224. Ahoy There Maties

 Well, that was a big post-anaesthetic mistake. I came home with a huge eye pad, unable to put my glasses on to read, unable to concentrate, a bit too hyper for my liking and BORED. So I decided I’d entertain friends on WhatsApp. I took a Sharpie and drew on a skull n crossbones, attempted a tricorn hat and wrote in big letters Ahoy There Maties. By the way, bear with me. I have blurred vision owing to ointment in one eye and it’s difficult to focus the other without blocking off the blur. That requires a hand. I need both hands here so this is kind of pot luck - hopefully I’ll spot typos as I go. Back to the entertainment. I knew the dressing came off next day, so no embarrassment - except the sharpie had permeated the micropore and I had black squiggles in and above my eyebrow. How old am I??

Here’s me all gowned up in my little cubicle by the window. Nice and private. They drew the curtains round me for modesty, I stripped off as instructed, gowned up and then the nurse came back and noticed the three builders on the roof opposite my wall of windows. What is it with me and builders?? The eye department has been moved to part of the Bexley Wing so the facilities are great, very pleasant, as were the staff. The anaesthetist came - yes he’d give me something to stop sickness, although Anastrozole could make me sick. Thank you - you haven’t dealt with a phobic before have you? Then Dr H came - he was the one who described it as ‘unusual’ and assured me they could do corrective surgery.  Unfortunately he dropped in the word ‘radiotherapy’ which didn’t inspire confidence. Then someone came to take me to the theatre.

Here it all started again. Wearing my two gowns, DVT stockings in a fetching shade of grey to match my shin-height boots, we walked from the Bexley Wing, down corridors, in lifts, up ramps through to Chancellors Wing - in public!! I was just grateful I’d be wheeled back. And incredibly grateful I was expected to lie down immediately I’d removed my boots. Surprisingly I wasn’t anxious. I’d taken something before 7 so it was long worn off but I just wanted it over and done with.

I do remember a lot of chat in the recovery room, advising a nurse whose mum had breast cancer to get in touch with The Haven. I vaguely remember I had a trainee (just my luck, his first day) wheel me back using the walls as crash barriers and then being wide awake but so dry I couldn’t swallow. Then I realised the anaesthetist had given me the bog-standard anti-emetic that took 24 hours to wear off. Ugh. I wasn’t panicking but they weren’t equipped to deal with me so they sent me home with Emma!!

I had a crap evening. I could barely swallow warm water, certainly no food. Funny, their criteria for discharging you is 1. you pee 2. You drink and 3. You eat a sandwich. I peed.

Now I have a routine of cleansing the eye, trying and failing to get cream into my eye (it won’t adhere so I end up using my finger) and spreading cream on the wound. There’s about 6 stitches, it’s harder than before and the swelling is worse. I’m meant to be back at clinic Monday but I have no appointment. Results take 2-3 weeks. That’s it. Oh no, I also have an irritating cough cos of the tube (which i refuse to think about). That’s as far as my eye opens right now so I’m not sure how I’d get to hospital!

My psych, Dr T, rang today - just routine to prescribe the medication medication we’d both like me to come off but nonsense like this gets in the way - and she mentioned CarersLeeds. Well, I wish I had a photo of Dennis’s reaction! I do feel sad for him though. This is no life for him.

223. Who’s a big boy’s blouse!

I’m guessing that title is probably as sexist as the original idiom. (Is it an idiom? A colloquialism? Mrs Friend, HELP!). The point is still there - what a wuss I have been.

Yesterday’s covid test was a straight drive in, park the car in a green gazebo/tent and wait for a minuscule nurse/medical assistant to come out of her little white hut and deal with me. I was the only one there. I tried what the pre-assessment nurse had said, explained my phobia and then resigned myself to my fate as if it was an execution. All I can say is they should be pulled up under the Trades Description Act. It isn’t a throat swab, the mere idea of which has preoccupied me and filled me with occasional surges of terror. The throat is at the back. All she did was swipe my tonsils and uvula. That’s not “back of the throat”. So I drove away feeling somewhat chastened/embarrassed with myself for overreacting. I’m sure there’s an important lesson to be learned but you’d think I’d have learnt it by 69, whatever it is. 

