My doctor, with whom I am moderately in love, (he's a sort of mysterious Iranian type - I keep expecting him to whisk me away over sand dunes on a magic carpet and then feed me Turkish Delight whilst presenting me with beautiful treasures which have been facilitated merely by the rubbing of a lamp) is sending me to a Guided Self-Help Counsellor. This is to expunge any negative thoughts about braintumourgate and help me to grow as a person and move on. I am rather hoping that I will morph into a new and scintillating comedy guru or the like once all trauma is released from my life. I don't actually like Turkish Delight. Perhaps cuddling up on a cozy rug in front of a crackling fire whilst wearing chunky cable knit sweaters and drinking Horlicks would suffice.
One doesn't know what to expect, does one? I did think the Mysterious Iranian Doctor (he may not be Iranian, incidentally, this is pure fantasy) handled the whole business in a somewhat offhand manner. After my appointment I had the pleasure of sitting in reception trying to fill in a questionnaire about my state of mind with nothing but posters about incontinence and mouth cancer as inspiration. Rating on a scale of 1-4 whether one has suicidal thoughts or if one feels like a failure (neither of which I do) whilst sandwiched in between a whiffy pensioner who is hacking up every Woodbine he has smoked since 1976 and a lactating expectant mother is rather a tall order. It's not the sort of thing one dashes off whilst leaning on a copy of Good Housekeeping from November 1997, is it? One of the questions asked me how often I found myself speaking too slowly or too quickly. Well, it rather depends upon what one is using as a yardstick, doesn't it? I had half a mind to peer, wild-eyed, at the lactating expectant mother and say 'Do I speak too slowly?' but thought perhaps she had enough of her plate as it was. I think I put 'not often' but am now concerned that this not emphatic enough. What if I have now slotted myself firmly into the manic depression category? Or Asperger's Syndrome? Or Attention Deficit Disorder? Or Tourette's? Or Legionnaire's Disease? Oh god.
Friday 27 February 2009
Wednesday 25 February 2009
Standing Room Only
At what point does one become less able to stand? I was considering this on the 94 bus on the way home, sitting in the seats reserved for those less able to stand. I am not in peak physical condition owing to the recent surgery, but I'm not exactly a snivelling mess who can't be let out of the house alone. Public transport is still something of a mission, however, as I still have iffy eyesight and tend to walk into seats/walls/Albanians when alighting public transport vehicles.
Well, fate dealt me a blow earlier as I was pondering this question whilst trundling along the Goldhawk Road aboard the 94. As I was smugly cozying up in the said less able seats a partially sighted gentlemen got on the bus and sat next to me in the seats of the people who are less able to stand, thereby pinning me most uncomfortably against the window. He then proceeded to eat very slowly and noisily (and being partially sighted, not very accurately) what appeared to be a battered sausage and a portion of greasy chips from a paper bag whose scent and grease insulating properties can only be described as woefully inadequate. There you go. Karma. I'm taking it as a sign that I am perfectly able to stand.
Well, fate dealt me a blow earlier as I was pondering this question whilst trundling along the Goldhawk Road aboard the 94. As I was smugly cozying up in the said less able seats a partially sighted gentlemen got on the bus and sat next to me in the seats of the people who are less able to stand, thereby pinning me most uncomfortably against the window. He then proceeded to eat very slowly and noisily (and being partially sighted, not very accurately) what appeared to be a battered sausage and a portion of greasy chips from a paper bag whose scent and grease insulating properties can only be described as woefully inadequate. There you go. Karma. I'm taking it as a sign that I am perfectly able to stand.
Sunday 22 February 2009
Lack-a-day!
Yes, it's been a long time and I know my public await me with a frenzied fervour. Now the whole humourless tumorous episode is over it seems rather difficult to come up with anything profound. I received some information putting it very plainly that recurrence is rare and total resection is generally considered curative. Really better than I had ever hoped for. Perhaps because I hadn't really taken in the whole drama of the situation now I can't really let it go either. I am trying, however. Goodbye Ganglion! Part of me still dares not be relaxed and lackadaisical about the whole thing, so I won't. It's over but it wasn't cock-a-hoop, as they say.
Notwithstanding all this, I had rather hoped that my life would be imbued with a greater sense of profundity and material goods would be nothing but meaningless folly, but to be brutally frank I'm still as interested in hats, shoes and bags as ever. Incidentally, I am still not entirely back to my cool and collected self. I was trying to buy some Yves Saint Laurent L'Homme Healthy Look Moisturiser in House of Fraser earlier and I completely forgot my PIN number. I mean, completely forgot it. I had to walk away empty-handed. I was saved from myself, really.
