Will I be taken back whilst walking here
The sun illuminating flowers so white
How can I speak of all those things so dear
A child did cherish under stars so bright
Such wonder filled my heart along the lane
By day and night I walked in rutted earth
On paths where summer’s sun did light a flame
That burned within this new life brought to birth
And now in winter’s cold I feel the sun
That shed its light upon my childhood dreams
And think in awe of all that I have won
However dark my life at present seems
Oh take me back and light my flame again
That I might find the light that I found then


May there be a song one day that I sing
Rising above all the pains of this life
As beautiful as the birdsong in Spring
Tears having washed away all of my grief
One day may colours come live in ny heart
Though my eyes cannot see them they’re still there
Dispel the darkness tear the veil apart
This, my Lord now is my deep heartfelt prayer
Colour my world with a rainbow of love
Letting me know that my life s worthwhile
Give me the Spirit of peace like the dove
Let me again know and feel your warm smile
When all things in the Spring blossom and bloom
Make me one with Nature, singing its tune

#FOWC. Optional. DEAD END

FOWC with Fandango — Optional

“You choose.”

She sat there with her jangly bangles and hippy clothes.

Choose? What choice was there? They’d already chucked me out. Left me torn and bleeding. And all for WHAT? To satisfy the egos of some little weaklings.

Problem was, they had the power. The rules said so. And I had broken the rules. Oh not big time. But big enough for them.

So, I chose to leave. Walk out. Just like that. I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of entering into a heated argument, that only she could win.

So there I was. I’d walked out. What would I do now? You see, rules are not OPTIONAL. Or are they? I suppose breaking them is a choice you can make. But then what is the result of that? You end up losing out. Like I did.

But there’s one thing that isn’t OPTIONAL. Dying. Yeah, that’s it. Dying. That’s a real dead end!


It felt like the worst day of my life, the day we got “The Bed.” I had been bedfast for quite some time, even before the cancer was diagnosed. But the day we got “The Bed” delivered and put into the living room, it was really brought home to me just where I was at. Beds in living rooms were only for elderly people. And I was not elderly. My mother used to look after old ladies in their own homes. Ladies who were bedfast and dying. We lived in their houses, with them. I well remember arriving home from school one day, and all the curtains were closed, and there was a sombre atmosphere. Usually I would go into the front room where the old lady was, and talk to her and cheer her up. She liked that. But on this occasion my mother caught me at the door and said, urgently,

“Don’t go in there. She has died.” I was eight years old. That memory stays with me to this day.

I had resisted getting “The Bed” for a long time. It was too much of a step into the darkness of illness to agree to that. My mind just could not deal with it. But my poor husband, who was wheelchair bound was having to constantly go up and down the stairs to look after me. It was the only solution. And so, my lovely sitting room was pulled to bits to make room for “The Bed” and my heart was broken. We had not lived long in the house and had only just managed to get the room decent. Now, everything was undone again. I resisted going into the room and greeting “The Bed.” I could not face it for a while. Then, quite suddenly, I did. And as I did so, tears and a screaming broke out. I had CANCER! I was going to DIE. Probably in THIS BED!

It was only an ordinary bed. Ordered from the internet. A “Health Bed” it was called. Specially designed for people with bad backs. We’d had one once before, and knew they were good. But, HEALTH bed. Hmmm! I was DYING!

I finally got into the bed, flopped over on my side, and howled. What was I feeling? Fear, and a smothering blackness. This was IT! How long would I be here, I wondered. What was dying going to be like?

We were alone. Alone with it all. Most people think of those with cancer having kind nurses and loving family and friends surrounding them, lifting them up and encouraging them. It was NOT like that for us. We had no one – not in reality anyway. I come from a toxic family, and though they would visit, their visits were emotionally damaging to me, and yet, because I might die, we felt we had to allow my mother to visit. Looking back, I don’t know whether we did right or wrong, but in her own way my mother was suffering too. Differently to us, but still suffering. Ever one to put the feelings of others before my own, I allowed her to come.