If I receive no phone call by teatime, I prepare for my little op tomorrow. Next anxiety - how do I deal with all the waiting when I’m not allowed to take any medication after 7am. 7am?? I’m not awake at such an unearthly hour. Actually, I want to sleep till 11.30, have a quick wash, nip into Emma’s car and get to Bexley Wing with minimum opportunity for my imagination to go into overdrive. But no, the instructions are that, at 11am, I must drink 250mls of water. That’s a mugful! Tough, they’ll just have to have a dehydrated woman.

See how perverse I am! Most people would be speculating on what the surgeon is going to do, what could go wrong (all listed on my consent form but virtually illegible. Maybe ‘bleeding’ is a bit alarming). Me, I worry about having to drink all that water in one go. I’ll only pee it out anyway. I definitely see the advantage of having surgery privately. I was able to be sure my quirks and foibles were there in the anaesthetist’s notes. That section remains empty, as the surgeon wasn’t interested. 

Today I received this: 

I have checked back and there is a thread of texts from LCC COVID-19 going back to 30 March 2020 so I’m not imagining it. I have been shielding for almost 11 months. But now someone in the NHS has “added” me to the existing list - I’m on it twice. Double punishment?

I accepted Dr W, the rheumatologist’s explanation that I was probably on the original list because I was on the rheumatology list because of all the post-chemo joint pain so it was automatic, no matter how they tried to change it. She has perfectly healthy patients being told they must shield simply because some rheumatology patients ARE CEV - databases refuse to distinguish. Actually I can think of a couple of rheumatology patients not on an active list who would have benefited from being identified as CEV originally.

Now it appears that her explanation doesn’t work out. Who is this malicious, malignant NHS being determined to keep me in misery?? Matt’s letter today told me I must remain shielded till 31 March, regardless of any easing of lockdown and I must await his next letter. I wonder of he’d respond to a letter from Jan asking to be removed from his mailing list?

Next episode: look forward to a black eye! That’s to alert the squeamish. 

When will this ever end? Will I ever feel myself again or have I reacher the Old Age Syndrome early, the one where one thing goes wrong and then, just as you think it’s sorted, something else goes wrong? Mum warned me about that but I just don't consider 69 old enough yet, even if I was referred to the Senility Clinic (I never heard from them of course lol).

219. All that for (almost) nothing (Not published till the cancer thing was sorted)

4th February

Yesterday, we arrived as instructed by the doctor on Monday at 10am. The instructions were to go to the eye clinic to have more photographs taken - as there would be no letter she would leave a note with Reception - and then they would send me upstairs to have my pre-assessment. She had booked me in for a biopsy under general anaesthetic “because it’s very close to the main blood supply and it may bleed,”something I didn’t need to know, Wednesday 10th at 12.30. 

Simple. So first we swung into an empty car park in plenty of time. Unfortunately, it didn’t take notes or debit cards and I didn’t have enough coins for two hours, so off we went to find a parking space in the cheaper car park and I fed everything but our last 11p into the machine - which also does not accept notes or cards. There is something about cards and following the instructions but I did everything I’d observed a perplexed looking woman do on Monday and concluded, as she had too, that it wasn’t functioning. Two hours seemed plenty and the car parks are Leeds City Council so I can’t blame St James’s.

I can blame St James’s for everything that followed - the worst hospital experience I’ve had to date and making me realise that having my mastectomy done privately was wise. No, there was no note and Dr M wasn’t on duty. I sat and waited for half an hour outside (they would not let me in without an appointment) and then a technician came, took me to the photo area and took some cosmetic photographs. I went back to Reception. Now what? They had no idea so they suggested the pre-assessment. Unfortunately it could be in either of two places. Does it show in my notes? There’s nothing in your notes. Ok.

I set off to find the Eye Pre-assessment department. Ward J25. Remember I experience difficulty walking because my foot bones all hurt and some tendons are still very weak, especially one ankle. I know, it’s my fault for not doing my exercises every day. But that’s another reason walking is hard - fatigue. But I managed by using lifts All hospitals are like a maze, as I learnt on my midnight journey during chemo. St James’s excels. I swear it must have been designed by Escher because this was how my mind perceived it. There are two sets of lifts, I have now learned. They are on the same ground floor. Somehow they take you to different Level 1s and 2s. On Level 2, clearly signed Eye Pre-assessment, a very abrupt nurse, who I had to call to down a long corridor, informed me there had been no eye work there for two years and I should go to the Bexley Wing.

