or try and build some sort of routine which encompasses something that interests me and in turn, makes me interesting. I am choosing the routine. My Limbo has made it impossible for me to do anything else. I do not know how long this is going on for, or dare I say it, if it is ever going to end, so I need to stay sane. I always had something to look forward to before and now I don’t. I cannot let my treatment take over. Sod it, staying sane has to be part of my treatment. I keep going back to my early days of saying that My Myeloma cannot define me, and although it keeps trying, I cannot let it. If I let it, I would start randomly punching people in the face and I am non violent. Not lyrically of course, I can slap an insult and give an awesome evil.

In my new seven day week, I will see my friends, I will do some work and I will watch a film. Hell, I have even joined a book club, which is ambitious seeing as I have been unable to read a book since being diagnosed despite being given several books including a lot of erotica and buying myself more. I will struggle with this schedule, but I know me and I would struggle with the alternative more. I need to do it. Maybe with some minor alterations, like a curfew and more fibre. Not everything can stay the same… My cylinder will now be filled weekly and depleted weekly. It’s not ideal, but hey, what is? I have myeloma.

Anyway, perhaps this is only a temporary measure and it won’t go on forever.

EJB x

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School Holidays 🎨✏

I like a routine. Correction, I need a routine.

Working a nine-to-five provides a routine. PADIMAC provided a routine. Doing nothing does not a routine make. In the last fortnight, worsened by the snow, I have found myself with no routine at all. I do not need to be dressed and ready to leave the flat by nine. I do not need to leave the flat at all. It’s essentially the school holidays.

Everyday I tell myself that I am going to get out of bed as soon Housemate wakes me up in the morning. In reality, I get out of bed four hours later. This sleeping schedule means that I get up and dressed around 13:00hrs and wait for people to come and visit me in the evening. I am doing things in the afternoon, but to suggest that there is any kind of structure to my day would be a big fat lie. The day sleeping means that I then do not get to sleep until 01:00hrs in the morning, when I drift off whilst watching a BBC period drama.

The problem with this routine is that when I actually have to do something, like get up and go to work, I sleep in.

Now, I believe at the age of 28, my behaviour is excused because I have Cancer. Cancer actually covers a multitude of sins. Try it out sometime.

My friend GKD says I should embrace it, for there are not many times in an adult’s life when they are allowed to live like a slob. Periodic bouts of slobbery are indeed fun. Weekly bouts? I have my doubts.

Part of me wants to embrace it. I really do love my bed. I can excuse the all day bed fests when I feel sick and weak. I do not feel sick and weak, and this is a problem. I could turn the flat into a bakery/tailors, but there isn’t the space and I really do need to stop eating butter. I do work, but my office is my bed.

I suppose that this limbo is designed for rest. Resting my body, which I do need to embrace…. I just wish that all my friends could too, so it could actually be the school holidays

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Tit For Tat

I am becoming rather fond of my current limbo. It would be even better if there was no paraprotein inside me, but alas, it is there and I must move on… I have enjoyed myself more in the last week than I have in any other week since my diagnosis. I can certainly feel the lack of drugs in my system in the snippets of normality that this giving me.

I would tell you every individual thing I have done this last week, but I am not inclined to do so. I can tell you that I have been to a cinema, a theatre, an exhibition in an actually museum, work, a pub and I have travelled on the tube. If I told you more, it would make you jealous and long to be living my life, so it is only fair of me not to do that. Needless to say that I am more than happy that on more than one occasion this week, I have left my flat for more than five hours for something that is not myeloma related.

It feels like a return. A temporary return, but a return nonetheless.

I can feel my brain function slowly increasing, with the things that have been lying dormant slowly waking up again. You only need to see how excited I got about my work’s staff survey results or listen to my internal monologue about the wonder of Alfred Hitchcock, to see that this is true.

I had the occasional week off during PADIMAC, six to be precise, and during these times, I thought that I felt ‘normal’. I now know that I did not, I just felt marginally better. Maybe I did feel normal, it’s just that a week is not long enough. For as much fun as I am having, each day or if I am lucky two days of fun are punctuated by a day of rest. Like my paraprotein level, this too is unfortunate. My body pays me back for having fun, by sucking out my energy whilst I am sleeping, thus preventing me from getting out of bed when I wake the following day. I cannot escape from this.

At this moment in time, during my limbo, I cannot long for anymore than what I am getting. I know that in two months time, I won’t be able to do very much at all, and I can use this time to remember that there will be light at the end of the next tunnel.

