Mending bridges

Before all the cancer stuff became the apparent, I was struggling with the concept of "stepmothering". When OD and I had the chat about moving in, we'd decided that I would not play a parenting role. It wasn't something I was keen on, and D3( aged 13 going on 35) had been particularly vicious to her mother's partner. OD was keen to try and prevent a second victim.

Unfortunately, that ploy didn't work. Lots of reasons why
1. I (used to ) spend more time in the family home than he does.
2. Our tidiness thresholds are VERY different. Yes- I have OCD.
3. He got cancer.

We have had numerous discussions about the kids pulling their weight with household responsibilities and keeping communal spaces tidy. I'm not going to go into huge details about that just now, but his relaxed ( read: so laidback, the man is horizontal!) approach lent to arguments.

D3 is a messy critter. It's like Hurricane Sandy- except that the chaos and destruction is in the manner of dirty cups, make up, crumbs, sweet wrappers, apple cores, tea bags. To give her credit, she has been trying harder, but inconsistently. She also has a nasty habit of being verbally abusive- more so to her father than me, but two minutes later, in her head, all is forgotten. Unfortunately, I'm not able to let go of the hurt and upset so quickly.

I'd been a little cool towards her after a particularly unpleasant outburst, but in an attempt at extending an olive branch, we engaged in some holiday fun. She's having a Halloween party, and the conservatory is a covered with bats, ghosts and pumpkins.

And the piece de resistance...

The worst thing about all the stepmothering is the realisation that I have become my mother! Ugh

The uphill challenge

There is a plan in place. The oncologist Dr P has strongly recommended chemotherapy-oxaliplatin and capecitabine. One infusion, followed by 2 weeks of oral tablets, one rest week= 1 cycle. And OD has signed up for eight cycles. He's decided to try and have treatment in B'rum so that he can continue working. The next 6 months is going to be what is going to seem like an endless cycle of chemo.

The side effects include the usual nausea, fatigue, but can also cause fairly dreadful diarrhoea, peripheral nerve changes and chest pain. The chance of hair loss and loss of fertility are not high, but still a possibility. We've had lots of supportive messages from friends and family, and the general message is usually, "Stay positive".

It's incredibly difficult to feel positive about the situation. OD has probably not had a good night's sleep since the diagnosis. It's a shame that no one has figured out how to bottle optimism up. Because I could use two of those right now.

Glass half full.

We got the phonecall today. Ironically, I was at work, trying to recruit someone for my cancer trial. It's not the best news. We're looking at Stage IIIb colon cancer- with 5 lymph nodes involved. No lymph nodes is best, < than 3 lymph nodes is better, and."patients with one to three involved nodes have a significantly better survival than those with four or more involved nodes".

Donal is on the train to B'rum to see the oncologist. I wanted to go with him, but as it's half term, the kids are at home, and more pertinently, he wanted some time to process things.

It's ironic, because he was doing so well after his laparoscopic surgery, I was feeling optimistic. Perhaps it was an attempt to be "glass half full". Last night, I even asked him if he would consider flying to Malaysia in a couple of weeks time if he didn't need chemotherapy. Which makes it even more of a slap in the face.

The numbers are not great, five year survival rates seem to be hovering around the 40-50% mark.

Sometimes, life is a real bitch.

Attack of the killer hand mixer...

Normality is a difficult thing to achieve these days. OD and I have both been sleeping badly. He's having recurring nightmares about calamities. The worst is being told that the cancer has spread and that he needs an exenteration. Which is a horrible procedure that clears the pelvis of all organs and disease, but means a "poo and pee bag". The chances of him needing that are fairly minimal- but it's still something he's understandably freaked out about. So the weekend has been a blur of 4 am pacing and midmorning rescue sleeps.

In an attempt to function on Sunday morning, I was up at 8 am. And I decided to soothe the soul with baking. The Hummingbird Bakery Book had a delightful carrotcake recipe. I assembled the ingredients, and went to get the hand mixer.

About three weeks ago, my trusty handmixer which I had inherited from Pris had died. And I tossed it out, comfortable in the knowledge that in the big move, I had brought a new looking box containing a hand mixer that my flatmate had abandoned. It was flash looking Gino D'Campo mixer. I opened it up.  But...there were no beaters. Just these things.

 

(Dough hooks- not very good for whipping icing- note bent because of later events. Keep reading.)


The penny dropped- I'd thrown away the beaters with the old mixer. Crap!

I tried with the dough hooks- not very efficient. OD had an old fashioned manual mixer. So I gave that a shot.

 ( Hand mixer- also not great for making icing)

 It was rubbish and all the butter and cream got stuck in it. Then smarty pants decided to try and use the manically whirling electric dough hooks to remove the butter and cream.