Now, I know that wing quite well now and I knew that wasn’t the case...to spare you the utter boredom of reading about kindly staff taking me where I didn't need to go and directing me to wrong buildings, eventually I found it. Closed. No one in sight, so I just sat down and contemplated weeping. Someone came out and said I was in the right place and they’d see me in a minute. In a minute actually meant after finishing a mug of coffee, which I don’t begrudge, and a good gossip with someone who popped in. Then, miracles, yes, I was on their list - for 10am. It was 11.25. 30 minutes left on the parking. Anyway, I had the first part done, then had to sit and wait for the second. 15 minutes left on the car. The lady sitting nearby said her letter advised her to allow 4 hours for the pre-assessment (that’s longer than the whole surgery). Close to hysterics, I told them I’d have to go and sort out the car but they wouldn’t let me go before answering every question about medical history that they already had the answers to on the screen - she checked and said “oh yes, it’s here” a few times.

She then insisted I go for an ECG, yes, sorry, it’s on level 1, and bring the results back. She also informed me I was required back in the eye clinic. So I hurled as fast as a fatigued woman with a pulse rate of 128 just walking can hurl down to Dennis. I broke the shielding rules and entered Boots and pleaded with the pharmacy to exchange a fiver for 5 coins. She agreed, just this once, so off we headed to the car, got a fresh ticket for 2 hours, then sat in the car while I contemplated weeping again.

Back in Chancellors Wing, the eye clinic that summoned me was closed and the few staff had no idea why I was summoned. Come back at 1pm. A nurse I approached in the corridor directed me to ECG. Again, wrong directions. There was indeed a long corridor (I walked the length twice) but no ECG. It was the young man delivering mail who got me there. ECG sorted (I really wasn’t dressed for it), I had to find the eye pre-assessment department again, deliver my results and then find phlebotomy. Only that was in Lincoln Wing. I had a ‘map’ even the hospital volunteer misunderstood. Eventually he took me to a door and said it’s just the end of the ramp. The ramp must have been half a kilometre. I found the bloods eventually when a kind member of staff offered to take me. Down 4 flights of stairs built in Victorian times. The kind phlebotomist told me she’d give me a foolproof way back to the eye clinic in Chancellors Wing. Out the door, round to the front and just go round the outside. Bless her. 

It was 12.45. I parked myself at the entrance to the eye clinic and refused to budge. They’d let me in or... I don’t know. Tears? I wanted to sit on the floor but I knew I couldn’t get up again and these are covid-cautious times so I leant against the wall looking bleak till Dr M appeared. All she’d bloody wanted me for was to sign the consent form!! Off to her office, a seat, a brief talk and then she fetched the consultant who examined my eyelid again, told me where the incision would be, refused to listen to my ‘special needs’ regarding medication pre-surgery and then announced that my operation is postponed - they’d just been informed the super-spreader has arrived in Leeds and all surgery is cancelled, till at least the end of next week. All for nothing?? He was also very critical of my cancer care, in terms of what he expected - I should have had a full MRI and the mass shouldn’t have been ignored last year (agreed). I took a deep breath and asked if they were looking for breast cancer but got the expected answer - they don’t know anything until after the biopsy. Sigh.

Part of me wants to contact the Spire and have it done there but I’d have to start all over again, unless the same surgeon works privately. There’s also the possible cancer link which will have to take me back to Bexley in a worst-case scenario. If I could take a sedative on the morning of my surgery privately, why can’t I in the NHS system? They are the same anaesthetists. If they could give me an injection to make sure I wasn’t sick privately, why can’t the NHS since they won’t allow me to take a tablet after 7 and it will have worn off by the time I’m done.? I am really and truly pissed off. I did it all right (except I seem to have lost my sense of direction - but the hospital signs are out of date), I stood up for myself, I made it clear what my needs were and it meant fuck-all to them.

And that was three and a half hours, out of shielding, exposed but for a mask and hand gel to anything. The eye clinic nurse even insisted I wear a fresh mask so heaven knows what I’ve been up against. Funny though, I can’t bring myself to worry about it. The only places I’ve been are medical settings.

I am so fed up.

218. Fears - not published at the time/

First day of February

I found myself saying today, mid-offloading on this moving on course, that I couldn’t even offload on my blog because I didn’t want to cause unnecessary worry or fear among some who read this. Then it struck me - it’s my blog, it’s for my benefit BUT also, I don’t need to press the Publish button. So, until I have a better picture, this will remain unpublished.