I am reminded as I write, of how my doctor came into our living room at the very beginning of this strange and dark adventure, and looked me in the eye and said emphatically,

“YOU are the important one now.”

I think she knew that until now, I had always put myself aside for others, even to the extent of letting them dominate me in ways that were not good. Although that was not the WHOLE truth. I had fought. Fought for my life and the ability to LIVE my life, not under the control of others, namely my mother. We had only just moved back to my hometown, as my husband had had to give up work as he had post polio syndrome, and became unable to work in the end. It was too expensive to live in Derbyshire where we were living, and where I loved living, and so we returned to my hometown where living was much cheaper. I grieved desperately over this, and to this day feel a dreadful pang when I think of Derbyshire and how good life was there. I was the happiest I had ever been, there.

Although we had moved back to my hometown, where my mother lived, and still does, aged 93 now, and dying of emphysema, she did not really enter our lives again. The cancer however, provided entry for her, which was a disaster. She it was, who one day saw me on “The Bed” raising myself up on all fours drooling at the mouth and wailing like an animal. As I have written in an earlier posting, I had the worst itch that our local hospital had seen in over thirty years, and my skin was covered from head to toe in bleeding spots and open sores, such that in a morning my pillow was covered in blood. I remember one day, the doctor coming to see me, and saying, whilst pointing to the pillow and the blood,

“Is that yours?”

“Well, stupid, whose else COULD it be?” I mouthed silently to myself.

As my mother sat in the window seat of our living room, watching the drama on the bed in front of her, she was filled with disdain. I had always believed in God, from being a very small child, and still did. But she pursed her lips in utter disdain and repulsion at seeing me like this, naked on “The Bed” because I could not bear even a cotton sheet over me, and said in a mocking tone,

“Where’s your God NOW?”

It hurt. Yes, it hurt. I am not going to deny it. It hurt like hell, for it had been my belief in God that had seen me through the terrible years as a teenager when she had been abusing me. In those days, my real family was not my biological family, but my Church family was. It was through them that I experienced what I thought was real love. At the age of 13 it seemed like it. Without my belief in God and my new Church family I would have committed suicide. So NO WAY was my mother’s mocking and taunting now going to dent or break my belief in God. Yes, I had the most AWFUL cancer, but in the end it was God Who was stll there when everyone else fled at the sight of me. In fact, my mother’s taunts made my faith even stronger. In a strange way hurting me like that was like hurting my God Who had loved me, and I had this strange feeling that I wanted to fiercely protect Him from this onslaught. And as I write I want to make it plain that I do not see God as a benevolent old man in the sky. No, I have no idea at all Who or What God is, but I do believe that SOMETHING exists. Even if it is only our True Selves deep within us. Our True Essence.

And so, the drama unfolded on “The Bed.”

I remember one time feeling desperate to have a real mother, and in my need, I held out my arms to my mother, pleading with my eyes for her to come to me and hold and comfort me. But she pursed her lips in repulsion at me, and looked at my brother who was sitting next to her in the window, watching me squirming in agony on”The Bed”, and it was as if she was saying “Ugh,” to my brother. The worst of it was that my brother sided with her. I let my arms flop down again, feeling a knife go into me. That knife can still be re-activated at times, even now, and as she is now dying herself my emotions are tearing at me.

There are many more things to be said about “The Bed,” which my husband just this morning has called my Bed of Torture, but the best one is when I received the Last Rites, which I have written about before in my Blog. It was the most beautiful, joyous experience of my whole life. But I feel I should stop here, and continue later with a posting entitled “The Bed 2” as writing makes me very tired. So, watch this space folks. And thankyou for reading x
(To Be Continued).


Last night I found a wonderful Blog written by Judy. Here is the link to it:

In reading her Blog and then downloading her amazing book, I was brought truly and honestly face to face with my cancer again. Many things I had buried in order to survive emotionally. But they have now re-surfaced, and today I plan to write about them. It is not pretty. I intend to write about The Bed. If you feel able to read it later, you will read about my experience of nearly dying, receiving the Last Rites, and of what it felt like to be leaving this world. Some of it is exceedingly joyous. So it is not ALL horrible. This is quite a venture for me because it goes very deep into me. But some people have asked me before, here in WordPress to write about my experience of almost dying. Of being on the brink, and seeing into a different world. I have held off until now, but something has prompted me, so it must be the right moment.

