Tag Archives: Holiday

Last Christmas

The following was written some time ago, but unfortunately, I live in a world full of germs and I caught Influenza A and subsequently forgot that I had written this blog, let alone that I needed to post it. It seems a shame to waste my ramblings; so close your eyes (then open them again so you can read) and take yourself all the way back to December 2016:

  πŸŽ„ πŸŽ…πŸ» πŸŽ„ πŸŽ…πŸ» πŸŽ„ πŸŽ…πŸ» πŸŽ„ πŸŽ…πŸ» πŸŽ„ πŸŽ…πŸ»  πŸŽ„ 

You may think that Christmas was so last year, but as today is the 10th Day of Christmas, I think I can just about sneak a blog post about Christmas under the radar.  Plus, ordinarily I love Christmas, so it would be remiss of me after a year of blogging very little, to not recognise Christmas as it is a pivotal part of my annual calendar.

This year, things were different. I found it incredibly diffficult to get into the Christmas spirit. The Christmas spirit usually comes so easy to me. The drugs seemed to have sucked all the energy out of me, preventing me from participating in some of my favourite Christmas activities. Thus, going through December, I was not seeing combinations of red and gold and getting goosebumps, I wasn’t singing O Come All Ye Faithful in the shower. I felt nothing. I know what the main cause for my humbug was, and it opens one up to saying a crude but well timed joke about George Michael; was this, 2016, going to be my last Christmas? I’m not plucking this negativity from the air by the way, there’s a genuine (outside) chance that it was. With that seed planted, what Hope was there to have an innocent, Myeloma free Christmas? 

So, when it came to making my beloved Christmas cards, cards that I had designed and invested time and money into, and had been thinking about since September: I just couldn’t do it. For at least three days, I slept next to all of my craft paraphernalia convinced it would help me complete them. It’s a similar strategy I employed at university walking round with the biography of Menachem Begin for six weeks, hoping that it would go in via osmosis. It didn’t work then either. Comparing the feeling I had to university stress is apt. The enjoyment I was gained from this activity, had passed. All I felt was undue stress. 

I argued with myself for three weeks. You enjoy it, Emma! Pull your finger out, Emma ! Everybody is expecting them! You are a failure! That was one side, the other side just rolled over and fell asleep. It seems like such a mundane thing to get so upset over, but upset I was. Every year since I was diagnosed, I have made my own Christmas cards. Last year, I made and sent over 50. Was the fact I could not do them a sign that medically, I am detiorating or had the Grinch simply stolen my Christmas?   

I cannot answer those questions, but on top of not making and sending Christmas cards, I also failed to do any Christmas themed baking or make the additional decorations for my tree I had been planning for months. The weight of each of incomplete activity, was unfathomable. Is it really possible for me to have an enjoyable Christmas without all the planned activities I once deemed to be fun? 

I refused to give in. I sought any excuse for my humbug that did not involve Myeloma and the makings of a bad TV movie. It must have been somewhere. The search felt endless. Could my lack of festive feeling be due to my age?  That’s never been an issue before, so Veto. 

Due to financial restraints brought on by  not working and being on benefits , I was unable to buy many Christmas presents. Thinking about what gifts I can buy my loved ones and wrapping them up in a style to suit the recipients personality, has always been a Christmas highlight. But alas, that was no longer open to me. I found that I did not even have the energy to think about presents. 

What about work? I thought. My experience of working in an office is that during the month of December (and the back end of November) there would be at least one discussion a day about Christmas. Work drinks, family drinks, Christmas presents, wrapping; the talk was endless. Despite forcing myself to watch endless Christmas movies, perhaps my failure to socialise with colleagues, buoying each other’s festive spirits up day in day and day out was the cause of my sadness. 2016 also marked the first Christmas I had not been invited to a work Christmas Do since I was 14. 

Could that really be it? Had being forgotten by my work colleagues ruined Christmas? In short, no. Veto. I was invited to the Christmas party last year and chose not to go because I could not afford it, and I did not feel any the worse off. Like last year, my free time has to be used and planned carefully. I do not have seven days and seven nights to play with anymore.

It would also be wrong not to mention the level of pain I was in during December. I was in a lot of increasing pain, which on many a day, prevented me from moving. I don’t know how responsible it is, but my chronic pain was definitely guilty of ruining some of December. Upon return to my mother’s I discovered that I could no longer climb stairs without using both banisters. Yet another sign of deterioration perhaps?

