My uncle

 When my dad died a friend of mine said, it’s like your anchor has gone. It was and still is. Grief finds ways to sneak up on you and today as I type I feel the loss of my dad and my uncle mingling in surprising ways.

I’m not quite sure why my uncle and I connected the way we did but I think it was the first time he gave me a novel for a birthday present. It was one of those summer gatherings in North Norfolk I recall. One where I felt how young I was compared to my brother and sister and my cousins. We were just sought of talking and I got that book. A simple and fun read. Sadly I don’t remember the title but I do know that it was one of the first books I’d read for pleasure and one that made me laugh and had some quite raunchy bits in it. Much to my mum’s surprise, but if I’m right, not really to mine. I think despite the various differences the two of us had quite a similar sense of humour. 

Over the years I always felt understood by him, we would talk about theatre and disagree on politics. We could be honest with each other about a range of subjects. I really valued the time we spent together, and especially the weekends we would meet up in London to watch a play or two and he would always treat me to a posh meal. At one, that he didn’t know quite the subject matter, I’d not long been told about my first lot of kidney cancer. As we took our seats and looked at the curtain, an oddly pale green one pulled across on what looked like a cheap rail and as it was drawn there was a hospital bed and then it clicked. And yup, the play was about a parent with cancer. He gave me an apologetic look as the lines continued to feel close to home. We may well have been the only two in the audience to smile and stifle a laugh or two until the interval where we could laugh louder at the faux pas – it was quite a good play.

I remember his generosity in other ways. Having explained to him at one of his parties that I didn’t know what good champagne tasted like, he had a glass in hand, but rather than pour me a glass he went to the kitchen and came back with two bottles – different types and said something like, ‘try these, I think you’ll appreciate them.’  I did try them once back home and could tell the difference but never did confess to him that I prefer prosecco.

And most recently the gift for my recovery, the fact he navigated the Victoria Secrets website to get me my preferred perfume. I think he would have found it funny and I found the gift – to help me not smell bad was a beautiful one. And each time I use it I will of course think of him.

I’m so very lucky as his niece to have so many happy and precious memories of my uncle.  

fade

 This morning I looked at my newest set of scars and wondered at them, their size and colour, I don't remember how ling it takes for them to fade. How long the time is for it to be harder to see and when - for me will I find a way to forget too. I don't completely forget but this one, this time was quite straight forward. 

Last night, while out with a friend we talked about what kind of trauma I have experienced and apart from a lot of it, it was interesting to link it to Kate and her news. A complete stranger with cancer, but the world knows. Will she be given the space to deal with it? I sometimes wish more people knew about me. But I see that fades too, everyone at work forgetting that I came in before I was anywhere near healed physically and if I'll ever be healed emotionally. 

about 9 weeks in

 To remind myself that 9 weeks in and I really do feel like it never happened, except when I look at my tummy, the lines still an angry redish purple. I should start to build in more exercise. 

classic recovery

This is to remind myself for the next time. You can do too much and that's part of it. 

I was in a bit of pain yesterday and I think it was because I'd over done it. My body needs more time to be healed and I just needed to slow down. 

So I did. 

remarkable

 When I look at at this time I want to remind myself of how remarkable it was, to be so well, to be back at work and to be able to do so much. There's still the driving and using public transport to do, but that can wait and must wait. But I am able to do so much, not even 3 weeks ago, and I have to be aware of what I'm lifting and mindful of pulling open a heavy door. But otherwise - all really is well. 

My mood have lifted, despite it trying to drift to the unpleasant days, the fear of running out of kidney to be 'fixed' but I distract myself and remember, not yet and maybe not ever. 

slow walks

 I'm quite bored, I can't do enough of anything to feel anything like independent. Knowing I couldn't escape far. But the recovery feels better than most, and although I know I'm weak in some ways I'm fine in most. 

I've had the mix of relief and fear, sadness and worry but all told just going to take it a day at a time. 

 

The robot did it

 6 days ago I went in to have the kidney tumour that's been quietly growing for about 5 years removed. They found a tiny one tucked behind it and got that out too. Nice. 

This time the robot helped. The not quite epidural was horrid, 3 attempts and the electric shock of the two not quite in the right place was grim. Claire - the assistant - was amazing. This too shall pass I told myself. It doesn't last forever. 

I was asked what I would dream of, Malawi I said, after a moment of panic that I had no good memories at that moment, just the panic of pain and discomfort and the memory of all the ones before. All 6 years of Malawi came over me and I went under. 

3 faces of worry and relief saw me next, those 3 important faces and then the recovery began. Not really pain but the feeling of a body not like the one you had a few moments ago. 

This too shall pass. 

Then a morning of not having the energy to do anything and I mean even ask for help to get my phone. No visitors. I'm not used to ward recovery - I'm used to HDU. I'm used to being checked on constantly. Not this time, a curtain and noises, the odd check. I felt very lonely for a few hours and then those three faces again. I don't know if that was day one or two. But I do know that at some point the pain in my shoulders was excruciating. Sharp and sudden. I cried out, I pressed a button. eventually someone came. Then a bit later someone gave me a pain relief and it worked, but I still didn't feel okay. In fact the worst day, bit , afternoon - I had no sense of time, was when I panicked and thought I was losing myself. I got frightened. 6 Days later I'm able to say, good sign, I clearly want to be alive and didn't want to not be. 

This too shall pass. Along with a fair few glory bes, Hail Mary and an Our father for good measure. 

Slowly but equally quickly, this bit came out, that bit came out, that Dr said yes and I did the necessary shit to be able to leave. The drain was the last. That is a very strange sensation. The tears of joy at the permission to go home, The wait for that, the taxi and then home. Oh home. 

I didn't sleep well. A snatched hour at best followed by discomfort. Bloating and gas, my back and sides and stomach. The bruising from the IM steroids and blood thinners and  - nothing to do with the operation - but the throbbing thumb.  

This too shall pass. 

I ate when I could manage, the three faces still worried but much more relieved getting me what they could. Tolerant of the farts and burps. Each one felling like a bit more of me was returning to normal. 

Yesterday my sister came and I cried. It was so good to see her. Our 3 faces, her, my mum and me can only ever know this. I've felt so alone at times, they are the closest ones to really knowing. I've been crying a fair amount. This brings back such unpleasant memories. And I know I'll get on with everything but I can't help but wonder about the next one. Spine? Other kidney? Something new? 

Because this too shall pass.