Post 40: Dad is so Embarrassing!
Weight: one pound lighter.
BP: perfect.
Anything else: Elusive answers frustrate me.
When I awake at four in the morning, the first thing I reach for is my phone and glasses to check the time—and then swipe the Kindle on.
Today, I wanted to finish a digital book by J.L. Dalgleish—another murder mystery, police procedural tale. It’s part of a series, and I’m enjoying the plots as well as the setting.
It’s based on the Isle of Skye—a mostly cold and windswept place, with a heck of a lot of murders per capita.
But I only had one chapter to go, and the Polis got their man.
I’d put the phone back on the bedside table, but very soon pick it up again.
My mind was wandering back around the same circle of thoughts: what information do I want to ask for from my oncologists on Wednesday, so I start to feel more at peace with what’s coming next in terms of treatment.
And with an energy unbecoming of the hour, I started to write down some of the worries I have—forming the must-ask questions.
The problem is that I’m so confused and compromised by the two issues: the heart and the cancer.
It leads to internal arguments: which is more important?
The heart or cancerous bones?
In most scenarios, it’s an easy choice—the heart. Easy peasy.
Or is it?
The cancer is aggressive, and the PSA is sky rocketing, so it is massively important too.
So I jot down queries for both specialists in one fell swoop—or email, as I like to call it (with a nod to Miranda’s mum from that wonderfully funny sitcom).
The biggest question is: Will the cardiologist give me consent to resume chemotherapy, stating all the relevant associated risks?
I’m not sure that will happen—but I need to be passed fit for cancer treatment.
I keep coming back to the thorny issue: my lack of confidence in the existing cancer plan (which may have led to the lung clots) and the unknown damage done to my heart and lungs.
I’m impatient, for obvious reasons, but it feels like I’m running in treacle—as if I’m living a nightmare.
When? How? What?
I just don’t ever get any answers.
“Just send the email and get back to sleep,” I tell myself.
So I do just that.
⸻
[And now for something stupid yet mildly amusing—to me anyway.]
You can find humour in most anything, but sometimes you don’t see it coming until it hits you smack in the face.
And I like a good laugh.
I got a call from my worried little bro to check in after my recent trip to A&E and all that jazz.
I bored him silly and put him at ease with talk of appointments and thoughts, going round in circles for ages while he stayed totally silent. Listening.
To check he was still awake—or hadn’t wandered off, leaving the phone beside Lulu, his sweet little Yorkie—I’d stop talking now and then. He’d grunt, and I’d carry on.
After a good while, I asked him what he’d been up to—it’s only fair, as I’d taken up nearly all the call thus far.
And that’s when the tone of the conversation changed… for the worse.
But first, I should explain: my sister-in-law (SIL) considers her wonderful husband—my little bro—a bit of a child most of the time.
But sometimes, he’s worse than their teenage daughters.
Knowing that, here’s what little Bro got up to today:
He’d received, through the post, a Bowel Cancer Screening Kit—one of those automatic NHS things when you hit a certain age.
That’ll ring a few bells for those already in the “been there, done that” club.
My SIL, being younger than him, hadn’t seen one before and probably hadn’t heard from anyone who’s done one, either.
So she reads out the instructions and tells him what to do—several times—until he’s comfortable with the plan.
Off he trudges upstairs to the bathroom, fairly promptly, thanks to a natural urge.
SIL, downstairs, is crossing her fingers, but isn’t entirely sure how he’ll cope.
It’s not that little bro is stupid—well, not too stupid—but he can’t take anything seriously and is, under peer pressure, a somewhat clumsy article.
Like the other weekend, at a near-the-beach party to celebrate the end of the season—arranged by the rugby club his youngest daughter plays for.
Everyone was press-ganged into playing rounders—kids and parents alike.
His youngest is already well-known for “Dad’s antics,” but what happened next took the biscuit.
During the game, little bro swung and missed the ball, then took off with all the speed he could muster to first base.
He just got there, but in the panic of touching the base, he tripped and face-planted into the grass—his legs still running even though he was grounded.
The sight was met with chaotic laughter all around—except for one small girl holding her hands over her eyes and shaking her embarrassed head.
Yes, his youngest was mortified.
At the age of fifteen, that’s the last thing you want—all your teammates finding out your dad’s a plonker.
(Sorry, little Bro.)
But that’s not what I meant to mention.
Back to the Bowel Cancer Kit.
Little bro was upstairs, responding to the call of nature, with nothing more than a thin plastic takeaway container—you know the ones: rectangular, see-through, the kind your egg-fried rice comes in.
I should say, he’d been told several times to use the recommended method (toilet paper in the pan), but no—not him.
SIL then hears her name being screamed and fears the worst.
Before she can get up there, their youngest has already gone to help Dad—and encountered a sight she’ll never forget:
Dad, holding a broken, soiled plastic tray.
A horrendous smell.
And Dad’s trousers around his ankles.
She’s scarred for life.
When little bro recounted this tale to me this morning, I was in stitches.
It was just what I needed after a week of serious stuff and nonsense…
The only downside?
I was eating my porridge at the time.
So, there you go. A salutary lesson:
If you’re trying to wing it—it can get messy.
Stick to the instructions next time, little Bro.
⸻
Later we had visits from a great friend and our youngest son who brought gifts and their positivity, and My Darling cooked up a family feast—a lovely Sunday roast. A very nice end to the day.
A gift of sparkling wine was given to My Darling as a treat to wash away the stress of the last few days.
The drink was called Nozeco, and it’s a great name for an alcohol-free fizz.
So I’ve ended the week happy and relaxed.
No AFib today.
Looking forward to Wednesday’s meetings, and—hopefully—an end to the current worries for My Darling and me.