Somewhere around the middle of December, coincidently, the day Rogue One was released, something strange happened. I uttered the words out loud that I was not going to be able to complete the cards, Mamma Jones told me it did not matter, and I began to relax. I really relaxed. My dear sweet Mamma lifted the weight off my shoulders at a most crucial time.  Socialising time. 

The 16 December launched four days of back to back socialising, which believe me, is now something very hard for me to do. I was suddenly busy and somewhere in that busy-ness, and laughs with my friends, I stopped dwelling. I stopped yearning for what once was and I began to enjoy myself. I smelt satsumas, mince pies and sang along to the Muppets. Finding my way out my slump gave me goosebumps.

And then, there was home. Home. Aware, at least I think they were aware, that I had been on a long Myeloma Downer, my family pulled out all the stops (at least I think that it was intentional). Christmas itself was marvellous. For the nine days I was home, Big Sister and her offspring were around for eight of them. I felt loved. The time went so quickly, that when it came to New Year’s Eve, I did not want to leave my family. For leaving meant that Christmas would be over and we might not know another one like it. 

Before I move on, anybody advising positivity, believe me when I say that I do not want my fears to become a self fulfilling prophecy. My fears are real and I cope with them by voicing them, much to the chagrin of my loved ones. I see things more clearly this way.

I did not intend to enjoy Christmas. I had been so worried that it was going to be my Last Christmas, that I was convinced I would find every tradition, every action, melancholy. Melancholy doesn’t cover it, I thought that every tradition, every action would rip my heart out through my throat and lay it bare for all the world to see. Thankfully, that did not happen. 

This photo clearly shows me unwillingly embarking on my journey back to London Town.

For me, our Jones Family Christmas worked so well because everybody, well all eight of us, was home. At no point was I stuck in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do. Between Mamma Jones, Big Sister and my neices, I had plenty to do. We did things together as a family and had family fun; I wanted to bottle the feeling up and savour it. 

I do wonder, with the benefit of a few days of hindsight, if it is possible to have a Christmas without the feeling that it will be my Last. Should I have just saved this blog for next Christmas? It’s the unknown. Everything from here is unknown.  I do know that things are changing, I can feel it in my aching bones. I was aware as of the 22 December that my treatment is going to change at some point in the near future, meaning my current treatment is failing. We are running out of options. Another daily thought that added weight to this theory of doom. 

I spent my New Year’s Eve with some friends, doing things that adults do like watching Jools Holland, eating nibbles off paper plates and playing board games. Somehow, I managed to stay out until 4am. I don’t think I did that for all of 2016. To fast forward, I did not have a hangover on New Year’s Day. A success by no stretch of the imagination. 

For the evening in question, I had managed to surround myself with good people and there were a few times during the evening that I could feel that hand approaching my heart again, ready to detach it from my body. I really am full of emotions these days. I don’t want to repeat earlier paragraphs, but essentially high from my visit home, now surrounded by friends I love, I wished that this was not my last New Year’s Eve. 

Despite being asked the question, I did not make any resolutions for 2017. I do not see the point, not for me anyway. Every time I was asked about resolutions or plans for 2017, my answer was the same. I do not want to make noticeable  changes. I want to keep on living. I want to be able to do what I am doing, maintain my freedom.  I want to enjoy my friends and my family. Most of all, I want to be able to make the most of my good days and get through the bad. 

Perhaps these are resolutions after all. 

And this is where the writing stopped and the flu took over. It took over for a whole fortnight, marking a great start to 2017. I know what caused the flu (New Year’s Eve) and who the culprit was (Nameless). I still would not trade NYE’s, despite the vomit and general foulness of the flu. I was ‘living’, right?

EJB x

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The (Almost) European VacationΒ 

If I have said it once, it is worth repeating, going on holiday when one has Myeloma is an expensive, administrative nightmare. 

My recent holiday, was booked before I relapsed. In it’s origins, it was meant to be a holiday of relief. Relief for me that I had made it through two stem cell transplants in 2015 and lived to tell the tale. Relief to my parents that they were able to use their annual leave for something that did not involve staying with me in two different hospitals and then caring for me when I was discharged. It was exciting and it gave us all something to look forward to. There was promise too,  promise that I would be healthy enough to enjoy it without threat, and promise that I would be in the position where I would be able to financially contribute towards my own holiday. I am a 32 year old adult after all. 

Two months after we booked said holiday, I relapsed, thus evaporating all that promise and relief we had when Mamma Jones made the booking. This left five months of frought waiting, full of what ifs, maybes and fear that for whatever reason, I would not be able to go. Underlying all of this was the very real question that if the worst did happen, the Β£250+ travel insurance policy I had taken out would be sufficient to get my parents their money back. 

