O lucky man

When I thought first about this wee blog the title that came up in my mind was Lucky Bastard. Sadly this is a bit of a vile calumny on my parents so as usual I delved back into my history and came up with a 1973 movie with a stellar cast led by Malcolm Mcdowell and directed by Lindsay Anderson.
As usual in the peddie blog world the title has precious little to do with the text, so don't worry. This will mostly be about why I feel lucky, and despite promises not to be political, I may be, although not angry.

First my health.
The radiotherapy given at Ninewells a couple of weeks ago seems to have been pretty successful(although the image I seems to have settled of to represent it is WW2 aerial photo of the aftermath of the firebombing of Dresden, neither a pretty sight, nor a fair representation of the expertise of our NHS ). Certainly my head is clearer, despite that last paragraph.
I have lost a bit of fitness, more about the steroids I am on rather than the illness,  I think although I am thinking seriously about trying the mile and a half to bus in Kingsbarns again. Maybe.

So lets talk a bit about luck.

 Some things are obvious. 19 months ago I was diagnosed with a stage 4 lung cancer metastasising into both brain and shoulder bone. There was a single effective treatment available, but only a 50 50 chance this would be effective against my tumour. The coin came up positive and for 14 months my tumours shrank,  I walked 100000 steps a week and life was good and laughter was never far away.

Then there is the nature of my illness, and particularly the fact that it is entirely asymptomatic. At no time have I had any pain and even the Afatinib side effects never amounted to more than fart roulette.
I spoke yesterday to an ex customer who has a close family member with possibly a similar life expectancy,  but whose tumours are in the bones and who has pretty much constant pain. I suspect this would have challenged my courage and humour.
 

So it has been a little more than 2 weeks since I wrote anything here. It is slightly disappointingly because it was quite a clever, and ever so slightly political bit that explained that the real reason I am lucky is that my family has just enough financial resources to cope. Clare can take the day off to drive me to Ninewells for whichever is the next appointment, not only that but Clare's employers have been extraordinarily understanding and generous about letting the good Dr Peddie work flexibly over the past weeks or months.

Since I last wrote here I have reevaluated what makes me lucky.
It is the cocoon of love that I have been woven into. Not just my family, who have to help me, help Clare and look forward to a future without me, something I don't need to worry too much about.

I remember thinking way back in 2015 when I was diagnosed that what makes my friends and relatives special has been the number who have stepped towards me and offered me support and a good manly or womanly hug. Some have found it more difficult than others and I could see or feel a deep breath being taken. Many of you have gone an extra mile, and may never know how grateful I am.
I realise it can't be easy being nice to someone who routinely dissolves in tears whenever someone is nice to me.

And where is my health, I hear you not quite daring to ask.

Still fuckt, I am afraid, there is going to be no miracle cure. I am now being looked after by Fife Palliative care. Their remit is to make my last few weeks as comfortable as possible. Thus far things are going as well as can be expected. The lungs are a bit of a problem. I get breathless quickly. Interestingly the treatment of choice for this is low doses of morphine. This is less fun than I might have hoped and comes with its own side effect. CONSTIPATION.
Now I have been regular as clockwork for 50 years, but for the last few days I have been planning and balancing opiods against laxatives with as much care, although perhaps not as much skill as Warren Gatland plotting a test series win against the All Blacks.
And, yes, I realise I may be watching just a little bit too much rugby.

That last line of course was displacememt description, which has saved you all from learning how successful my balancing act has been.