Then of course, if I do publish it, I have to apologise for keeping certain people in the dark. Well, if it’s any consolation, for probably only the second time in our LONG relationship, I’ve chosen to keep my husband in the dark. It’s that or more vomiting. Phobia wins, hands down. So I’ll have to apologise for keeping Dennis in the dark and then will he trust me again? Who knows? He’s not one to forget, let alone forgive.

What’s all the fuss about? Yesterday I had an appointment at the eye clinic again. This time, the oculoplastic team so I saw someone different, a stunning young woman called M who introduced herself and then proceeded to say things that, in my book, were unnecessary and thoughtless. It was like seeing the worst kind of breast consultant when you have a lump. They hum and haa and drop in the word ‘cancer’  and ‘risk’ and triggering words that send you off convinced you have breast cancer when it turns out to be a simple fibroadenoma or cyst and requires minor surgery or no treatment. Dr M (I think she decided her Greek surname was incomprehensible) first informed me that breast cancer can move to the back of the eye and it can also spread in the eye socket. When I brightly informed her that both my MRIs showed no signs of cancer, she said “They can’t pick up everything.”

So I went from feeling inconvenienced and irritated about this eye business to mildly alarmed. Then she added that the fact that I said it was getting worse was a cause for concern. She was annoyed she couldn’t do all the tests because I was driving and couldn’t have the eye drops. Then she was annoyed that she couldn’t turn up my eyelid (it’s swollen, woman!! of course it won’t fold back) so she packed me off to have the backs of my eyes photographed. She’s already asked if I’d had this done before and I said I had it done annually at the opticians. “This is a hospital,” I was informed. Ooops. 

Having your eyes photographed is not easy. You sit in front of a simple machine, put your chin on a rest (we’ve all been there!) and then adjust your head till your eye can see the whole image within. Simple? Where does your nose go?? I looked afterwards and it’s a completely flat machine. My poor nose took quite a battering just to get two simple shots.

Anyway, I decided that mentioning cancer would not be wise so D got a censored version of the conversation: basically they don’t know what they’re looking for until they look. I’m trying hard to hold onto that but it’s very hard now that she has linked the quite rapid deterioration with the possibility of cancer. I remember thinking Dr U was over the top in is suggestion my eye might be slightly protruding but... Sorry doctor.

M rang about an hour after we’d got home. They’d looked at the photographs and wanted me in for a biopsy as soon as possible (not a term one wants to hear in cancerworld unless it means the end of waiting, waiting, waiting...) It will be done under general anaesthetic because it’s very close to the main blood supply and there’s a possibility of bleeding (Do I need to know this? Just tell me it’s general anaesthetic and is a short procedure). Then she mentioned lesions and, since I’ve only heard the word in terms of cancer, my fears compounded. Henceforth, she became Dr Sensitivity in my head.

It got worse though. I was woken at 7.42 the next morning (I barely function before 10) with instructions for Wednesday 10th and the build-up to it. Clinic again Thursday for further photographs (I think of the cosmetic side of things - they can’t explain the discolouration) and then “go upstairs” for a pre-assessment. Then I must self-isolate from Sunday and go for a covid test on Monday. There’s a bit of a contradiction in self-isolating and then going for a test but that’s not the issue. That’s when Janet’s mini-meltdown began. A covid test requires a throat swab. I can’t do anything throat-related. I overreact when I doctor approaches me with a tongue suppressor, even though I know they won’t need to use it as my throat is ‘unusually large’ according to a GP years back. It is. You can see everything without my even saying Aaaah. You can see BUT YOU CAN’T TOUCH. It took some research by lovely Trina (should I just reference to her as Lovely Trina every time??) to establish that not all hospital covid tests have to involve a throat swab. Meltdown over, huge anxiety remaining.

1. Not even thinking about what they will be doing. I was so naive to think it would be approached from the outer eyelid.

2. I plucked up the courage to Google ‘lesion’ and discovered its meaning is not specific to cancer. It’s any injury to the tissue, by damage or by disease. Ugh, forget that last bit.

3. Cancer. As they say on Breast Cancer Now forums, no one has cancer until the specialist informs them they have it. There may be many other explanations.

4. If it is and the ‘undetermined mass’, which was there last year and has grown, is part of it, I shall not only be very scared but VERY ANGRY that it was ignored in last year’s MRI report.

