Jeffrey and the Brainwave.

I had a thorny and mysterious plumbing problem become manifest in my bathroom this afternoon. So thorny, mysterious and far-reaching was it that I envisaged all manner of distress, disturbance and denial of basic amenities stretching ahead of me far into the distance. I finally came to the end of my tether. After all the enervating issues which this horrible winter has brought in its cruel and frigid train, this latest problem finally put the lid firmly on the tolerance pot.

And then Jeffrey’s little brain had a little brainwave. Maybe the problem wasn’t in the bathroom ducting or in the roof space above the kitchen at all; maybe it was outside and caused by the current Siberian airflow. Jeffrey decided to follow it up.

It was getting dark, the temperature was well below freezing, the wind was getting up close to a gale, and it was snowing, but Jeffrey persevered and found the problem. And then he worked out how to solve the problem, and soon the problem was solved. And then Jeffrey’s little brain said to Jeffrey:

‘Jeffrey, does this mean that we can go on living after all? I would quite like to.’

And Jeffrey agreed.

But Jeffrey still hates winter with a passion and would respectfully request Siberia to keep its bloody weather to itself. I’m very tolerant of migrants generally, but not Beasts from the East (as our unwelcome visitor has been styled in the media.)

And then the mention of Siberia brought the old gulags to mind and raised that old question again: Why do human creatures do such terribly cruel things to other human creatures merely to further their selfish political interests? Why do those humans in power steadfastly refuse to aspire to human potential, and instead insist on riding the festering sewer to a probable end in the hungry ghost realm?

Which brings me back to plumbing, but enough of that.

Still no word on my cancer issue. The wait goes on.

Poignancy in Extremis.

My daughter’s mother – the woman I lived with for six years back in the mists of my young past – is currently in the later stages of terminal cancer, and today is her birthday. I find that a little surreal because I would find it hard to imagine anything much more poignant than waking up on your birthday knowing that there won’t be any more.

Awaiting the Ambush.

It’s now over three weeks since I was told that I almost certainly have cancer in one of my kidneys and will need an operation, and it’s eleven days since I had a CT scan to check whether the condition has spread to my lungs. So far I’ve heard nothing about that scan or had any call for further procedures.

This is a little odd because until eleven days ago the whole matter was being treated with a level of urgency which was becoming oppressive. I’d never gone more than a few days without some communication from the Derbyshire medical fraternity since I’d made my original visit to the GP on January 8^th. Suddenly, all is silence. And it’s having an interesting effect on my perception of it.

The whole round of tests, scans and other appointments is beginning to take on the air of a historical event. It’s beginning to feel almost like a bad dream and I’m becoming blasé. Did it really happen or didn’t it? Can I forget about it now and carry on as normal?

No, of course I can’t. Yes, it really happened. My rational mind keeps telling me that it isn’t over yet, not by a long way. One day soon another letter will turn up in my post box, or maybe I’ll get a phone call from somebody who knows more about the matter than I do. I keep being reminded that there’s a mischievous little imp of knowledge hiding behind a tree somewhere, just awaiting its opportunity to leap out and bite me again.

That’s what’s interesting, and it’s also a little uncomfortable.

Being Truly Wild.

Today has been one of those changeable days which make it difficult to plan a walk. We would have maybe an hour or more of calm air in which the sun shone and bathed the land in now-palpable warmth. It felt like spring was upon us, but then it would change dramatically. The sky would turn a menacing battleship grey within minutes, the wind would roar, and thick driving snow would bestow fifteen minutes to half an hour of true blizzard conditions to mock the vernal delusion. It was during one such downturn that I saw a lone blackbird defying the blast and feeding on the bird table while his plumage gradually turned white.

I never cease to wonder at the determination and resilience of wild creatures. While we take shelter behind our complex redoubts of lifestyle, they have to concentrate on the more primal affair of staying alive. I can’t say I envy them, but I do so respect and admire them.