Thankyou so much to Judy for her Blog, her book, and for bringing this all out into the open. A subject that is usually not talked about and that is shrouded in mystery and fear.

I hope you will feel able to read it when I
post it, hopefully later today.

Have a good day everyone, and much much love to you all. And much love to Judy. Thankyou Judy x

The Friday Reminder and Prompt for #SoCS Feb 16. Yawn


Stream of Consciousness Writing

Why do the days yawn when I am tired in the sizzling sun lying down under the clouds. They take me up and I sleep in them in my sumner shorts. Whisky shorts, I never drink them but some do. I never understood it. I see men with cigars in bars and I don’t want to be there. I don’t like shorts but I do wear them especially in the sun. I remember those yawning days in Derbyshire right next to Buxton where the green grass is and the dogs played. One year it snowed and I lost my car keys in the snow. I thought I would never get home. I wasn’t wearing shorts then and I was cold but the dogs had plenty of fur on them. I got home in the end and still loved the snow as I always had. Thank God I got home.


Whilst wandering through fields of darkness
Remembering the daisies
I found myself amongst the weeds
My path was blocked I could not move
I fought for air to breathe
The darkness seemed to strangle me
How could I find the light
I turned and spied a different path
Where sunlight fell and played
Where rabbits ran
And squirrels too
And daisies flourished fine
It was a glade where I could drink
Of Nature’s finest wine
I turned and walked along that path
Playing in the sun
Forgot the weeds of darkest night
And learned to live again

#FOWC. Variety. Oh I do like the seaside

Oh the glitter
Ritzy razamatazz
Kicking legs
Snazzy music
Right beside 
The sea 
The waves
Below the sand
Sea shells
Do you hear the sea?
Held to ear
Promenade of joy
High tower of delight
Night  time illuminations
Pits of shrimps
How many can you eat?
Oh I do like to be beside the seaside
Where the VARIETY shows  were born


Whatever happens to us in life, even if we feel we have prison bars of any kind around us, the stars still shine and the moon still gives her light, and the sun still shines. It’s hard, very often, to take a cue from them and to shine in the midstt of our darkest prison. This poem was inspired by my own feelings of being in a prison. Of having prison bars around me. It represents my own struggle still to shine despite everything. There is a story behind this poem that I may recount one day.

Look to
The light, the stars,
The sun and the moon shine
Never can darkness quench their light
The bars
Of your prison cannot stop them
Turn your face, shine
With them


Flaming passions
Time spent in memories
Of brighter things in olden times
Joys lived
As I sat under the rowan
Linking with all the souls
Who rested there
May I

Rest too
Held in the joys
That made me who I am
Though now I live in darker times
As darkness takes me into dawn
Beyond this sphere in time
May the new world
Come soon


Why do people often delight in kicking a person when they are already down?

This has happened to me on a number of occasions since I had cancer. It happened to me big time yesterday. But this post is not to gain sympathy or anything. It is one in which I want to pose a genuine question. Is it because we are basically animals, and animals go for the weakest one because they are the easiest to get? My husband has just suggested that. That if we don’t tame our animal instincts we can get into all kinds of unacceptable behaviour. Darwin talked about the survival of the fittest. Is this how we are? I think there is a lot of truth in it. But I also think that as human beings, many of us show kindness and compassion towards those who are down, or in need. Certainly I have seen this to a LARGE degree in WordPress.

I am questioning this because I really want to know what would make someone want to kick someone who is already down. Do they get pleasure from it? Are they sadists at heart? I don’t know.

Why also can people seem to be the kindest of people, whom you then come to trust over a number of years and then suddenly turn into something that you don’t realise they were. That all along they had been thinking bad of you.

And, why do some people turn a virtue into a vice? I do not understand that one either.