As the five months went on, I found myself not simply needing a holiday because I had not been on one since 2014, but needing one because my life had become dominated by my treatment. I had had no time to come to terms with my diagnosis and my prognosis, and unknown fully to me, I had fallen into the   the worst period of My Myeloma journey thus far. That’s not hyperbole, I’ve been metaphorically stuck in a mental well for half of 2016. Five months of constant treatment, looming unemployment, living in the triangle of my flat, my parents’ house and my hospital, had become nothing if not mundane, uncertain and depressing. To put it very simply, I needed the break. An escape.

Remember that I mentioned the holiday being an administrative nightmare? Well, two weeks before departure, in response to a form I filled out declaring my disability, which I completed to make sure I had the necessary assistance whilst we were away, I was told that I had to get written medical approval before I would be allowed on the ship. Drama. That’s right, I was going cruising. AND, there was drama. In the end, after an anxious wait, it turned out to be a fairly straightforward process, but I ask you, how many 32 year olds would have to jump through so many hoops before being allowed to go on a holiday? 

Logistically, I had to make sure I had enough medication for the 12 night cruise, which creates much checking, double checking and a healthy supply of dosette boxes. Mamma Jones and I had to barter with each other over what would be reasonable activities for us to do ashore at each port. I am prone to thinking (wishing) that I can do more than I am physically able, like an eight hour day, and she is prone to being a super protective mummy, worried that her ill daughter is going to push herself too hard and collapse in a ball on a nicely tiled Mediterranean ground. The bartering took some time. I like to think I was the winner here.

The biggest pre holiday issue? Chemotherapy. From the start, I was adamant that I did not want to be on my chemotherapy medication when I was holiday. It took four months to get the answer I wanted, with various options touted along the way. Three days before we departed I was told that I was allowed to have two weeks off from the Ixazomib, Dexamethasone and Revlimid. Trust me when I say, this was a holiday in itself.  

Some may think that this was an unwise decision on my part, but I weighed it up. I didn’t have much else to think about, so overthinking is now pretty common. Any physical setback I experienced would be far outweighed by the mental strength I would gain from really being able to experience something new. I think I was right. My pain has increased significantly over the last three weeks, I don’t know if was because I delayed my treatment by a fortnight, a result of doing too much, something worse or any combination of the above; but I have been reminded what it feels like to live. 

πŸ•ΆπŸŽ’πŸŒŠ

Ask yourself, have the expectations for one of your holidays ever been so great? 

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I do hate to harp on about my age yet again, but on a cruise, especially a P&O cruise in November, age is most definitely an important number. I acknowledge that cruises are not particularly cool nor are they fashionable holidays for somebody born in 1984. For somebody like me however, who misses seasons in a blink of an eye, who struggles to walk a few metres and carry her handbag, a cruise is the ideal holiday. The Ideal Holiday. I boarded at Southampton, unpacked once and I was taken to Gibraltar, Valencia, Cartegena, Tangier, Seville and Lisbon, before returning to Southampton, where Mamma Jones’ car was waiting for us. Excluding the pre holiday admistration, the doing part of the holiday was so easy. Evidentially, the ease of a cruise has a lot to do with the demographic of the ship’s holiday makers. This has nothing to do with me, but on one relaxed sea day, Mamma Jones’s foot was the victim of a mobility scooter drive by in which the perpetrator not only failed to stop at the scene of the accident, but was completely oblivious to it. The perpetrator then proceeded to bring down a clothing rail in her wake.

There was just one not so small snag… One lingering question that I could not get out of my head that constantly threatened turning our holiday into something bittersweet. Would this holiday be my last holiday? Every time I thought about it, and I would catch myself doing it multiple times a day, I had to swallow quickly and push that morbid thought as far away from my mind as possible. I could feel how much fun I was having and then see how much fun Mamma Jones was having, and I could not help but think, would the two of us ever enjoy something like this together again? Would I ever be able to go on holiday with my sister again? And each time, like just now, I had to swallow quite ferociously and not speak, because the thought of my Mum having to find a new travel buddy or my family going somewhere without me breaks my metaphorical heart just a little bit. 

I might have cancer, I definitely have one with no cure and an unknown prognosis, but that is not the only issue when it comes to the prospect of my future holidays. Some life might grow on trees, but money does not and future holidays accompanied by astronomical travel insurance premiums do not come for free, even if I do feel like I deserve it.