From the Sick Bed.

I’m feeling ill this weekend, debilitatingly so. Even getting out of a chair or climbing the stairs takes some effort, and today’s cold east wind has crucified me every time I’ve gone through the door wrapped up like an Eskimo. There are three issues involved which might or might not be connected and I considered making a post about them. I decided against it because there have been quite enough whinges on this blog already. (I still haven’t had a result from the latest scan or been given a date for the operation, by the way.)

What I will say is that this winter hasn’t been a good one for me. When I add the current issues to the cancer investigations and hernia problem, I’m beginning to wonder whether somebody has put the evil eye on me. And do you know what? If I discovered that they had, I wouldn’t retaliate. That sort of thing is best left to karma.

(On a better day I could now progress to the question of whether Jesus’s ministry has been completely misunderstood, but I won’t. Even writing this post has taken some effort.)

The Pull of Hibernia.

I wonder why I’ve been getting visits from Ireland today. Ireland is a magnetic sort of place, a land of hard edges and soft hearts – washed by the wild Atlantic, warmed by the dark stout of Dublin, and floating on the impenetrable clouds of ancient mystery. My male ancestors came from Ireland; I used to dream about it as a kid.

And this is one of those late night posts which write themselves while I’m not looking. I might not even remember typing it in the morning.

Being Job.

I was listening to a song on YouTube tonight which reminded me of a difficult three months back in the 90s. I was a square peg being forced through a round hole for twelve hours a day by an unfeeling system, and all I could do was grit my teeth and get through it. I did get through it with the help of some actor friends, Enya’s Shepherd Moons, a plentiful supply of alcohol, and an adequate supply of the glorious weed.

And then I realised that my life has been a succession of intermittent trial periods which I just had to get through, and I always did (although one led me to the very brink of the precipice and I was only saved by falling asleep.) Interestingly, most of them lasted for three months, six months, or twelve months. The most recent lasted four years. I suppose that’s progress.

I wonder how long the current one will last; I wonder whether it will be the final one. Should I hope that it is, or that it isn’t?

Spring Matters.

I gather a Chinese supermodel has been hauled over the coals for referring to the Chinese New Year as the Lunar New Year on some social networking facility. She’s being accused of pandering to other Asian nations and turning her back on her heritage.

It seems we’re living in the Age of Walking on Eggshells, a time when everybody in the public eye has to be so, so careful with everything they say for fear that somebody somewhere will pick up a single word out of place and hurl house bricks at them. And the word doesn’t even have to be out of place. ‘The Lunar New Year’ is not only a perfectly legitimate expression, it also has the advantage of encouraging inclusivity.

It needs to stop because there’s a danger that a lot of serious angles on important issues will become lost in the gloopy stew of irrational political correctness. But, of course, it won’t stop because the human animal is just too dumb to make it stop.

*  *  *

Meanwhile, I saw some periwinkles blooming at the bottom of my lane today. I don’t ever remember seeing periwinkles blooming in February before. And a young wild rabbit has taken to visiting my garden at dusk, there to hop happily about and nibble things it can’t find in the field next door. I used to get wild rabbits in my garden a lot at one time, but I haven’t seen them for several years and thought they’d all gone. I wonder whether wild rabbits are a good omen.

*  *  *

And there’s been no word on either the latest scan or my prospective operation, so I still don’t know whether I’ll be spending the spring recuperating or packing my trunk for the one way trip to the terminus.

An Excuse for a Post.

I have nothing to blog about tonight. Today brought no welcome encounters, no unwelcome letters, no blessed sunshine, no icy winds, no flashes of insight or inspiration, and no ordinary people doing or saying extraordinarily funny things. Today was unremittingly flat.

So might I be permitted to say hello and welcome to whoever it is in the region of Krasnodar in southern Russia (a bloody long way from Moscow, note) who has adopted the habit of visiting me frequently. Whoever you are, sir or madam, your apparently dedicated attention to my little journal is much appreciated.