It was disaster. I'm still not sure how this happened, but the electric mixer in my hand jumped out of the mixing bowl and got entangled in my jumper. And as it turned and whirred, it twisted my jumper creating a very effective choke-hold. For about two seconds, I thought I was going to suffer GBH in the hands of a couple of dough hooks!. Luckily the brain kicked in, and I managed to switch off the electric beast at the mains.

The kitchen was covered in butter and icing sugar.

 And I had to make cream cheese frosting by hand!

Anyway, the end result was satisfactory- but I did have OD and his sister in tears when I told them the story later. All I can say, is he's lucky I didn't die. It would have been an awkward one to explain to the police!

(The final result- I can recommend the recipe).

Mental hygiene

OD and I both like ambling. That's the only similarity.
I like ambling around a National Trust property, looking at gardens, craft fairs, overpriced artisan foods...
He likes ambling around the Trafford Centre ( a big shopping mall).

I'm the Malaysian- ambling around malls is meant to be MY national past-time. We even came up for a word for it.."lepak".

Extract from urban dictionary.com

	lepak
	1) To hang out with friends, loiter about and do absolutely nothing. Commonly used in Malaysia. 2) Chill 3) Lepaking - the act of lepak 1) "Hey Johny, do you want to lepak this weekend?" 2) "Hey Mark, lepak okay? I don't need you on my case as well!" 3) Those youngsters lepaking in the park are not from this neighbourhood. Yes- I know it doesn't always have to be in a mall...but..details..! Anyway, he'd voiced an interest of getting out of the house today. Brilliant. The Trafford Centre..ugh! The sun was shining, everything is crisp and autumnal. I floated some ideas...Lyme Park, Quarry Bank Mill...anything OUTSIDE. Distinct lack of enthusiasm. Oh, well- I suppose when you have gone to the effort of getting cancer, it's only fair that you get your way occasionally. We're off to the TC. I settled with the autumn taster of the back garden.

The death of romance

Every relationship hits a point when you're so comfortable with each other, you suddenly realise the romance is dead. Occasionally, there are extenuating circumstances that hasten this event.
Our relationship has never been particularly romantic. OD admits to not being the best at choosing clothes or jewellery. Both my birthday presents have been expensive electronics-I just have to accept that the man doesn't do sparkly things.

And then I had my little skiing escapade and ended up like this.

When OD first had to help me into the shower, I remember wailing.."Oh no, the romance is dead.."
Then there was my six weeks of non-weight bearing and having to slide up and down the stairs on my arse. Truly, I was no glamourpuss.

I visited him on Day 1 at the hospital after his operation with his sister, R. Who is not medical, and absolutely hates hospitals. So being in the colorectal cancer ward, with that faint whiff of poo was REALLY not good for her. She was rather aghast when after the first few pleasantries the conversation turned to talk of farts and bowels.

Me: So did you manage the almighty fart then?
OD: No, but I did manage a small, perfectly formed one...

This morning he very proudly announced that he had a couple of farts in bed. Nice! It seems that things on the colon and anastamosis front are working as they should. But I'll tell you now, there will be celebration when the first poo emerges!

Maybe that's what REAL romance is about?!

PS: Told you it was going to get graphic.

Home!

OD came home today- he says that Mr C was happy for him to go, but I think there may have been an element of bullying! Pretty amazing isn't it- home on day 2 after major surgery. I don't blame him for wanting to get out of the hospital. The ward he was in was a little like God's waiting room. Imagine a cancer ward, with five other men, average age of about 100, all with the same disease- but looking like they were very much at the end of their cancer journey. Definitely not good for keeping a positive frame of mind.

We got the train back, as the traffic in and out of Birmingham is pretty awful. He'd optimistically taken a heap of work with him, and every electronic under the sun..."2 ipads, 2 iphones and a laptop". We had a slight disagreement about his ability to carry the stuff back-he of course felt he was perfectly capable, while I was worried he was going to develop a hernia. I did get my way, and felt a little bit like a pack mule. We got a taxi back from the station, and the taxi driver was a little curt. Until OD said, "I'm just back after an operation". And the man replied..."Ah, I thought you were being a bit of shit making HER carry the bags!" It was a useful discussion because he then made the effort to drive slowly over the bumps.

It's going to be an interesting few days. I remember feeling absolutely crap after my relatively minor knee surgery. Getting up, having a shower and coming down the stairs had been a major achievement. So I can imagine he feels awful- but the control freak in him is going to insist on putting on a brave face. Doctors make both terrible patients and nurses.

Oh well- I'll have to try and remove the worried look from my face and try to use the smile muscles!