5. There is no reason why it should be cancer. In 2017, I approached it from a position of ignorance, naïveté and optimism. I don’t have that luxury now. However, I was optimistic before. Just a few ill-chosen words have undermined it but that doesn’t mean I can’t reclaim it.

6. Nor do I seem able to pack it in a box and put it away for when I need to worry about it. FFS, it’s not even been diagnosed. It was the crass comments of an insensitive doctor. Damage done.

7. I have had close-to-panic-attacks (but fortunately not), have loose bowels, no appetite, surges of unwanted adrenaline and a strong element of what I know I mustn’t call self-pity.

8. Self-compassion is required. It’s hard to give way to your necessary emotions when you need to pretend everything is fine.

So basically, folks, I feel shit. I am pretty certain I will look back and laugh unkindly at my overreaction to an unusual eye problem. But right now, it’s not ‘pretty’ enough for me to dwell confidently on “It’ll be fine.” The doctor has taken that away from me.

I wish I could cry.

222. What was I thinking??

 

Ok, at last it’s got to me and I’ve succumbed to lockdown madness. I cut my own hair. It is shorter than I planned as I tried to keep the sides matched. One side is a neat bob, the other is a chopped mess. But I didn’t dare try to match it any further. I’ve no idea what it looks like at the back. It feels all the same length at least. But not the same thickness, sadly. It will be months before I can book in with Liz, the way things are going, so it may have grown out by then, but I can just see that sorrowful shake of the head and the twitch of her lips as she tries not to laugh.

Needs must. It was driving me potty. It wasn't long enough to tie up. It wouldn’t stay in clips or combs and anyway, it looked rather daft with the length at the back. The problem got worse with this hair thinning. I just couldn’t stop playing with it, trying to will it to stay in a rat-tail band, without all the bits falling around my face. So irritating.  Dennis refused to help, not even by directing me to keep it straight at the back. I reckon I cut 4-5 inches and he hasn’t even commented!!

I got a call from the pre-assessment nurse yesterday to remind me to go for the covid test. As advised by my first pre-assessment nurse, I told her of my phobia but this nurse was one of those jolly (just like some of my friends) ‘Oh, it’ll be fine, over before you know it’.

Excuse me, we are talking about a lifelong phobia with a deep-seated cause here, not just a whim. So I’ve googled what happens, I’ve looked for alternatives, I’ve looked for help to minimise the dread and the actual impact - nothing. It’s going to be great when a 69yo woman breaks down at the wheel of her car and is then unfit to drive because she’s traumatised. It’s drive through, one-way. Will I cause a tailback? I don’t even let a doctor use a tongue suppressor!!

Of course I know I’ll do it (or my best) but it does seem unfair when there are alternative tests I could have. Just a bit awkward for the staff. Well, sorry, but what about the traumatised child in me??Why is there virtually zero connection between the mental health services and the medical services? I can’t have the procedure without having had this test. Who’d think that a simple swab test would be my undoing. Cos I am slowly coming undone, stitch by stitch, row by row. Come on woman, you went through chemotherapy (yes, with lorazepam - I can’t drive with lorazepam; I can’t drive with anything nowadays so it’s just basic me with no helpers). Much as I hate the term, I have to dig out my big girl knickers!

Rant over. And no, I’m not displaying my hair. I need exposure to people to get inured to it before I take a selfie.

One hugely positive note: my phone consultation with oncology was with Dr D, my least favourite. I didn't recognise her voice, plus she was 40 minutes early, so I’m embarrassed to say I thought she was from the eye clinic. Confusion over, we discussed the ‘indeterminate mass’ and it seems it was the radiologist who didn't mention it. Now I know what department to curse. However, Dr D is confident that this is not linked the the breast cancer. Ok, that’s good enough for me. Now I could tell Dennis. Phew.

221. Here’s to Auntie Sybil

 Sad news this weekend that one of my favourite aunts has died, partly from complications following injuries from a fall around Christmas but mainly because of dementia. I may worry about cancer in the family but I think there’s more dementia - on both sides. Not a happy thought, one that gets shut in a box in my mind and never brought out.

Here she is with my mum in 2015:

No surprises that she was the life and soul of the party, of the family, a truly joyous and family-focused aunt, who my mum spent a lot of her dating years with. Mum said she was considered to be the sensible one who would keep Sybil in line. Somehow, I can’t see that that could have worked. Sybil had that little bit of magic; not enough to get David or me up on the dance floor at family dos but enough to reel in Dennis, who is not easily impressed. She came up with Mum to stay once and spent a whole evening poring over his meticulous record lists (she even asked for the other volumes!) and topped it by asking meaningful questions and showing interest in the answers. Slightly better than my vague “Oh yes, dear” or “Well, why don’t you buy it?”