And did I ever post the video below? I think I might have done, but I don’t remember. If I did, excuse the repetition. It’s just that it fits me like a glove at the moment. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y7eDvyoPFrM

Unfortunately, the institutionalised tendency to irritating imperfection for which Google are rightly renowned means that a Blogger search doesn't find it. Do follow the link. It's worth it.

The Animal Trap.

I think it a useful faculty to know at least one Shakespeare play well because it will usually contain at least one quotation suitable for almost any circumstance. Today’s favourite is from Macbeth:

They have tied me to a stake; I cannot fly

Feeling tethered, fretful, dispirited; waiting for the next time that I’ll be pushed inside a cage and dealt the benefit of medical procedures. And I continue to wonder whether there’s a man approaching with a shovel to hit me over the head and leave me out for the crows to feed on. I wish they could just give me a pill and set me free to scuttle back into my wildwood.

This was going to be yet another long and literate whinge full of metaphors and similes and references to freedom, just because I can and because the creation of descriptive and sometimes even lyrical pieces of writing eases the mental nausea. I decided to watch an episode of Inspector Lynley instead.

*  *  *

I was wondering earlier where the term ‘piping hot’ comes from. I suppose it derives from the fact that certain foods whistle when air escapes during the cooking process. Isn’t there something in A Christmas Carol about the pudding singing in the copper? I expect that’s probably it.

Something in the Air.

Yesterday was really quite remarkable for being so consistently full of the energy of Something.

Something? What exactly is this thing called Something?

It’s hard to explain, but it’s that category of phenomena in which things like luck, coincidence, revelation and the unforced unravelling of knotty issues reside. If that won’t do, I’m sorry. It’s the best explanation I can manage, and yesterday was full of it.

It began for me while I was sitting in the Ashbourne branch of Costa Coffee at lunchtime, but I spoke to Mel later and she’d had a day full of it as well. And it was all positive and happy and uplifting, even though one aspect left me with a hangover. (You don’t want to know what that aspect is in any detail. Suffice it to say that the Lady B has a life to live in which I have no place, and my baggage is my baggage to carry, not hers. Sleeping dogs are best left undisturbed.)

There, now; that made a welcome change from health issues, didn’t it?

(I didn’t get a letter from the hospital this morning, by the way, just a mis-delivered postcard from a ski resort in France addressed to somebody in Borrowash, wherever that is. So if Carolyn and Russ {senders of the first part} or Fion and Nige {recipients of the second part} should happen to read this post, do be assured that the pretty picture of a snowy Haute Savoie is in safe hands and will soon be consigned to a proper British red pillar box, there to await the attention of the Royal Mail in the sure and certain hope of successful delivery at the second attempt.)

Poseidon's Hint.

I was reminded tonight of a basic nautical truism. If you get caught in a serious storm you don’t try to run away from it. If you do, chances are that the following waves will swamp the ship and you’ll perish. The trick is to turn the ship’s head into the wind and let its built-in buoyancy ride the swell. Maybe it’s worth bearing that in mind when the storms of life are trying to throw you off beam.

Another Day, Another Skirmish.

Today’s battle was pretty much the same as all the others – the getting there, the finding of a place to park, the struggle to accurately navigate the hospital complex with its bewildering array of twists and turns and levels, the anxious wait to be called, the irritating preliminaries, and finally the being pushed into a noisy machine and given orders. And at the end of it all there’s relief and the hope that you’ve pushed the enemy a little further back across the gain line.

And a temporary sense of relief does allow the inner self to reassert itself just a little. When the nurse removed the plastic thingy (blue one end, pink the other, remember?) which facilitates the pumping of dye into one’s bloodstream, I was struck by the fact that there was no blood on the puncture wound.

‘Where’s the blood?’ I asked the nurse.

‘What blood?’

‘The blood that should be there.’

‘There shouldn’t be any blood there.’

