When Will This Newsletter End?

This is a question that some of you are no doubt already asking as you brace to unpick a second helping of writing from a man whose diary is bereft of displacement meetings for the first time in 18 years.

Here’s the answer. Successful consumption of a small bowl of porridge after the same cancer treatment by a connection of mine recently engendered ecstatic applause and (socially distanced) rapturous celebration from his entire family. This may seem a  bit OTT, even in today’s world where successfully donning your own lace free shoes for the first time merits a trip to Legoland, and where Instagram images of your own dinner elicit emoji splattered rejoinders of “Totally Vashti!”, “OMG!” and “Blumentha-a-a-a-al!”.

But it’s may be not so OTT bearing in mind that I’m having a feeding tube fitted directly through my abdomen wall this week before I start the treatment. I assume the radiation will make swallowing problematic and the chemo will make me want to throw up whatever I have managed to swallow. So nutrition is one aspect of the treatment that gets a lot of attention. And actually feeding yourself again after the treatment, even with porridge,  is a huge milestone.  

Did you hear the one about The Pessimist, The Optimist and The Realist? The pessimist sees a dark tunnel, the optimist sees a light at the end of the tunnel. The realist sees an approaching train. And the train driver sees three idiots standing on the track.

I am self-identifying as an opto-realist. That’s to say that I know the next few weeks will be as grim as Grimmy MacGrimface, but I have my eyes firmly set on the ramekin of porridge at the end of the tunnel. And when I’ve emptied the ramekin that will be my sign of light.

Some of you will recognise the Spoonerism of A Line Of Sight, the title of the blog I wrote in 2017 chronicling my 3,600 mile tandem cycle ride across America. The ostensible purpose of that ride was to raise funds to cure over 3,600 people of blindness caused by cataracts. The subtext was to prove to myself at the age of 60 that I  was still fit enough to undertake some sort of endurance event. Now at 64, throat cancer is not the sort of endurance event that anyone would wish upon their enemies let alone upon themselves. But it is what it is, so my focus now is to reach that Sign of Light and come out stronger and wiser, replenished by the ramekin of porridge.

The Line of Sight ride took 50 days, so for each of the first 50 days towards my Sign of Light, starting today,  I’m going to read and possibly allude to, the corresponding day from A Line of Sight.

After I’ve eventually emptied my ramekin of porridge I will also try to recite

How bright doth shine

The Sign of Light,

Not a bright Line

Of shining Sight,

But a Sign of Light,

That doth shine bright.

This ditty may prove even harder to complete than the ramekin if I’m then still on painkilling drugs. In my current drug and alcohol free state I’ve already accidentally managed to say ‘… not a slight line of brining shite…’. Rough punt cutters and pheasant plucking sons, eat your hearts out.