So, I'm about two years behind on my law course and it's only a two-year course. Bit of an issue.
It looks more or less certain that I'll be moving to Norway. Looking at the weather forecast I am questioning the wisdom of this decision. It's not even as if one can do the British thing and say to oneself "never mind, let's just get through January and February and it'll be balmy by the end of April". Oh no. A lifetime of ceaseless drizzle and humid bone-chilling cold is all that awaits, with perhaps one Thursday afternoon every other July where it might touch 17 degrees for a quarter of an hour if you're in a sheltered spot and your back is to the wind. It's not that bad really, but I always thought that if I were to leave this country it would be for warmer climes. It's only temporary. What's two years when you're young, free and the whole world is your oyster?
Moving abroad is also a logistical nightmare. How does one house-hunt abroad, for example? The internet has made it somewhat easier, although www.finn.no is no Rightmove, I can assure you of that. Lots of lovely properties with wood-burning stoves and loft rooms and mountain views and under-floor heating, but going to view them involves a schlep via the Place Where The Scum Amoebae Of Every European Nation Gather To Travel (Stansted) and then you only really have one attempt to find something unless you want to spend an absolute fortune and can face another sojourn toing and froing amongst the velour-tracksuit-clad peasants. How does one get one's furniture to a country to which one is not connected by land? One drives onto a pikey ferry in a Transit van and then spends a couple of hours trying to work out whether the rising nausea is seasickness or the primal horror of being entirely surrounded by French teenagers with no visible means of escape. One then proceeds to drive for about two thousand miles through a further five countries for four days at great expense, overnighting in motels with bedsheets that seem to have been woven from Ryvita. That is how one does it. Then one has to drive the van back for another for days when one has deposited the furniture. Not a walk in the park.
Scandinavia's saving grace is its music. I'm just discovering more and more. I might try to be clever and post a video of Maria Mena's Just Hold Me. Hang on. OK I tried I'm not clever enough, here's the link. I think she's miming but you get the idea.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yV3YYV1kpkI
Yes, all of the women do look like this in Norway. Most of them more towards the blonde end of the spectrum. Unfortunately quite a lot of the men look like the drummer and the pianist. You can't have it all. Actually here's To Let Myself Go by Ane Brun who I'm going to see on Thursday, in fact, in Islington, of all places. She recently did an amazing cover of Cyndi Lauper's True Colours which was used on the Sky+ HD advert, FYI.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A7tQiDHSe5E
The video is nothing to do with the song, but both are rather good, independently. So two singers, both good, both Norwegian. It bodes well. And my new Nano arrived today (woo-hoo! thanks Mum!) so I've got plenty of excuses to sit around with a vague expression on my face feeling dreamy and pensive whilst listening to doleful Scandis, wondering if I'll ever see the northern lights or the midnight sun. I suppose if it's too depressing to go outside there's nothing for it but to sit around writing doleful music (the television isn't really an option, it's just endless subtitled re-runs of Midsomer Murders).
Well I had so many thoughts that seemed scintillating, but I've honed my prose style enough for one evening. I've got to listen to an e-lecture about Co-Ownership of Land. Given that prospect, I could quite possibly be back later with more musical revelations....
Notwithstanding all this, I had rather hoped that my life would be imbued with a greater sense of profundity and material goods would be nothing but meaningless folly, but to be brutally frank I'm still as interested in hats, shoes and bags as ever. Incidentally, I am still not entirely back to my cool and collected self. I was trying to buy some Yves Saint Laurent L'Homme Healthy Look Moisturiser in House of Fraser earlier and I completely forgot my PIN number. I mean, completely forgot it. I had to walk away empty-handed. I was saved from myself, really.
So, I'm about two years behind on my law course and it's only a two-year course. Bit of an issue.
It looks more or less certain that I'll be moving to Norway. Looking at the weather forecast I am questioning the wisdom of this decision. It's not even as if one can do the British thing and say to oneself "never mind, let's just get through January and February and it'll be balmy by the end of April". Oh no. A lifetime of ceaseless drizzle and humid bone-chilling cold is all that awaits, with perhaps one Thursday afternoon every other July where it might touch 17 degrees for a quarter of an hour if you're in a sheltered spot and your back is to the wind. It's not that bad really, but I always thought that if I were to leave this country it would be for warmer climes. It's only temporary. What's two years when you're young, free and the whole world is your oyster?