‘Well there was last time.’

‘That was last time.’

‘Are you having me on? The bloke over there had blood on his dressing, so why haven’t I got any?’

‘Believe me, there shouldn’t be any blood.’

‘Are you sure you haven’t made a mistake and drained it? Have I become a bloodless person and need to get used to the fact?’

‘No.’

‘Have I died and you haven’t told me yet?’

‘No.’

‘Then I suspect there’s discrimination going on.’

‘Hahaha.’

Meanwhile, a female fellow combatant sitting on a seat opposite began to titter, and I do so like it when people titter.

And so another battle is bravely met and now I wait for the letter, all the time reminding myself that I mustn’t engage in idle speculation as to what it might say. The possible permutations are many and varied as usual, and there’s no point in trying to predict where the enemy’s cannonball will land until it takes a chunk out of something.

One more battle is over but the war goes on. Waterloo is still some way down the line, dammit.

War and the Lady.

I suppose today’s first post should be a debrief on the latest battle in the War of the Cancerous (probably) Kidney. But something happened in the post hostility period which was of more immediate significance than the mere matter of whether I’m to live on or die soon: I had the first extended conversation with the Lady B for many a long year (I also talked to her dear mama and sister, but separately.)

She’s changed. She’s more relaxed, more self-assured; her voice is a little deeper and the quality of its modulation and diction grown even closer to perfection. Out has gone the fragile and eminently lovable deviant, and in its place has grown a mature woman of compelling poise and beauty. Whether or not she’s still possessed of that engaging feminine assertiveness I have no way of knowing, but I think it highly likely.

So what else could I do but be happy for her and offer congratulation, especially since she’s effected the change through determination and dedication. She’s beaten her demon, and few people can make that claim.  If she were my daughter and I were permitted the sentiment, I would say that I felt truly proud of her. The fact that she isn’t, and that her success has taken her beyond my orbit (especially at a time when I most needed her presence), is a minor personal tragedy which I have long grown used to dealing with. Is it not a fact that wisdom grows with the application of hard lessons and periodic trials? I think it probably is.

The biggest shock, however, took several minutes to become manifest. The Lady B is to become a mother in the merry month of May. How should I deal with that, except to instruct myself most forcibly that what happens on another planet is none of my business? Besides, there was never any prospect of she and I having that sort of relationship. Relative ages are usually a decisive factor in such matters, and I doubt I would have wanted it anyway. And yet it does matter because she has been so very precious to me for such a long time, and still is.

I have a feeling that the child will be a daughter, and I carry the hope that she will be every bit as appealing as her own dear mama. I also wonder whether she will be called Isabella.

That Eve of Battle Feeling.

Friday looms, and all day today I’ve been hearing Sir Jacob Astley’s famous prayer uttered prior to the start of hostilities at the Battle of Edgehill in 1642:

O Lord, thou knowest how busy I must be this day. If I forget thee, do not thou forget me.

As far as I know, Sir Jacob survived the day. (But he still died in the end anyway, so what the hell.)

Melancholy Matters.

I’ve just been reading some of my old posts which I made last year. It’s about the only way I can keep in touch with my blog at the moment and the dear old blog is so important to me. Presently I can’t hope to reach the upper echelons of mediocrity which was my stock in trade until only a few short weeks ago, since my gumboots are now trapped too firmly in the quagmire of anxiety.

Actually, some of my efforts weren’t so mediocre. One of them even made me smile when I was reminded that the odd bit of dry, oblique humour occasionally found its way onto the page. Of all forms of humour, I think I like the dry, oblique sort most of all.

*  *  *

The inclement weather made Ashbourne a miserable place to be today. Anyone familiar with the closing passages of Tennyson’s Idylls of the King will know exactly what I mean, and Tennyson described the whole miserable matter far better than I ever could. (Then again, Tennyson wasn’t – as far as I know – much given to dry, oblique humour, so maybe I might bask in the shadow of his presence after all.)