We have to overcome these attacks, however weak we feel as a result of them. We have to believe in ourselves still. We have to see through the muck that is being thrown at us, and recognise it as muck, clothed in something that does not present like muck.

I have had my fair share of being bullied since I had cancer and became blind and in a wheelchair. Again, an attack on the weakest. And these attacks mainly come from those who should know better and who proclaim a Gospel of love and compassion.

I reject utterly these sorts of words and opinions, remembering the statement that before criticising someone we should walk a mile in their shoes.

I wonder if any of you have any thoughts on why people like to kick those who are down? Any thoughts at all are welcome. I am not asking for help or advice but simply any ideas on what it is that drives people to do this. I am seeking understanding. And all you good folk on WordPress often have brilliant ideas. Please hold forth lol. X


Slipping through
Time so slowly
Dreamlike days call you
You hear them in your heart
Nothing exists for you now
Except the slow passage of time
Your senses numbed you must keep going
Oblivious to the pain that grips you

#FOWC. Petrified

FOWC with Fandango — Petrified

A poem about loss of trust

You speak,
Your words seem like
Solid ground, that I can
Stand on, build on, believe in, trust,
But then
I find that they are deceptions,
What I believed, not true,
Ground collapses
I sink.

A hole
Has opened up,
Where your false words once were,
I cannot move, cannot walk now,
I am
Not safe.
I stand here, PETRIFIED in fear,
I become as stone, still,
Afraid to breathe
Foul air.

Is what you gave,
Killing the life within
I struggle now to live, to breathe,
I hear your voice, my lover true
I am the love you seek,
Come now to me
And rest.

My words
Are firm and sure,
Solid, like a rock, hide
In me I will protect you now
Hold you,
Love you,
I will rock you as a baby,
Nothing now can harm you,
You are safe now
In me

Fear grips
My aching heart,
For I have learned to fear,
Shaking, I come towards you find
That you
Wait for
Me, weeping deeply for my pain,
Wanting only to hold
Me, comfort all
My fear.

I begin to
Move towards you crying,
Can it really be that you care?
Can I
Trust you when my life has taught me
Not to trust, that nothing
Is ever firm,
Or sure.

My heart
Aches, how I want
To believe in you run
Into your arms, be held firmly,
Please help
Me now
Take away the fear of my heart,
Release me so that I
Can come and fall
On you

Catch me
As I fall down
Enfold me in your love,
A love that I have never known,
Make me
Safe for evermore, never then
To be hurt, hit by the
Cruel blows that
Kill me.

How I
Want to love, your
Words seem true fill my heart
I am coming now, I trust you,
I feel
Your heart
Aching for me to come to you,
Your love weeping, says
That it is safe

I come

MY CANCER STORY. Questions Without Answers

I was going to write about my first chemo session, but I have been taken to another place, a place, yet again, of questions. We know where our cancer journey begins, but we do not know where it ends, or will end. Many of my friends died. Many of my close relatives died, all from rare cancers like mine. Lymphoma itself is not rare, but my particular type, Hodgkins Lymphoma, is rare. It is estimated that 2.7 per 100,000 will get Hodgkins Lymphoma in a year in the U.K. despite it being one of the most curable cancers.

In my own case it was very advanced when diagnosed, meaning that I was expected to die. That, however, was partly to do with where my tumours were situated, and their size. I had three very large tumours in my chest, and three in my abdomen. In my chest, one of the tumours was situated between my left lung and my heart, and another two were situated such that they were resting on my aorta, about to cut my blood supply off. In my abdomen, one was just beginning to go into my liver, and another into my kidney, and another into my spleen. They were all large tumours, which is typical of Hodgkins Lymphoma. I also had a large tumour on my back, and many in my neck and these were pressing on my windpipe, making breathing difficult. It was most frightening. Additionally I had tumours underneath my arms.

Throughout the period when I was undergoing chemotherapy, no one was prepared to offer me any hope. This, I found most difficult to deal with, because going through the chemo was horrible, and I sometimes had problems in keeping going, especially towards the end. Without being given any hope, It was demoralising. All that anyone would say about the chemo was that it was “a leap of faith.” And it certainly WAS. The Haematologist was most negative, and this really got to me.