Moving abroad is also a logistical nightmare. How does one house-hunt abroad, for example? The internet has made it somewhat easier, although www.finn.no is no Rightmove, I can assure you of that. Lots of lovely properties with wood-burning stoves and loft rooms and mountain views and under-floor heating, but going to view them involves a schlep via the Place Where The Scum Amoebae Of Every European Nation Gather To Travel (Stansted) and then you only really have one attempt to find something unless you want to spend an absolute fortune and can face another sojourn toing and froing amongst the velour-tracksuit-clad peasants. How does one get one's furniture to a country to which one is not connected by land? One drives onto a pikey ferry in a Transit van and then spends a couple of hours trying to work out whether the rising nausea is seasickness or the primal horror of being entirely surrounded by French teenagers with no visible means of escape. One then proceeds to drive for about two thousand miles through a further five countries for four days at great expense, overnighting in motels with bedsheets that seem to have been woven from Ryvita. That is how one does it. Then one has to drive the van back for another for days when one has deposited the furniture. Not a walk in the park.
Scandinavia's saving grace is its music. I'm just discovering more and more. I might try to be clever and post a video of Maria Mena's Just Hold Me. Hang on. OK I tried I'm not clever enough, here's the link. I think she's miming but you get the idea.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yV3YYV1kpkI
Yes, all of the women do look like this in Norway. Most of them more towards the blonde end of the spectrum. Unfortunately quite a lot of the men look like the drummer and the pianist. You can't have it all. Actually here's To Let Myself Go by Ane Brun who I'm going to see on Thursday, in fact, in Islington, of all places. She recently did an amazing cover of Cyndi Lauper's True Colours which was used on the Sky+ HD advert, FYI.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A7tQiDHSe5E
The video is nothing to do with the song, but both are rather good, independently. So two singers, both good, both Norwegian. It bodes well. And my new Nano arrived today (woo-hoo! thanks Mum!) so I've got plenty of excuses to sit around with a vague expression on my face feeling dreamy and pensive whilst listening to doleful Scandis, wondering if I'll ever see the northern lights or the midnight sun. I suppose if it's too depressing to go outside there's nothing for it but to sit around writing doleful music (the television isn't really an option, it's just endless subtitled re-runs of Midsomer Murders).
Well I had so many thoughts that seemed scintillating, but I've honed my prose style enough for one evening. I've got to listen to an e-lecture about Co-Ownership of Land. Given that prospect, I could quite possibly be back later with more musical revelations....
Thursday 12 February 2009
Gangly Ganglions
Eyesight continues not to improve. Sigh. I wouldn't mind a blind spot, I really wouldn't, but a swirling distortion is quite another prospect. What to do? I'm going to have to consider a career that involves not using the eyes. Any thoughts? I could become a rent boy, I suppose. Partial blindness would probably help. Hell, I'd do anything for £4.50 and a packet of Frazzles. as long as I couldn't see what I was doing.
As every day passes it becomes harder and harder to convince oneself that everything is going to be alright on the eyesight front. I've still got bruises all over my arms, mind you. If they're like that imagine what the brain is like. Poor brain. I did one of those brain training things on my sister's Nintendo DS (can you believe I am related to a person who has such a thing?). Anyway I was 60. Pleasing, no?
Some good news is that the Thing In Head was not even an astrocytoma, but even less dangerous than that, a Ganglioglioma. That's a mouthful, isn't it? Or a head full, depending on how you look at it. Hardly anything is known about them, it seems, but they're not dangereux. Phew.
Right, so I'm moving to Norway, as if the weather isn't cold enough here. It's snowing as I type. Brrrr. It's amazing just how Scandinavian all the flats we have looked at online are. I mean, it's as if IKEA have built the thing, let alone been responsible for the interior design. Norwegians put their washing machines in the bathroom. It's most irregular. What I'm going to do job-wise I don't know. It would be rather chilly walking the streets and terribly impractical to service clients whilst wearing Helly Hansen. Do they have Frazzles in Norway? I wouldn't have thought so.
As every day passes it becomes harder and harder to convince oneself that everything is going to be alright on the eyesight front. I've still got bruises all over my arms, mind you. If they're like that imagine what the brain is like. Poor brain. I did one of those brain training things on my sister's Nintendo DS (can you believe I am related to a person who has such a thing?). Anyway I was 60. Pleasing, no?
Some good news is that the Thing In Head was not even an astrocytoma, but even less dangerous than that, a Ganglioglioma. That's a mouthful, isn't it? Or a head full, depending on how you look at it. Hardly anything is known about them, it seems, but they're not dangereux. Phew.