A little bit of retribution from my body three days a week, compared to everything I have managed thus far, I can handle. This break is my long awaited holiday.

How ever short this period may be, it is the first time in a long time where My Myeloma has not been at the forefront of my mind, and that is really, nice.

EJB x

P.S. If I have said it once, I will say it a thousand times. I will forever be amazed by the fact that the drugs the Medically Trained People administer to make you feel better, actually make you feel worse. Maybe that is payback too, to make you remember your luck. Luck that when you get sick, there are people trained to make you better. Now, if only one of those people could find a cure…

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The Edible Christmas Tree πŸŽ„

WARNING – This blog contains the word ‘Christmas’ many, many times over. I want no Scrooge’s here please.

Ho! Ho! HO! It is Christmas.

At EJB Headquarters, we are fans of this festive period. It has always been the case, except that EJB did not exist before this Christmas. My Myeloma is about to have its first Christmas and if I were Santa Claus, I would be giving it a nice dirty lump of coal. I am not Santa, I am female, so I am going to try and spend the rest of the month trying not to acknowledge My Myeloma’s presence. The chances of success are 50/50.

Christmas for me should be a romanticised Dickensian dream with the added features of the motion picture, buying on credit and the satsuma. I expect giving and receiving, roasted food products, carols, indulgence, The Muppets and Capraesque revelations of love and redemption. I know that Christmas is a religious celebration, but I put my hands up right now and say that that is not for me, I have tried, truly I have, but yep, no. I like My Christmas.

In my Christmas Past, My Christmas has involved organised fun. I like to force people to come together in a controlled environment and make them enjoy themselves. This may include board games, theatre trips, films and it will definitely include alcohol. I usually want to infect people with my festive cheer. Friends and family have all had to endure my attempts and desire to maintain, or lets me honest, establish, tradition. I am one of those people.

My Christmas Present is strange. There are clearly things that I cannot do because of My Myeloma. Out are my ticketed trips and Christmas drinks, which last year might have been a little excessive. In, is overspending and baking in a desperate attempt to show my gratitude to others. I am overcompensating. Every aspect of my life is touched by My Myeloma, and Christmas is no different. Myeloma is a Grinch-type beast. Periodically the thought pops into my head that this may be my last Christmas. It comes in and I quickly throw it away and I then go and make something for somebody or put a considerable amount of effort into making my flat look like it has been decorated by a toddler. The thought is there, so I am trying all I can to make sure that I do not dwell on it and that I have as traditional an EJ Christmas as possible. I have calculated that if I can keep things normal, then I will not over think the injustice of having an active cancer in my body on 25 December or the knowledge that My Myeloma will be present for all my Christmases to come. I hate the idea of my brain stopping myself in the middle of my Christmas fun, to remind me that I have cancer. At one point over the next twenty days it is bound to happen. Let’s be honest, I probably need it to prevent further fractures.

I just really, really want to hold on to my Christmas Past.

My counsellor said that my coping mechanisms for overcoming the above are practical and are based in my life pre myeloma. I think she is correct. I have planned and partially executed Christmas based activities, with the hope that it keeps me occupied, is enjoyed by others and maintains some sort of stability in the life that is mine. I only really need to say ‘handicrafts’ and you will get the gist of what I have been doing. My goal on Tuesday and Wednesday of this week was to decorate the flat with homemade items, including my edible Christmas tree. The edible Christmas tree is fake, you cannot eat that, but you can eat 75% of the decorations. I personally threaded popcorn for five hours, stabbing myself with a needle at least three times. If you look carefully, you can see my blood on a few of the kernels. Eat that. Next week is all about the Christmas baking before I endure my next round of chemotherapy. I have planned to do too much. Crucially, I have realised, that I would have done this before, and this pleases me. I may not have spent five hours with a needle and thread, but I would have told somebody that I was going to bake x amount, put myself under pressure to do it, ended up doing more than I said I would, and enjoyed the whole thing. Apparently, this is ‘healthy’ behaviour.

Going back to my flat though, it really does look like Christmas vomited in there along with the farmhouse kitchen, albeit tastefully. Decorating whilst listening to some banging Christmas tunes was just the tonic after my weekend of fatigue. I do not need your compliments, I know it looks good.

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I am clearly expected a flurry of Christmas cards…

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‘Vintage’ paper chains and books. Classy.