I did eventually go into remission, but the side effects of the drugs has left me with a life that at times feels almost unbearable. Most people do not get side effects as severe as mine. I do not understand why I got every side effect under the sun, and why I got everything in spades. And that is my main question today, WHY? I guess there is no answer to it, except that for one of the drugs, I had to be given a much larger dose than is recommended. It was one of the more toxic drugs – vinblastine.

Some days now, I become so distressed because I can see no way through. I am totally dependent, and this causes me such deep pain. I will not describe my life right now, but at the end, when I have written everything else, I will. Every so often, the question “WHY?” plagues me. Not, “Why me?” as in why was I chosen to get cancer. But “Why did I get the side effects so severely, when no one else has?” Even the Haematologist is shocked. But that does not help me. I guess asking that question does not help me much either, but I AM a person who asks questions. I am built like it. I always have, since being a very little child.

As time goes on, things get worse. For the vinblastine, , the effects appear for many years after treatment. It was this drug that took away my eyesight, and rendered me unable to walk. It caused what is called peripheral polyneuropathy, and many of my nerves have been affected, including my motor nerves, that are needed for walking. It has caused my muscles to die also, and I experience almost unbearable pain at times. I am never out of pain, but many days it is almost unbearable. The nerves and muscles in my face and around my mouth have been affected too, which I find extremely embarrassing.

I had a cocktail of chemo drugs. The regime was called ABVD. The ‘B’ stands for bleomycin, and it too has had a bad effect upon me. It has caused fibrosis of my left lung. A further problem arising from this is that I have been told that I must never have an anaesthetic unless I am going to die anyway, and surgery might save my life. This, I find most scary to live with.

My life therefore is very curtailed. With my husband also wheelchair bound due to post-polio syndrome, we face many challenges. Sometimes we feel very black about it all, but mostly we simply get on with it. I guess today is a bad day, which is why I started writing about it!

We both know that things can only get worse, not better. That is something we have to learn to live with. I intend to run my Blog for as long as I can. So I hope you will stick around and keep me company.
(To be Continued)


With deep wounds
I travel onwards
Pain seeping out of every pore
Yet travel I must
Until I fall
Traumatised I am paralysed within
Alone in a world that passes me by
There is no Home for me
Until I reach my final Home
Trite words I speak
Smiling when I am screaming
Who was it who said
They were not waving but drowning?
With thanks to Stevie Smith
I adopt those words
I walk
To my journey’s end


So much talk
My ears ring as your words clash
Am I really not my self?
I look down
And see that I am still here
Dressed in the same skin
But skin deep is not okay
There has to be more
Or so you say
Maybe I don’t want you to see beyond my skin
For your eyes would not see the same as mine
But who cares?
What we see is what we see
Or not
I learned fast
It is what the heart sees that matters
Only my heart knows the truth
While you say “What is truth?”

#FOWC. Reason

FOWC with Fandango — Reason

Long days I spent
Straining to find answers
Educated long in logic
I sought
To find
Peace in the very heart of me
Convoluted questions
Tied me in knots
So tight

Papers I wrote precise
Sentences arguing my case
My God
But never did I find my peace
Until I let my heart go
Its own good way
In love

Must join hands with
The love that is in hearts
To find the way that we must go
Each one
Giving wholeness to our souls peace
Passing understanding
Holy marriage

#3TC. Bones. Death. Dominies.


It happened in the hospital. The best place really. There we were, my husband and myself, driving in our wheelchairs along the long corridor to see the Specialist. Not so long ago my BONES had been sticking out almost through my skin. I had been close to DEATH. But on this day, I was happy. I was in remission from the cancer that had almost killed me, and I was starting to put on weight again. Not being used to the powered wheelchair yet, I had not quite got the hang of which setting drove it at what speed. Behind me in the narrow corridor was my husband and a long line of people, many carrying brief cases and looking very important. Some were very ibviously doctors. Everyone was very business like.