I have a new date for my eye biopsy - next Wednesday, so the dread will begin by the end of the week (fear of the Covid test more than fear of hours of waiting for a general anaesthetic). I just hope the results come quickly because, once the lesion (their word) is removed, I suspect the holding of breath that’s inevitable once you’re living with cancer is going to take root. It’s no fun living with the surge of adrenaline every time the phone rings or a letter arrives. Any letter.  Heigh ho.

I got some happy news too. A 500-word story I wrote for a competition on the theme of “Apple - Tree - Woodland” was one of the Reader’s Choices in the Didcot Writers quarterly competition. There is always an outright winner, plus a few Readers’ Choices. Apparently there were lots of entries so I’m chuffed, particularly as I’m finding it hard to write.

From 2020 UK Landscape Photographer of the Year (shortlisted)

I chose a story I’d written for the Just Write course (we had to respond to something we saw in the media and next day, there was the most beautiful photograph in the i, promoting a book on photography. So I decided to see if I could whittle it down (massacre it??) from 1500 to 500 words and still retain the essence. I’ll post the link when it’s published online (Alice Little puts up a new one each week) but meantime, the original is here in its imperfect state with with the photograph. If you’ve got Word and fancy a read, go ahead. I have no illusions about my writing skills - strong on grammar and spelling, less strong on imagination and inspiration. I never believed I’d make a writer but it’s nice to get little pats on the back occasionally.

PS. Not going to happen. This blog is Google-born and it won’t import a Microsoft document.

Oh, last thing: Up at 5.58 this morning. We have a burglar alarm but we have lost the code. We have never used it regularly and, once I was so slow on my feet, we decided to go without. We had a power cut a few weeks back and it left the alarm with a little green light flickering under the stairs. In other words, bothering no one. I distinctly said to my husband “Please do NOT touch it” and he hasn’t. Yet at 5.57 this morning, he decided to have a go. Full alarm, deafening both of us, terrorising the cat and presumably waking the neighbours. I really had no idea what to do, even with the handbook, because it all depended on keying in the code. It died after 20 minutes but then I waited for it to start again.  It didn’t. God I HATE burglar alarms. But I’m so not fond of a husband who just puts on his shoes and coat and goes out to post a letter, leaving me to deal with the mayhem - but not even telling me he was going.

220. Something nice for a change

NEWS #1 I received this yesterday: 

Hello Jan

 

I’m Emily, the Head of Volunteering at Breast Cancer Now. I hope this email finds you well and safe, during this very difficult time.

 

This might seem a bit of a strange email to you (I promise it’s not a scam!!) but you’ve been nominated for a Volunteer Award! We recently put out a message to staff and volunteers to ask if they would like to nominate anyone for our annual (albeit, inaugural) Volunteer Award 2021. We received a lovely nomination for you from the user Evie on the Forum.

 

I know you’re not an “official” volunteer, but you do so much to support people on the Forum and this has been recognised by others on the Forum, who want you to know what an inspiration and support you are.

 

We’ll be announcing the winner on the second day of our Virtual Volunteer Conference, being held next week. The details are at the bottom of this email, and you’d be very welcome to sign up and attend if you’d like to. Either way, I’ll be following up with all nominees after the Conference, to share more details about their nomination.

 

If you have any questions at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.

 

Many congratulations!

Best wishes

Emily

Isn’t that lovely? I had had a private message from Evie telling me she’d nominated me but it’s a big compliment. I do think though that, as the event is for proper volunteers and I turned down the chance to be one later last year on the basis that I still haven’t sorted my own mess out yet, the award must go to a proper volunteer. The compliment is enough.

NEWS #2 My surgery is postponed, owing to the super-spreader reaching Leeds (my thoughts about the surgery are in 218 but not yet fit for publishing.

NEWS #3 Yesterday’s hospital visit was the worst hospital experience I have had. The interior feels something like this: 

  M S Escher

NEWS #4 In case you’re wondering, this is my eye now, It’s not even sore, just cumbersome: 

                   

NEWS #5 I’ve written two posts I’m not ready to publish yet. Writing was very therapeutic though.