As horrible as all of that is to consider, it spurred me on to have the best darn time possible on the ship I decided to call, the Floating Coccoon. 

My body knew what it had to do and boy oh boy, my body did not fail me. Gone were the much needed lie ins and the penchant for afternoon naps. There were concessions sure, I was in bed by 10pm every night at the very latest, and by 7pm of every day I struggled to sit in a seat because I had failed to lie down enough during the day. I was back to sleeping on six pillows. I am still on 6 pillows. There was just one evening where I stayed in with exhaustion, getting into my pjs at 6pm. These are groundbreaking statistics for me. 

It really is like my body knew, for on the last night of our holiday, after one almighty click in my neck, I could no longer walk with my walking stick because I did not have the upper body strength to hold. I have been suffering since. It’s a small, somewhat painful concession that was completely worth it.
I could go on and on and on, but I think you now have the idea. I enjoyed myself.

In the 12 days we were away, I witnessed 12 spectacular sunrises, 12 sunsets, one mega moon, two rainbows, violent seas, six different ports in three different countries and history. So, so much history. And colour. New colours everywhere for my eyes to feast on. My NOW TV box does not begin to compare.  For 12 days, my eyes were spoilt. For 12 days, my Instagram feed contained images that were not of dogs. For 12 days, I allowed myself the occasional alcoholic beverage and I ran the germ infested gauntlet that is a hydro pool. For 12 days, I felt free from my shackles. 

To my beloved Mamma Jones and Haemo Dad, thank you. 


​​
EJB x

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The Vacation

And so there it was. A holiday, a vacation, a trip to somewhere that was not the hospital, Mamma Jones’ or a basic hotel in Wakefield located off the M1. My first holiday post diagnosis and post transplant is complete, it is done, it is over. Finito. As I type this, I am sitting in a bar surrounded by my hand luggage, EMan and Mamma Jones waiting to disembark from this tiny boat from where we will begin our journey back to London Town. I am using this waiting time most productively and I am reflecting. I will probably still be reflecting when I return to London.

I love reflecting. I seem to reflect all the time. My permanent state of reflection was, as the title suggests, present throughout the last seven days. If anything, being in different surroundings and different circumstances, outside of my protective myeloma bubble, made me reflect more than usual. I know what you are thinking and yes, ‘crikey’ would be appropriate right now or indeed so would ‘shit, here she goes again’.

I can honestly say that this holiday has been the most delightful seven days I have experienced in a long time. I may have been a lazy, cruising and thus slightly unimaginative Brit abroad, but in being that, I have been able to safely see beauty in things that one would not find in my 21 month long Bermuda Triangle. That is all I wanted. I have sailed into various pretty ports, enjoyed the luxury of using my credit card for multiple massages and acupuncture, sat and ate and expanded and took so many photographs that only I will ever be interested in them. I have been to Venice, Kotor, Corsica, Corfu, Genoa and Rome, and rediscovered my love of a sunset. Tasty.

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Of course, things are never that straightforward. Everyone, accept the self entitled elderly folk on this boat, knows that I have been delivered quite a curve ball in life, limiting my enjoyment of it. I can say with a tongue most bittersweet that going on holiday, whilst wonderful, highlights a number of the the bad things myeloma loves to dish up at the all you can eat buffet. My current state of reflection may exaggerate it, but I knew on Day 2 that myeloma makes the act of a holiday hard. I knew this when I was forced by my body into going for an afternoon nap, whilst simultaneously feeling I had just been kicked in the back by an ass as his buddy, the wild boar attempted to remove my armpit. Everyday since has featured a similar period or periods of sheer exhaustion, zombie-dom and an uncontrollable desire for Oramorph. Evidentially, these periods have been at odds with my overall excitement and determination.

A holiday by definition is a period of leisure and recreation, and will usually experience an interruption to one’s schedule. For me, my daily life is structured far more than I wish it and this is done to allow me the chance to feel like I am living it. In going on holiday, I naively assumed that I would not need to factor in as many break times and that my sheer will and excitement at being on holiday would overpower My Myeloma. I was incorrect. Myeloma makes holidaying hard. It makes it hard because I had to wait so long to have one skewing my expectations, a change in routine impacts on both my pain levels and the productively of my bowel, I could not swim not sunbathe, and most of all, I felt like my need to lie down or go to bed at 22:00hrs every night was wasted time. It was like resetting my understanding of a holiday.