I became aware that I was only going very slowly, and so I decided to speed up a bit for the benefit of the people behind me so that I was not holding them up. In order to do thus I had to stop the wheelchair and change the speed setting.

Unaware if what might happen, I stopped suddenly. My hysband went straight into the back of me, and the line of people, not realising what was happening, kept going. They all bumped into the back of each other, and started to fall, like DOMINOES.

I am not sure of the words they were saying, but I thought I heard a few quite unpleasant ones. Not good, for a hospital, I thought!


My composure
Only just holding on
Brittle with barbs of suffering
I need your gentleness again
Your firm arms around me
Holding me tight
Rock me

I can’t hold on
I cry into the night
The night puts its arms around me
And still
I cry tears into my pillow
Where no one can see me
I am breaking


Today she ran out of ink
Her well had dried up
Her hand lay limp at her side
Just like the brain in her head
Who was going to fill her well?
Her gaze hit the floor

Her dreams lay on the floor
Pictures not drawn in ink
Her life had not gone well
How could those dreams rise up?
What could she do with her head
Put everything aside?

She had nothing left inside
But plenty on the floor
Looking up at her head
Thirsty for some ink
Didn’t the devil do well?
How could the fragments get up?

Something told her she had to buck up
Lift her hand up from her side
Take a drink from the well
Picking things up from the floor
Riding on the fountain’s head
Ready to write in ink

Things have to be written ink
In letters that stand up
Words not just from the head
But from the heart that beats inside
Refreshed by the drink from the well
Rising up from the floor

Now there is nothing on the floor
Not even spilled ink
Magical was the well
Lifting her spirits up
Now she’s back on the right side
Everything’s right in her head

The fountain’s head gives life to the ink
That once was on the floor looking up
At the hand lying limp at her side unaware of the well


And so now I am alone
In the eerie silence of a life gone wrong
Shall I unpack my case
Such as it is?
All that I have is my body
Wracked with pain
But it is mine
No one can steal it from me
Like you stole my soul
I sit here in the dark
Is it good to remember?
A line was drawn one day
When the pink blossom bloomed on the trees
And birdsong filled the air
A line which I can never cross over
Never go back
On one side is health,
Mountains to climb
On the other side is cancer
And you chose to abuse that
My helplessness became your fruitfulness
Such as it was
And so where are my fruits now?
Do oranges grow in the dark?
Apples tempt us?
And what of the serpent?
I lie in the dark and the silence
Hearing only the falling rain


Friends are those who stay with you
No matter what
Who make no requirements of you
Who see you when you are on the floor
And come down on the floor with you
Friends are those who put not the noose of posi.tivity round your neck
When you can hardly lift a finger
Never mind your whole body
Friends are those who recognise your pain
And do not call it by another name
Friends are those who accept you as you are
Who comfort
And feel with you
Who offer soothing words
And who, with you, call a spade a spade.

Thankyou to my friends in here. And thankyou to those who helped get me through the night x

MY CANCER STORY: “Bring it on.”

The night times are the worst. Looking to the future is frightening, and looking back is traumatic. Yet memories haunt. I know that we are meant to live in the present moment. But even the present moment stinks sometimes.

I still wonder how I came to be here. Yet there is no point in wondering. There will never be an answer.

It is night time, and I am in pain. No position in bed is comfortable. My thoughts go back – to where it first started to hurt. Because cancer DOES hurt. Surrounded by positivity and glowing pictures and videos of people with cancer surrounded and supported by loving family and friends, it is easy to forget that cancer actually DOES hurt. Never be under any illusion about that.

I remember my first chemo session. I expected to be terrified. But I wasn’t. I was strangely calm. The thoughts of cancer had always terrified me in the past. Visions of people puking into bowls, with no hair decided me that if ever I got cancer I would end it all. That was NOT going to be me!

