A Memory for Mother’s Day

this is a couple of years old but it’s one of my favourite “Mothering” stories

 

I married a bass player when I was seventeen.

He had such confidence. His presence filled a room. His laugh was beyond contagious. It cast a spell over you and you couldn’t help but laugh with him. He was sexy and funny and loved by everyone. I adored him. And I loved him long after we parted ways because we both left pieces of our hearts behind.

He was also one of the most talented musicians, singers and songwriters I have ever met and he gave me my little boy.

But this one isn’t about him really. It’s about me again.

One hot Oklahoma summer, a guy with a banjo and a guitar and a guy learning to play guitar and two hippie chicks, with long hair that would catch in the breeze and float like feminine banners to the Goddess, decided they needed a weekend in the country. We drove to Madill, Oklahoma. On a few acres of land was a dilapidated two room farmhouse belonging to the guitar player’s grandfather. We wandered the hills during the day, making grand plans of communal living with music and art and organic farming and ovens baking manna from heaven.

However, that night the two boys played guitar by the light of the moon and a few kerosene lamps while the chicks sang along. One of the songs they played was this one. They always played this one. The guitar player was a perfectionist. I suppose most good musicians are. The hippie chick with the long dark hair had a tendency to go a bit flat or run out of breath. It frustrated him.

So she learned how to stand perfectly still in the moonlight in a pair of low slung bell bottom jeans that dragged the ground, a thin magenta halter top that exposed her belly, her baby boy in nothing but a diaper perched on her hip with one hand reaching for her long dangling earring while the other pulled on her soft, straight Cherokee hair, and sing softly to the one being who possessed the most amazing ability to love her unconditionally.

And in that moment in a deserted piece of countryside under a moon filled, starlit night, with her baby in her arms, a shy mother sang to her little boy and the world could not have been more perfect.

 

 

 

 

Chemo Blues

Today has been a gruesome one. Day 3 after my third cycle of chemo.

I had to cancel my therapy appointment again:(

Too sick to get out of bed. Even with a reduced chemo dose I’m existing on anti-sickness meds but no mysterious fevers. So there’s that.

What do you do when you’re too sick to get out of bed? You take pics of your loyal and very beautiful Springer Spaniel.

The Spaniel spreading her love like a fever (apologies to BRMC):

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Chemo Yesterday

Cycle 3 of 6 Chemo treatments happened yesterday morning, although, at a reduced dose.

I don’t know but I’m guessing I won’t feel like making words for awhile.

I don’t feel like making words now.

I don’t know if it’s silly and futile to try to maintain a blog while going through cancer treatment but for the moment I’m trying to persist.

On Tuesday I was in the hospital for pre-chemo blood work.

I’ve recently discovered the poet, Alice Oswald.

While I was waiting I read her poem:

DUNT: A POEM FOR A DRIED-UP RIVER

I like this first verse:

Very small and damaged and quite dry,
a Roman water nymph made of bone
tries to summon a river out of limestone

I like the idea of summoning rivers.

Blessings,

8 May 2018

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A word or two…

I have started a number of posts attempting to describe where my head’s at these days but I get bored with them after the second paragraph.

They tell me cancer takes over your life. They’re not wrong but it doesn’t mean I want to talk about it. It’s just so boring.

Yet, it’s everywhere, impacts everything.

I’ll just say the chemo drugs and my body are not getting along. I have mysterious fevers and blood work indicating I’m fighting an inflammation of some kind but they can’t find a source.

Until those inflammation indicators come down chemotherapy has been deferred which means cancer has been given a reprieve which is depressing.

Unfortunately the high fevers are exhausting. I sleep a lot. I’m spacey a lot. I read a lot of poetry.

I find my writing a bit banal. I’m never happy with it. It seems off in some way. Sometimes I think I try too hard.

So I just read more and sleep more.

That’s where my head’s at.

Blessings.

Cancer Treatment Follow Up

As a follow up to THIS POST:

 

The Wonderspouse moved Heaven and Earth on Friday. I honestly don’t know what I would do without him.

 

He spoke to the Chemotherapy Sister (aka Head Nurse) for a long time.

 

He spoke to my GP who doesn’t know me because my GPs keep retiring (and who can blame them with Jeremy Hunt at the reins).

 

Unlike myself who had reached the end of her patience and would have pissed everyone off, he was able to be assertive without causing the medical staff to dig their heels in.

 

Clearly, I don’t have a virus (rolls eyes). I do have a sinus infection. I do, after all, have a history of them. I don’t think the fevers are related to an infection at all. They’re probably being caused by the bone marrow injections.

 

The GP has given me doxycycline. The Chemo Sister said my blood didn’t look too bad. So I have hope that with the antibiotics I will be well enough to continue chemotherapy. I have a appointment with the oncologist on Thursday.

 

I had ripped off my PICC line dressing because it was so tight it felt like knives piercing my skin. So Friday afternoon a very nice, gentle, nurse named Grace created a dressing that not only didn’t hurt, but has started healing the red, inflamed, places.

 

Friday afternoon the Wonderspouse took me to the beach on the way back from the hospital. We just took in the sea air for a bit. It was lovely.

 

Yesterday we had a burger in Worthing. It was a bright, sunshiny day. I tired quickly but still, it was a day out in the sun.

 

So, still a massive uphill climb but at least the demeaning treatment by the Emergency Floor doctors is resolved.

 

Here’s a pretty picture of my beach:

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Battles with the Male Medical Ego

I’ve run up against the Male Medical Ego, head first. Yes, again. I still live in hope that those creatures will become extinct.

As they insist in treating a sinus infection, which they are adamant is viral and which I am equally adamant isn’t (I should know as I’ve had two sinus surgeries for the damn things), with amoxicillin which hasn’t worked on me since I was 10, I am too sick for chemotherapy. I am too sick for radiotherapy and I will continue to be too sick.

So all cancer treatment has been suspended. In all fairness, I think my existence has escaped their attention at this point.

On a positive note, I have a 74% chance of survival from the surgery alone.

My throat hurts. My face hurts. My head hurts. My glands hurt. I’m pretty pissed off.

Here’s a pretty picture of me in my latest sun hat.

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Another Day

Another day spent at the hospital with intravenous antibiotics.

My body appears to be struggling with the chemo drugs. It also appears to be chronically fighting a viral infection of some kind.

Still, as chemo kills absolutely everything, once the fevers start I get treated for sepsis because anything else is not worth the risk.

I’m home now with The Spaniel curled around my body and the Wonderspouse looking worried and pale.

I feel

exhausted.

Despondent.

18 April 2018
Sussex Coast, England

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