*  *  *

I’m nervous about going to sleep tomorrow night because when I next regain consciousness it will be Friday, and we all know what’s happening on Friday, don’t we? Some people have wished me luck and some people haven’t.

*  *  *

I made a comment on a YouTube video last night, and within minutes was accused of being a troll by a troll who evidently doesn’t know what a troll is.

Slings and Arrows.

Today was all a bit miserable because I spent a lot of it in cold, wet, windy places becoming so chilled that even ten hours later I’m still trying to remember what ‘comfortably warm’ feels like.

One such place was a car repair workshop – open to the elements at both ends – where I spent an hour waiting for my car to go through its annual test, and on the wall was a notice which said:

Will customers please note that cheques are no longer excepted

So how is a grammar Nazi like me, beset as he is by a combination of fine sensibilities and worrying health issues, supposed to repel such a twin assault on his perception of life as we know it.

For This Relief...

… much thanks. Finally, something which might be of very little consequence in itself, but which at least makes a welcome change from the health issue currently dominating my life and blog:

I was in Tesco today and wanted to use the toilet. The notice on the door to the gents informed me that it was currently being cleaned by a female operative and would I please use the disabled loo. Problem: the disabled loo was locked, presumably occupied. I prepared to wait.

But then the female operative came out of the gents and I asked her whether she'd finished. ‘Not yet,’ she replied. ‘What d’you want, just a quick wee?’

This is typical of the bluntness for which the northern English are rightly renowned, and so I smiled as I politely remonstrated with her for asking a question which might be considered indiscreet (it took a little longer to realise that it also sounded like an offer to supply something which lies outside the usual remit of a respectable supermarket.) And then I said 'yes.' She smiled back and I proceeded on my merry way to welcome relief.

And then I wondered whether, in different circumstances, I would have had the courage to say ‘no.’

The Matter of Self Mockery.

How do I carry on writing a blog in the circumstances currently prevailing? At the moment it’s nothing more than a whinge journal, and there’s a limit to how much I want to lay my deepest fears and innermost sensibilities on the line. Surely, I tell myself, it will only serve to bore people and leave me open to mockery in return. (‘Oh, we won’t mock,’ I hear whispered from the ether. Maybe not, but I will.)

The simple fact is that I can relate the circumstances as accurately as I like but it won’t change them. I can describe my feelings as graphically as my literary skills will allow, but none of us can ever guarantee fully to comprehend somebody else’s feelings. All I know is that the other myriad matters of consequence are lying semi-conscious at the periphery of my mind and lack the strength to take centre stage.

This health issue is as big as it is largely because there are so many angles to it. It isn’t something simple like an appendectomy or knee arthroscopy, something you go and get sorted before carrying on. It’s about comfort zones, alien worlds, painful personal barriers and control phobia, as well the vexed question of mortality getting uncomfortably close to home. One or two special people out there seem to be surprisingly close to getting it, and I thank them for that, but in the end we all have to face our demons alone and in our own way.

So how do I conclude this latest whinge? I’ve no idea, except to say that I don’t know what my mind will be able to communicate over the next week (I have added pressures in the next few days as well as the health ones.) And I wonder whether in a few weeks time I shall be mocking my neurotic tendency, or whether the rest will be silence. We'll have to wait and see.

The Curtain on the Road.

As we go through life we do so with a constant, if hazy, view of the road in front of us. We can never be sure what will be lying in wait to delight, disturb or frighten, but at least we proceed with a good measure of confidence that it’s there.

I’ve reached a point at which a curtain has descended ahead of me and the further progress of the road has become hidden. It could be easy, it could be hard, or it could be the final short and rocky stretch to the terminus. It’s been there for a few weeks, and now the old neurotic tendency is taking precedence over my innately optimistic nature. I’m constantly having to push away the presumption that the worst scenario is about to reveal itself.