On the day that I was told, brutally, that I had cancer, and that it may even kill me, I was wheeled in a wheelchair to a side room, where the haematologist was going to come and see me. I had never met him before, and I had a vision of someone gentle and kind. But it was NOT like that! I thought I was going to the hospital to be assessed regarding infection, and for the right antibiotics to be found to treat my infection. So I was very surprised and somewhat alarmed when we came to some doors , above which were the words, “Haematology” and “Oncology.” Well, I knew what Oncology was, and started in my wheelchair, exclaiming to my husband that it said “Oncology” above the doors.

“Yes, but you are here to see the Haematologist,” he said, as if that would make it all better.

As I was pushed along the corridor by a nurse, I looked to the left of me as we passed by a room, in which I could clearly see a figure, hairless, pallid, in a bed, hooked up to a machine. Obviously someone very sick. I shuddered, and looked away.

“That is the Treatment Room,” said the nurse.

“That is where you will go.”

“EH?” I said inside myself. And immediately dismissed the statement. It was obvious that this nurse did not know. I did not have cancer. I was here for an infection. She had it all wrong. She obviously had not been told.

I was taken to the side room where I was told to get on the bed. The Haematologist would be with me shortly.

Soon, a very curt, business like man entered the room, walking fast and purposefully. He REALLY meant business! I felt shocked. Why was he like thus? I was just here for an infection. What was all this drama about? Why was he accompanied by a nurse in a plastic apron? The plastic apron terrified me. It spoke of all KINDS of undesirable things. Like blood! Urine. And even worse. Bodily fluids! What was she going to do to me. I was thrown off balance.

My husband, who also was in a wheelchair, as he has Post Polio Syndrome, and my mother, were thrown out of the room. Well, not exactly, but it felt like that. The Haematologist wanted to examine me. He was very thorough. I did not understand what he was doing or why. I simply had an infection. All that I was here for was for them to take blood samples. Then I would be prescribed some antibiotics.

Eventually my husband and mother were called back into the room. It looked serious. The Haematologist and the nurse looked serious. I was shocked and confused. What was all this about?

The Haematologist turned to me andsaid, quite bluntly, and brutally,

“You have cancer. Lymphoma. There are lymph nodes all over our bodies, and it is like a daisy chain. They are all linked together like a daisy chain, and the cancer spreads from one to another. All your nodes are cancerous.”

Everyone went quiet, and the ground seemed quite popular. Both the nurse and the Haematologist were looking down at it, and seemed to be studying it.

I could hardly believe what was being said. My mother, who is never affectionate at all, and who hates touch of any kind, started kissing my head absent mindedly. I was then told that they would be starting me immediately on chemotherapy. The vision of myself, hairless, and puking into a bowl ceaselessly came back to me. No no, thus was NOT me. It was NOT going to happen. I would rather die.

And so it was that I presented myself for my first chemo session.

“Everyone who comes in here is brave,” said the chemo nurse to me.

I did not feel brave. And yet, there was, to my utter surpruse, a strange calm about me.

“Bring it on,” I was saying inside of myself.

And to the chemo, “Do your worst.”

I was ready.
(To be continued)


FOWC with Fandango — Garage

Mother was looking decidedly determined.

“What’s going on?” Steve said to her.

“Oh, nothing,” she replied.

“Now come on Mother. I know that look.”

“I haven’t got ANY look,” Mother fired.

“‘Oh yes you have. It’s that one that looks like a cross between sour grapes and a hungry alligator.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

Steve sensed that the conversation was going nowhere.

“Look at all those old books and newspapers in the porchway,” said Steve to me. “You can hardly move in there.”

He turned towards me, but I refused to be drawn in. I knew where this was going.

“Anyway, where’s Libby?” asked Steve.

“Where she always is. In the bathroom washing her face.”

“What, for three hours as usual?” Steve barked.

“It’s nothing to do with you,” shouted Mother.

“Oh yes it is,” shouted Steve. “She rules this house.”

“Well you don’t have to live here,” flashed Mother.

“Has she stopped eating nothing but apples yet?” inquired Steve.

“It’s nothing to do with you,” repeated Mother.


“She locked me in the GARAGE this afternoon,” Mother suddenly whined.