And this is the bitter part. I knew my holiday reality, I think I did anyway otherwise I would not have agreed to a cruise or planned the excursions I did, but I think I really hoped that My Myeloma would not impact on my ability to do whatever I wanted to do. The only limitations on a holiday should be monetary and I have always found ways around this. There is no way round the fatigue.

Fortunately, I am well versed in managing the disappointment myeloma produces and thus, the sweetness far overpowered the bitterness. There may have been frustration, but I managed to find the fun in every good hour my body was awarded. I even have a few achievements in physical capability, which has made me think that in a few years, maybe my body will let me walk up Monument. Who knows? It’s a nice feeling to hope for something that feels remotely within the realms of possibility again.

It was silly of me to think that a holiday would be any different to any other part of my life when it comes to my relationship with myeloma. There are limits and concessions to be made everywhere.

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And so there it was. A holiday, a vacation, a trip to somewhere that was not the hospital, Mamma Jones’ or a basic hotel in Wakefield located off the M1. It is complete, it is done, it is over. As suspected, this holiday meant so much more to me than simply a holiday. It was a huge milestone and one that I gained more from than what it showed me I had lost, and my
my my, is that a wonder.

EJB x

P.S. In 10 days, I am off to Berlin. There, I will no doubt learn more concessions whilst pretending to be like any other 30 year old. One is excited.

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Holiday Celebrate. Holiday Celebrate.

August 20th, T13, University College Hospital

“But we are going on holiday in November, she will still be able come on holiday won’t she?”

“No. No, she will not be well enough to go.”

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When those words were spoken 21 months ago, I had absolutely no idea what they meant. I did not realise what not being well enough to go on holiday meant, nor did I have absolutely any idea how long I was going to have to wait to feel well enough to go on holiday. I most certainly had no idea how difficult I would find dealing with the fact that I could not go on holiday. I was definitely shipwrecked upon these fair shores.

We all know that myeloma is like a lifelong prison sentence; it is one big fat miscarriage of justice. For the last 21 months, I, unfortunately have been held in maximum security. Not a maximum security on the UK scale of prison decency, I am talking about American style, 23 hours a day lock down that would feature in a sensational Louis Theroux type-documentary about how barbaric imprisonment can be. That is how I have seen parts of My Myeloma life.

In my mind, nothing exemplifies the hardship that myeloma represents more than the inability for me to go on holiday. A desire that grew and grew after I was told that I could not do it and I grieved when it became evident that I was not physically capable of doing it and I would not be for a very long time. My freedom had been taken away. I was trapped in a triangle of the flat, Mamma Jones’ and the hospital and they were the only places I packed for.

In those dark times, when crying myself awake was a normal occurrence, I dreamed and I planned of so many holidays. I was promised some too. When there is no chance of one going away, one’s imagination really can be inventive. The idea of a holiday, to be more specific, going abroad on a holiday was my hope. My hope and my pain. It was a target and one that I could not help but set my sights on. It became a symbol of my health improving and thus if I discussed going away, my response would have been as emotional as if I had been talking about my potential recovery. Going away means freedom from my daily myeloma toil. It’s a break from it.

My last trip abroad was in June 2011 and the last time I travelled by air a volcano in Iceland decided to be a dick. Needless to say, my mind has been short on new discoveries of late; the East Coast Mainline and Tottenham Court Road, whilst special can become tiresome.

No more though. No more. I am at Gatwick Airport and my bags are nowhere to be seen (I like to think they are also on the plane I am sitting in). Any minute now, I will be forced to turn off my mobile phone, a small sacrifice to make for in a few hours I’ll be in Venice. After all those months lying in a bed, building up my energy and hoping, I am actually on a plane en route to a land that is not ours. I am on annual leave. Not special or sick leave, actual annual leave.

It has been so long coming.

You could say I am free. I would not, for I am not that cheesy.

I am going on holiday!

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And myeloma only cost me Β£154 extra for insurance. A bargain. I will tell you about all the other planning some other time. Right now, I am celebrating.

οΈβš“οΈβ˜€οΈβœˆοΈβš“οΈβ˜€οΈβœˆοΈβš“οΈβ˜€οΈβœˆοΈβš“οΈ

EJB x

P.S. Mamma Jones is pleased because she was just hanging out with Simon Callow in the club lounge. Swish. To be sure.

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Touch Wood

There are many days, and days which role into weeks, where the overriding thought in my large head, is about how much I hate myeloma. The level of hatred has two main determining factors, the first is pain and the second is fear. Pain is self explanatory, fear is not. My fear of myeloma is made up of so many parts, including fear for my future and fear of what obstacle myeloma is going to throw at me when I least expect it, thus disrupting my best laid plans. Myeloma has a habit of doing that, it pulls one down when they least expect it.