Meanwhile, the natural cycles of the Shire are carrying on regardless. My garden has snowdrops, a few crocuses and primroses, masses of daffodil shoots, and a premature showing of bluebell leaves. The daffodils in Mill Lane are ahead of ours further up the hill as usual. They have flower buds to prompt the fond imagining of a golden horde which will soon grace the verges and the hedge bottoms. And the first shoots of wild garlic are presenting their credentials on the high embankment of The Hollow. Being unable to look forward to the glory of spring and summer with my usual practiced presumption is, for me who loves it so much, a somewhat dispiriting experience.

Another Thought, Another Whinge.

I had a young and very active tomcat once who was hit by a car and suffered extensive but minor injuries. The vet said he would have to be caged for a while in order for the hairline fractures to heal, and so I had to build him one using an old tea chest. That was the easy bit; forcing the poor guy into it and keeping him there through feedings and cleanings was a much harder emotional issue.

I realised this morning that going into hospital is not so different for me. In one way at least I’m a bit of a wild creature. I have to do what I want to do in my own way, my own time, and in my own world. Force me into somebody else’s world where a measure of constraint is implicit and I become as a rock thrown into a still pool. I don’t float.

The final diagnosis of my current problem won’t be made until after the next scan, but the near future will almost certainly involve a stay in hospital. To most people it would be a minor disturbance, but I’m not most people. And reminding myself that perception is the whole of the life experience doesn't seem to help much.

Here endeth today’s whinge (unless I think of something else later.)

Needing Air and Non Encounters.

I’ve been receiving an immense amount of attention from the medical fraternity over the past few weeks, and after Monday’s visit with the consultant I began to feel that I was drowning under a flowing tide of clinicians and administrators. I get claustrophobic when people try to contain and direct me, even when they’re doing so for my own good. I know they’re acting in my best interests; I thank them for it; I congratulate them for their care and dedication. But I still hate being controlled and I still experience a strong sense of suffocation when it happens.

There was another of their white envelopes in my post box yesterday; there was another phone call from the admissions department this morning. They told me I don’t need to wait until 16^th February for my next scan, I can have it on 10^th instead. The surgeon was even planning to start carving on 15^th.

No. Right now I need to come up for air before filling my lungs and plunging back into the depths. I told them I would be busy until 16^th, which is true. I told them I’ll come when I’m ready.

Maybe I’m acting counter to my interests. Maybe I’m being foolish and irrational, but there’s a line beyond which I won’t be pushed and I still hate feeling suffocated.

*  *  *

I sat four seats away from the Lady B’s sister today (or it might have been five.) She chose the distance and seemed disinclined to talk to me. I concluded that she must be possessed of commendably good taste in the matter of people. I also saw the Lady B with her mama and noticed that she walks differently than she used to. I find it mildly frustrating that the Lady B's family constituted the only group of people I ever wanted to get to know during the eleven years I've lived in the Shire.

*  *  *

Tonight I watched a movie and discovered that in spite of my sense of suffocation and the accompanying affliction of extreme ennui, I can still be enthralled by the eyes of a French woman. I suppose it means I’m not quite unconscious yet.

Disappointments.

It was such a shame today. I was so looking forward to my monthly meeting with Mel in Derby which promised to offer a little blessed relief from this horrid health business. But try as I might, I couldn’t stop the waves of mental nausea sweeping over me every so often carrying images of hospital corridors and scanning devices, not to mention the possibility of undergoing hideous procedures and maybe even being thrown onto the unfamiliar byways of the undiscovered country. The whole thing kept polluting the atmosphere and dragging me down.

Still, I did manage to find it interesting that the female manager in the coffee shop had blonde hair, whereas the serving wench underlings were all brunettes with red highlights. I asked the manager whether blonde hair came with promotion. She said ‘no’ and didn’t smile. And the only seat on the train coming back which wasn’t occupied by a human was filled by a human’s big bull mastiff. I chose to stand.

Becoming Lopsided.