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Handcrafted by G.Bourgeois

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Must use up the shop bought decorations of yesteryear. Must use up the shop bought decorations of yesteryear

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See above

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Clearly, I am an artiste

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See above

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12 hours well spent

Who knows what my Christmas Future holds? Not me, but then I do not know yours either. Perhaps if I do not have faith in God, I should have faith that I will see many more Christmases. You need a leap of faith sometimes, ‘Miracle on 34th Street’ told me so.

EJB x

Oh and remember, ‘the best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear.’ Profound.

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A Retro Space

Today is Groundhog Day. Most treatment days are Groundhog days for me. I know the drill and give or take a few hours, everything is the same. I am on repeat. Yesterday, I stupidly forgot to pack my headphones, and it is that tedious, that I had to go to the local electrical goods shop because the prospect of three hours without headphones or conversation was too much to take. It was Β£20 well spent and I enjoyed the five minutes walk to Tottenham Court Road. I discovered that near a hospital, the general public are more considerate of people with walking sticks.

As I was waiting yesterday, I noticed more of the interior design on the second floor of the centre. Not only do the colours clash, there is a hint of space about the furnishings and the architecture. I am thinking more ‘2001: a Space Odyssey’ than ‘Avatar’ here. The central area looks like a set of 2001, all open spacing with red peculiar shaped chairs. I actually like it. The treatment and the waiting is cumbersome, but I find the space relaxing, especially in the rain and out of the reception area. It would make a good low budget film set, providing the cast and crew are snot free. Perhaps the NHS should consider this for all its hospitals instead of the privatisation of services. They are selling New Scotland Yard, so this must be possible, there are many hospitals. Think about it Jerry.

Back to the now, I have been entertaining myself by taking photographs of the scenery and imagining that I am on a spaceship or in a galaxy far, far away. It really is a time killer and means I have to be slightly inventive with the camera, which means thinking.

Unless you have spent a considerable about of time on the 2s; this could mean nothing.

There is a chance that my entire week’s blogs are going to be like this, if that is true,and it means that if all my thinking and writing is gibberish, I am not depressed. You do not have to read them. They entertain me and that is enough.

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Clearly a spaceship

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Clearly a bunker in space covered in an alien ant farm

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Clearly a distant relation to the book ‘The Hungry Catepillar’

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Clearly an emergency release for the space pod, or maybe the spaceship’s folding bed

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Clearly a head protector for under the astronaut’s helmet and erm, a horn

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Clearly an intelligent alien’s track marks or even more clearly and less far fetched, the floor of our spaceship

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Clearly space foliage eaten by the Ewoks

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Clearly an oxygen tank for babies being cleaned

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Clearly a section of a control panel

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Clearly Darth Vader is dead

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Clearly a section of my spaceship’s ceiling

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Clearly an air vent of sorts, maybe in the toilet

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Clearly an alien’s tree

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Clearly 2001

Right, that killed a good hour. Good work, me. Utter nonsense.

EJB x

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Waiting…

I bloody love waiting, well, about as much as I love My Myeloma.

I spend my life waiting. And waiting. And waiting some more. It is part of my free treatment and I just have to accept that it happens. Waiting.

TICK TOCK, TICK, TOCK

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I wait for my transport.

I wait for my treatment.

I wait for my results.

I wait for my doctor’s appointments.

Oh, and I am waiting to get better. That is the longest wait imaginable.

TICK TOCK, TICK, TOCK

I dread to think how much of my life is being wasted waiting for something related to my treatment. Back when I was a cancer novice, I thought that the 45 minute wait for a hospital porter after my MRI scan was bad enough. Now, I tend to wait for everything. They give you appointments, but I have discovered that things rarely run on time. The three hours it takes to receive a single injection are simply the best.

TICK TOCK, TICK, TOCK

I try to use the waiting time productively, I am waiting right now. Waiting. Today, I have had my 30 minute Doctor’ appointment, and as I sit, waiting for my transport home, happy that I have just seen Manny pull up in his ambulance, I have waited for a total of 264 minutes. That is 4 hours and 24 minutes of waiting. The waiting looked something like this:

08:15-09:55hrs – wait in the flat for hospital transport – 100 minutes
10:35-11:40hrs – wait in the waiting area for my doctor’s appointment – 55 minutes
12:10-12:15hrs – wait for my doctor’s note – 5 minutes
12:15-12:20hrs – queue for the pharmacy – 5 minutes
12:20-12:50hrs – wait for my prescription – 30 minutes
12:50-12:55hrs – queue to collect my prescription – 5 minutes
13:00-14:04hrs – wait in reception for hospital transport – 64 minutes

TICK TOCK, TICK, TOCK

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Preserved

Today, I was supposed to go to a wedding. That did not happen. I am not neutropenic, but I am close. It is the time of the month when I have a low immune system. It’s the best. Isolation. Coincidently, I was also invited to a wedding last weekend and I couldn’t go to that either. Thanks Myeloma. For some reason, perhaps due to the recent mishap with my drugs, I am also in a lot of pain today. It’s bordering on oral morphine time.