I hate myeloma this week for one reason and one reason only. I fear it will disrupt my plans. Not just any plans, the best plans. Next week, next Wednesday to be precise, I get to go on an actual holiday. There will be an airport, an aeroplane and holiday insurance. Ten days after my return, I get to go on another aeroplane, because I believe My Myeloma is letting his hair down.

For me, the act of a ‘holiday’ is far beyond the act of a holiday. I think that is all the best description I can muster for now, for musings about freedom, progress and life is not what this blog is about. This blog is about anxiety. I am so close to actually being able to go on a holiday that I do not, under any circumstances, want it to be taken away from me. As we all know, myeloma has a sneaky habit of zapping all the joy out of a situation, so my concern is legitimate. My counsellor suspects that this is the reason why I have been experiencing a number of anxiety dreams of late. The downside of which, is that for the last fortnight I have been in a permanent state of fatigue.

To mitigate the risk posed by myeloma, I have implemented an EJJ Preservation Project Plan, which for this means that between Monday and my departure date, I have allocated all my waking hours. It is a plan on top of my usual daily plan to exist in spite of myeloma. In reality, it means that I am without a social life this week and I can excuse my usual laziness. If I am not working, I am at home resting, not dusting. My energy expenditure this weekend is going to reduce so significantly, I may not get dressed. It’s not just me telling myself I have to do these things. By now, for those in the know, it is common sense. The more energy I use, the more likely I am to pick up a bug *please do not let me pick up a bug*. The more energy I use, the more likely I am to not be able to get out of bed next Wednesday morning and subsequently spend the rest of my holiday lying in a bed and missing what I assume, will be marvellous scenery. I contemplated living in a protective bubble, but that would not work well with my employment. I genuinely may avoid all forms of seafood between now and Wednesday, just in case it irritates my bowel. I definitely will not be licking a raw chicken breast. For this, I am taking no chances. That’s the myeloma payoff. Yesterday, I stopped myself from walking along a curb, just in case my body decided to fall over resulting in a fractured femur.

Everywhere and everything is dangerous to me this week. Vigilance is key.

Myeloma did this to me and I also hate that about myeloma. It has me always waiting for the other shoe to drop and kick me in the nose as it falls. That cannot happen this week. It will not happen. I have waited too long.

I will be going on holiday. I will be going on holiday. I will be going on holiday. Fingers crossed whilst touching wood.

EJB x

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Vacation Period

Holiday. Celebrate. Holiday. Celebrate.

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I should be going on holiday today. At this moment in time, I should be on a cruise with old people, instead, I am in my flat watching ITV3’s finest. I do not know what it is about this November, but at this current moment in time, seven of my nearest and dearest are abroad, on holiday.

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I want to go on holiday. I want to see somewhere I have never seen. I want to take photographs and Instagram them, to prove to people that I have been on holiday and that holiday was really, really cool. I want to go on a plane or a boat. I want to go abroad. Unfortunately for me, I have myeloma and unfortunately for others, the NHS only exists in the UK. This means that I cannot leave these fair shores. I do not know when I will be able to. I also have limited energy and need my home comforts, so vacationing elsewhere in the UK is also a non-starter. Stupid myeloma. I actually hate you.

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I had three trips planned for this year. One in August, up to Edinburgh for the Fringe Festival, one in September to a destination that never once and a two week cruise in November. All three had to be cancelled because of My Myeloma. The August trip was cancelled before we knew why I was in pain, at the time, I thought cancelling was fine because I would be going away later in the year. I was wrong.

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I have been dwelling on images of new places in recent weeks. I have been to the cinema twice in a week and both films displayed some beautifully shot coastline. I want to see the coast. I want to see the sea and preferably not the Channel. When I am not thinking about going to the seaside, I am dreaming about old buildings that are not Georgian, or, nice countryside with endless trees, or exploration of anywhere but here.

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Nobody knows when I will be able to go on holiday again, or dare I say it, if I will go on holiday again.

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For the time being, a girl can dream. A some point in 2013, before I have the okay for holiday insurance companies, I want to go to Cornwall, when that is done, I want to go to the Highlands. If I can walk. Then, once I am insured and clear, I want to go to a warm beach, oh and Krakow. Krakow 13, will be where It is At. For sure.

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Wish I Was There

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And yes Madonna, a holiday would be so nice.

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