One worrying aspect just occurred to me with regard to having a kidney surgically removed. You’d  become asymmetrical and therefore unbalanced, wouldn't you, so you’d always have to be careful never to walk along the canal bank because you might suddenly lurch sideways and fall in.

Mixed Feelings.

You know, part of what so disturbs me about all this medical proceduring (I know it isn’t a word and I don’t care) is the way it takes me out of my world and shackles me to one created by others. I interface with this culture when it suits me, and sometimes it can be quite pleasant for a change – like having coffee and a chocolate muffin in Costa while exchanging light pleasantries with the serving wenches, for example – but I so dislike being drawn down below decks where I feel claustrophobic and alien.

My world is all about feeling the magic of moths gorging on nectar during a summer twilight, of thrilling to the rush of bats racing past my ear, of wishing the birds well as I see them carrying food to their young, of nuzzling the nose of a beautiful horse who doesn’t seem to mind. Hospitals have something about them which carries an undertone of incarceration. After I’d had my interview with the surgeon today, and finished the MRSA swabbing, and completed the questionnaires, the nurse said ‘OK, you can escape now.’ ‘Escape’ was a well chosen word.

Having said all of which, I do appreciate the fact that we still have a functioning National Health Service in Britain in spite of the fact that it’s close to floundering under Thatcher-inspired policies. The pressure it’s under at the moment seems to be largely due to the actions of right-leaning governments, as well as perhaps the administrators of the relatively modern NHS Trusts. The people who do the job at the workface, those who carry out the clinical and support functions to which end a hospital exists, are splendid people – pleasant, helpful, dedicated and skilful. They do their best to smile and encourage away the fears lurking behind the eyes of their patients, and I can’t praise them enough. So whatever my personal feelings about being forced into an alien world, a sincere word of thanks is due to those who genuinely try to help.

Kitty's 95% Problem.

Today is Monday, and as previously notified on this blog, Monday was expected to sound the knell that summoned me to heaven or to hell (with a 95% chance it would be hell.) Ever since I got the dreaded letter last Friday I’ve felt like a kitten locked in a cage with a dozen hungry but sleeping Rottweilers who will be wanting their breakfast when they wake up.

It wasn't as funny as you might think, but the day didn’t quite turn out as expected anyway. Here is a brief summary of how it did turn out:

1. The CT scan showed something loitering in one of my kidneys and the consultant is 95% certain it’s cancer, but he can’t be absolutely certain until he puts a probe in under a general anaesthetic.

2. Such a probe will be part of a surgical procedure which will culminate in the removal of the whole kidney if cancer is confirmed.

3. Before he can do that he has to establish that the presumed cancer hasn’t spread to my lungs, which means I have to have yet another CT scan on my chest.

4. If cancer does show up in the lungs, the permutations become complex and very disturbing. I prefer not to think about that possibility, so I’ll try not to.

How’s that for succinctness?

It seems the most likely scenario is the relatively simple one of removing the kidney. I gather having two kidneys is unnecessary because the body can function perfectly well with one, but I asked the most pressing question anyway: will I still be able to drink alcohol with only one kidney? ‘Yes,’ said the surgeon, ‘in moderation.’ There are times when even I am not stupid enough to request a clinician’s definition of ‘moderation.’ But there are other problems.

I was told that after such an operation the patient has to avoid any kind of strenuous activity for a period of three months, and that includes driving. So how am I supposed to live in a village for three months with no shops and no bus service and the nearest town located seven miles away? And if driving is forbidden, what about vacuuming the carpet, mopping the quarry floors, and making the bed? Etc, etc, etc. As for my country cottage garden, it will surely morph into an environment suited only to a menagerie of wild and dangerous creatures.

What really concerns me, though, is how the remaining kidney will deal with the loss of his beloved twin. Will he grieve and be very upset for a very long time? This is important.