Right, so I'm moving to Norway, as if the weather isn't cold enough here. It's snowing as I type. Brrrr. It's amazing just how Scandinavian all the flats we have looked at online are. I mean, it's as if IKEA have built the thing, let alone been responsible for the interior design. Norwegians put their washing machines in the bathroom. It's most irregular. What I'm going to do job-wise I don't know. It would be rather chilly walking the streets and terribly impractical to service clients whilst wearing Helly Hansen. Do they have Frazzles in Norway? I wouldn't have thought so.
Monday 9 February 2009
The Cheshire Set
I'm off to Cheshire, to my place of birth. It really is a hellhole. I mean, Chester itself is alright, if we're talking about the city centre, but the outlying areas from whence I hail are Scouser-come-good lower middle class hell. There you go, I've just defined myself as lower middle class. Actually, Tomos defined me as lower middle class at Claire's 30th birthday and it's been echoing around in my head ever since. It really is like Footballer's Wives. Although my parents aren't rich. They're lower middle class. Apparently. Although they're not Scousers-come-good. To clarify.
Talk about brain dead (people in Cheshire, that is, not Tomos). BJ and I were actually shouted at in the street last time we were there even though we were walking along minding our own business - not like we were even holding hands or anything like that. I'm all for making a political point but I wouldn't dare in the environs of CH66.
Still, I'm staying with Laura, whose parents live in a rural idyll as opposed to my parents who live in dreary suburbia. Phew. Furthermore, the weather is so appalling our plans revolve entirely around eating. My plans always do. I need fattening up, for the love of god!, I was subjected to more than a week of hospital food! So, we're going to don our Barbours and perhaps venture out for a tiny gentle stroll. Perhaps Laura will take me on another trip to look at the council houses. We'll see.
So strange reading the blogs below from before the operation. It all seems like a dream...
Talk about brain dead (people in Cheshire, that is, not Tomos). BJ and I were actually shouted at in the street last time we were there even though we were walking along minding our own business - not like we were even holding hands or anything like that. I'm all for making a political point but I wouldn't dare in the environs of CH66.
Still, I'm staying with Laura, whose parents live in a rural idyll as opposed to my parents who live in dreary suburbia. Phew. Furthermore, the weather is so appalling our plans revolve entirely around eating. My plans always do. I need fattening up, for the love of god!, I was subjected to more than a week of hospital food! So, we're going to don our Barbours and perhaps venture out for a tiny gentle stroll. Perhaps Laura will take me on another trip to look at the council houses. We'll see.
So strange reading the blogs below from before the operation. It all seems like a dream...
Sunday 8 February 2009
Gay cliché
I'm a gay cliché. I have known this for some years, although I was reflecting upon this when I exclaimed in a tone of voice not unlike that of Lil' Jimmy Osmond at dinner last night that my lips were terribly chapped and I needed to borrow some lip balm.
Here's the thing. Where does it come from? Not being gay, but the associated gay characteristics alongside the obvious liking boys rather than girls thing.
I brought my LPs down from my parents' house a couple of months ago (showing my age here). There was a period of about three years when I was, say, aged 11-14 where I only had a record player and no CDs. I didn't have any money when I was 11-14, so had five albums during all of this time - my paper round didn't pay all that well. They are, in no particular order; Kylie's first album entitled Kylie Minogue, Love Hurts by Cher, Like a Prayer by Madonna, Madonna's first album just called Madonna and Boomania by Betty Boo. Not only that but the only other three albums I have acquired since are Results by Liza Minnelli, Barbra Streisand's Guilty and Shirley Bassey - Live at Carnegie Hall.
How gay is that? Very. Here is what puzzles me. Pop princesses like Cher, Britney and Madonna, gays love them all, but why? It would but easy to think that it's just some gay bandwagon that everyone jumps on because they're a bit cheesy, but it's not true. I didn't know I was a gay when I bought all of those albums and Kylie and Cher were not cheesy and gay in 1991. They were serious artists. Love Hurts was a serious rock album. I still like it. They must have some essential quality that appeals to gays. I mean, why do we love them? Even now I can remember every word of the rap from Success by Dannii Minoque. But I didn't tape it from my friend Felicity (my best friend at primary school was called Felicity, that's even gay in itself) because it was ironic. I did it because I loved it. It's not because everyone else liked them, I spent years sitting in my room listening to I Should be so Lucky on vinyl whilst everyone else had Pump up the Jam by Technotronic on cassette. Actually I had that too. Actually I've still got it.
Here's the thing. Where does it come from? Not being gay, but the associated gay characteristics alongside the obvious liking boys rather than girls thing.