Today, well, from 14:00hrs onwards has been a day of preservation. I have conserved my energy, protected my health, and pickled and subsequently jarred some vegetables. Cool.

As part of my ongoing quest to buy my friends with food, I have spent my day making chutney and ketchup. I have no intention of eating any if it. Christmas is just round the corner. Today’s activities have also meant that I have completed something tangible in my ongoing quest to kill time and it counts towards my WI training. I’m thinking long term goal here. Positivity.

I am so proud of myself. The two chutneys and the one ketchup may taste absolutely revolting, but I have achieved something and it feels so good. Despite the pain, I have not had the time to dwell on My Myeloma. In fact, I may have gone five whole hours without thinking about the fact that I have cancer. I believe this is what I set out to achieve. This is not Cancer Chutney. It’s Just Chutney. Now, I have some concerns about the taste, most of it is down to the fact that I was not in my own kitchen and some improvisation had to take place. I was making the mess and the smell in Mamma Jones’ kitchen. I now have a distinct odour of vinegar. Form a queue.

I don’t really want to spoil the mystery for those due to receive my jars, but realistically, I think the cat is out of the bag, so…

20121118-010144.jpgA pre-purΓ©e soupy tomato ketchup

20121118-010307.jpgThe supermarket vegetables

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20121118-011019.jpgStick a fork in me, I am done

It is this sort of shit, that keeps me interesting. Most definitely.

EJB x

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πŸŽ‡ Fireworks πŸŽ‡

I love fireworks. I especially love fireworks in November. I am the person who usually encourages her friends to go and stand outside in the cold, so that she can watch the pretty colours in the sky, with her mouth wide open, making the occasional noise that perfectly demonstrates giddy excitement and euphoria. In my adult years, this may have been enhanced by warm spiced cider and/or a hot toddy out of a flask.

I am sure that Guy Fawkes wanted to leave behind another sort of legacy on 5 November 1605 to the one he eventually did, but you can’t always get what you want. Something I know all too well. I, however, love the diluted legacy he left us with; fireworks in the sky for the week around 5th November. I prefer this to burning an effigy on a bonfire. I don’t think it sends the right message to the kids. Scarfs, hats, gloves, sparklers, toffee apples and jacket potatoes. That is the sort of commemoration I like, as long as it is accompanied by fireworks in the sky of course.

I am not able to go to a firework display this year and my patio is too small to safely bring fireworks to me, though I did get to handle two and a half sparklers yesterday. Some sparkler action has only gone so far. When you live in London, the minute it gets dark in the days around Remember, Remember The Fifth Of November, strangers across the city try to recreate the Blitz. Well, the sound of the Blitz, not the bad stuff. Every crackle and bang is a reminder that I cannot go and stand outside for half an hour and then navigate the inevitable transport issues afterwards.

This is indeed a shame.

I don’t want to make a political or a religious statement, but it is not a shame that Guy Fawkes and his merry men failed to blow up the Houses of Parliament 407 years ago.

I am not one dwell, so, let us all take a look at the smile on my face yesterday. It is indeed a smile.

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Half Term

Over the last two days I have thoroughly enjoyed not feeling unwell. All being well, I have a further seven days of feeling well ahead of me. YES! I have no treatment this week.

No drugs. No drugs. No drugs in my body. Correction. No treatment drugs in my body. Pain control and the protectors will be entering my body, but they do not make me tired and they do not make me sick. YES!

I am only in the hospital once, on Wednesday, and although I will hear some difficult things during this appointment and I anticipate that I will hear more on Friday when a decision is made on my treatment, I have little intention of letting these things ruin my week. Sure, I may be saying something completely different on Friday when we find out about the paraprotein, but I think I am prepared for whatever happens there. POSITIVITY!

So, over the next week I intend to do some of my beloved work, catch up with my correspondence (you really get a lot when you have cancer, it makes you feel dead special), write some humorous blogs, go to a daytime screening of ‘Skyfall’, see my friends and attempt to be a better friend than I have been of late.

I literally cannot wait and I want to savour every moment because I know that it will be another three weeks before I feel like this again. Bloody cancer treatment.

EJB x

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