Further developments will be notified. The wait goes on. The kitten escaped the canine jaws on this occasion, but there’s another cage waiting for him a little way down the line.

Strange Bedfellows.

Time to go and get a few hours sleep before I face tomorrow. It’s a tense time, but an interesting thought occurred to me:

If ever I were required to tell Mel that I have a terminal illness, she would feel sorry for herself. If I were to tell her that I have a serious illness but they intend to cure me with some hideous procedure, she would feel sorry for me.

How fascinating that logic can have such an ironic edge.

Attracting Bad Karma.

It’s occurred to me to wonder several times of late whether there is anybody out there who would rejoice at my death. The issue which springs to mind, you see, is that if you rejoice at somebody’s death it implies that, consciously or unconsciously, you wished them dead. And since I happen to place some credence on the notion that thought is energy, it seems to me that wishing somebody dead amounts to a kind of murder by proxy. I suspect that such a deed might have repercussions for the subject after their own curtain falls, even though I have nothing but anecdotal evidence for such a suspicion.

When Mrs Thatcher died a lot of people in the poorer parts of Britain held street parties in celebration and they disturbed me. I had never been a fan of the great architect of social division myself and so I admit to having had mild feelings of satisfaction at her demise, but it fell way short of rejoicing. I would never have attended a street party.

Somebody did wish me dead once, verbally and aggressively, and I remember feeling slightly stung but mostly confused since he had little substantive basis for such an outburst. I think I might feel differently now; I think I might feel sorry for him.

Help or Hindrance.

You know, I’ve always had a trait which I considered unfortunate: Whenever I was in a situation which was interesting and unfamiliar, part of me always stepped outside my head to watch and feel the nature of the situation rather than fully engaging with the situation itself. (The two things are not the same; the former is all about observing yourself relate to apparent reality, and it has diluted a few sensory experiences down the years.)

So now, when times are rough and I need a bridge over troubled waters, I wonder whether I can put that trait to good use in pouring oil onto the swell. Alternatively, it might be a reason to be all the more scared. I don’t know yet.

And I think I might be well advised to stop talking about this issue until I’ve been apprised of what the medics know about me which I don’t.

Continuing the Story.

In case anybody’s interested:

I just received the dreaded letter from the hospital, the one which says simply a further appointment has been made for you. No details, no instructions, no notified procedure. It's so soon after the last scan and the appointment is for Monday morning with the urology consultant. It's all far too urgent for comfort and there can be little room for doubting that they have bad news for me. The weekend might be a little tense. I expect I’ll have more to report on Monday night.

A Matter of Space.

In spite of my earlier muse on the relative merits of motherhood and fatherhood, it occurs to me that women do have it easier in certain ways, not least the fact that they don’t have to stand in unwholesome proximity to a perfect stranger while urinating in a public toilet.

The public toilets in Ashbourne have three urinals, and every time I go in there some bloke of mildly dubious appearance and manner has taken custody of the middle one. Why not take the end one so that the person who follows will be at maximum distance? I always imagine that such people probably park their cars badly, too.

Learning from Adversity.

When I was having my abdomen assaulted by ultrasound last week I asked the technician: ‘Is its heartbeat OK?’ A paltry joke maybe, but pregnancy is what we most associate with examination by ultrasound.

Something occurred to me walking back to the car later, something I’d obviously realised a long time ago (and even written a blog post about) but which had never really sunk in: just how much more profound a concept motherhood is than fatherhood.

After the initial contribution the father does nothing; the mother does it all. She goes through nine months of getting fatter, heavier and wearier while the miracle of a new life unfolds within the confines of a body which was once exclusive to her. She exposes herself to what can be substantial health risks and submits to the processes designed to minimise them. At the end of it she has to suffer the pain of having a large square peg pushed through a small round hole of limited tolerance. And then she is the first to bond with the new little human she has been guarding from the outside world for thirty eight weeks.

How can fatherhood compare with that, no matter how assiduous his support throughout the process?