I brought my LPs down from my parents' house a couple of months ago (showing my age here). There was a period of about three years when I was, say, aged 11-14 where I only had a record player and no CDs. I didn't have any money when I was 11-14, so had five albums during all of this time - my paper round didn't pay all that well. They are, in no particular order; Kylie's first album entitled Kylie Minogue, Love Hurts by Cher, Like a Prayer by Madonna, Madonna's first album just called Madonna and Boomania by Betty Boo. Not only that but the only other three albums I have acquired since are Results by Liza Minnelli, Barbra Streisand's Guilty and Shirley Bassey - Live at Carnegie Hall.
How gay is that? Very. Here is what puzzles me. Pop princesses like Cher, Britney and Madonna, gays love them all, but why? It would but easy to think that it's just some gay bandwagon that everyone jumps on because they're a bit cheesy, but it's not true. I didn't know I was a gay when I bought all of those albums and Kylie and Cher were not cheesy and gay in 1991. They were serious artists. Love Hurts was a serious rock album. I still like it. They must have some essential quality that appeals to gays. I mean, why do we love them? Even now I can remember every word of the rap from Success by Dannii Minoque. But I didn't tape it from my friend Felicity (my best friend at primary school was called Felicity, that's even gay in itself) because it was ironic. I did it because I loved it. It's not because everyone else liked them, I spent years sitting in my room listening to I Should be so Lucky on vinyl whilst everyone else had Pump up the Jam by Technotronic on cassette. Actually I had that too. Actually I've still got it.
Saturday 7 February 2009
Oily goodness
As you can see, I am not dead. Hurrah for that. Going through these situations makes one appreciate how much life has to offer. How short it is. How one must strive to enjoy it because it's not here forever or some hideous illness could come along and make it painful and difficult. I just feel so different about so many things. I could go into great deal and write thousands and thousands of words but I have still got dodgey vision. Very dodgey. That's my only problem now, though. It was a benign astrocytoma if you want to look that up. The other thing they thought it could be was a cancerous oligodendroglioma. Look that up if you want to see why I was a little concerned. They also got rid of the cyst that was pressing on my brain so my eyes should slowly recover. I have felt like death all week but every day I feel more human again. I'm going to be a new, improved me. I'll let the thousands of words come out over the next couple of weeks. That'll be fun reading for you.
It wasn't that bad, all in all. My head ached like a bastard, to put it ineloquently. Let me tell you now, you've never had a headache. Nothing like a headache. We're talk about someone from Black and Decker popping over and testing their new range of tools on your head. I could feel the nerve in every tooth screaming for mercy, or morphine, which thankfully was forthcoming. The downside to that was that the morphine gave me weird hallcinations which have not yet gone away. I was lying on the ward watching blond, elfin children beckoning me to follow them and reading strange elvish language written on the walls. They've almost gone. I won't miss them, beautiful and serene
as they were.
I've had some sort of huge emotinal releasse. After ten years of being dead inside after Painful First Heartbreak and then the last four months dealing with the brain tumour debacle, or not dealing with it, I have spent most of the last two days crying. Not in a bad way. It's high time. I've got lots of catching up to do.
I made some muffins yesterday, which for some reason came out covered in a layer of oil. I thought it was strange to put sunflower oil in cakes, but it was in the recipe. I'll leave it out next time. Continuing on the grease theme, I haven't been able to wash my hair for ten days. I will be able to tomorrow, when the gaping hole in the back of my head will no longer be there. Soak up the oily goodness.
It wasn't that bad, all in all. My head ached like a bastard, to put it ineloquently. Let me tell you now, you've never had a headache. Nothing like a headache. We're talk about someone from Black and Decker popping over and testing their new range of tools on your head. I could feel the nerve in every tooth screaming for mercy, or morphine, which thankfully was forthcoming. The downside to that was that the morphine gave me weird hallcinations which have not yet gone away. I was lying on the ward watching blond, elfin children beckoning me to follow them and reading strange elvish language written on the walls. They've almost gone. I won't miss them, beautiful and serene
as they were.
I've had some sort of huge emotinal releasse. After ten years of being dead inside after Painful First Heartbreak and then the last four months dealing with the brain tumour debacle, or not dealing with it, I have spent most of the last two days crying. Not in a bad way. It's high time. I've got lots of catching up to do.
I made some muffins yesterday, which for some reason came out covered in a layer of oil. I thought it was strange to put sunflower oil in cakes, but it was in the recipe. I'll leave it out next time. Continuing on the grease theme, I haven't been able to wash my hair for ten days. I will be able to tomorrow, when the gaping hole in the back of my head will no longer be there. Soak up the oily goodness.
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