“She WHAT!” yelled Steve. “How long for?”

“Oh, about two hours,” said Mother.

“TWO HOURS,” exclaimed Steve, his voice rising.

“What did you do,” asked Steve.

“Oh I decided to tidy it up,” replied Mother.

“But weren’t you worried?” said Steve, his face going a rather strange shade of puce.

“Oh I knew she would let me out in the end,” said Mother.


Well there I was, sitting in my bed, eating smarites. I know, I know!

For those of you who do not live in the U.K. a smartie ia a little round bit of chocolate covered in some kind of hard sugar coating. They come in all different colours (not that I can see the colours, but I CAN tell you that the orange ones taste different to all the others!)

Well anyway, there I was in my bed eating smarties. Our cleaner was busy cleaning up downstairs, and I was sharing my bed with a drum and about five different Native American Indian flutes, two iPads and an iPhone. Why, you might ask!

Well, I have an App on all my iPads and on my iPhone that records. And so, I first of all record myself playing the drum. Then I play the recording whilst adding in the Native American Indian flute, whilst recording those two sounds on another iPad! Then I had intended to go and run cold water in the bath to make the sound of running water in the background! You get the idea?

But the smartie got in the way! One dropped out of the tube as I was putting a couple into my mouth. I had my dress on at this stage, though dressing had been a chore on this day! I attempted to find the escapee smartie by feeling around in the bed, NADA! NOTHING!

Soooooo, I felt all around inside my dress – NADA! NOTHING!

Soooooo then I got out of bed – carefully because I fall over – and shook my dress listening for the escapee landing on the floor. NADA! NOTHING!

I then felt around on the floor, then in and on the bed again. NADA! NOTHING!

My dear friends. You know EXACTLY what is going to happen don’t you. Tonight, when I lie down all nice and warm in bed to go to sleep, I will suddenly feel against my skin, a warm mushy ball of SOMETHING. All nicely melted, and sticking to both me and the bed!

The moral of this tale? You got it! Don’t eat smarties in bed!



You BUNDLE me into your definitions
With not a care
Except to protect yourself
It hurts
As you try to fit the wayward pieces in
The ones that stick out and refuse to go
Into your box
The world is full of boxes
I hear the crying every day
Of those who hurt
Those bundles that do not fit
Hear their pain


Sometimes we ha e to stay where we are for a while to allow ourselves to become acquainted with our own grief and pain, in order to heal fully. We cannot rush the process of healing. It happens at different paces for everybody

Stay in
The wilderness
Of your sorrows, broken
Though you are, truth is what matters,
Words and feelings cannot heal you,
Just the raw pain you face
In honesty
Can heal

*TRIGGER WARNING – Poem about being preyed upon to make you agree to having assisted suicide

They creep up on
My exhausted spirit,
The words “assisted suicide”,
Put there
By those
Who say you are a huge burden,
A drain on family,
“It’s your duty
To go.

We can’t
Care for you now,
You are too much for us,
It’s only right that you should go,
Go now,
We will take you to that good place,
Soon it will be over,
Suffer no more
My dear.”

“Your words
Confuse me so,
My mind can’t take it in,
My pain is great, yet still I want
To fight.
Give me
The chance to live despite the pain,
It’s MY life still to live,
Not yours to take,
Hear me.”

Your words are dear,
Can’t you think of us now?
You are so self-willed, and stubborn,
Of yourself. Now is the time to
Let go and die in peace,
While we rock you

We can’t
Manage any
More. You wear us all out,
And even if you live what sort
Of life
Would you
Have? Not the life you used to know,
Listen, it makes good sense,
It’s best for us
All now.

You know
We’ll help you, be
There at the end, playing
Quiet music, peaceful it will
Be. No
More pain,
You’ll just slip away, it won’t take
Long. The end will come, then
You will be free,
At rest.”

My voice
Comes weakly, “Please
Don’t pressure me, at least
Give me the chance. I want to live,
And yet
I know
I’m a burden, too great for you
To bear, I know that i
Must go, help me
To die.”

Lorraine Lewis.