A reason for blogging

Some people blog to promote their writing and I’ve mentioned before that I wouldn’t have got the commission to write my Children’s History of Leicester had it not been for this blog.

Some people blog because they’ve got something to say and want to spread their words far and wide and you only have to check your stats to see how well blogs can do 'far and wide'. Here is a copy of my stats graph showing the location of this week's visitors:

United Kingdom – 264

United States – 203

Germany – 39

Russia – 36

Netherlands – 16

Canada – 13

France – 13

Australia – 8

South Africa – 5

Japan – 4

It’s pretty much the same each week, give or take a few countries, and I often wonder who these visitors are, why they came, and whether they found what they were looking for.

I did have a specific reason for setting up this blog and it wasn’t to promote my writing. It was to see if I could find others whose lives have been affected by Amyloidosis, by chemotherapy treatments and stem cell transplants. It’s not that we never meet other Amyloidosis sufferers. We go each year to the Amyloidosis Awareness Day run by Myeloma UK and Mr A has to have a two-day check-up twice a year at the specialist unit at London’s Royal Free Hospital so we get the chance to compare symptoms and treatments but I still feel the need to talk with others who understand when I ramble on about Lambda and Kappa Free Light Chains, Nephrotic Syndrome, Amyloid loads, not to mention all the drugs.

Mr A was diagnosed with Amyloidosis in 2008. I began my blog in 2009 and my first ever blog post says it all really. My blog writing style and presentation may have changed but unfortunately the Amyloidosis hasn’t. The levels were knocked back by the stem cell transplant in 2010 but we’re anxious that they’re starting to rise again. Maybe it’s a blip. Maybe things will stabilise once more but if anyone reading this is having similar experiences, we’d love to hear from you. Somehow, every now and then, it just helps to share the load.

... And that's my reason for blogging. What's yours?

The responsibilities of being a cook

As the main cook and menu-preparer of the house I take total responsibility for the standard of our diet. If we eat rubbish then I’ve only myself to blame. Diet features high on the guidelines for caring for our kidneys and that’s something that I now have to take very seriously.

We spent the last two days in the Amyloidosis Unit of the Royal Free Hospital in London and we chatted with a lot of people whose kidney functions are far worse than Mr A’s and who are consequently on dialysis. Amyloidosis produces sticky platelets in the blood and so the kidneys are often the first organ to be affected. These tests that Mr A has twice-a-year are designed to keep him off dialysis for as long as possible but it’s not only Amyloidosis sufferers who have kidney problems...

...how many of us abuse our kidneys on a daily basis? *sticks hand up in air*

As cook it’s up to me to take care of Mr A’s kidneys, to keep them going as long as possible and to stop abusing my own at the same time so here goes. I'm going to try and: 

1. Eat lots of fruit and vegetables (including peas and beans) and grain-based food like bread, pasta, noodles and rice.
2. Eat some lean meat like chicken and fish each week.
3. Eat only small amounts of salty or fatty food.
4. Drink plenty of water instead of other drinks.
5. Maintain a healthy weight.
6. Stay fit. Do at least 30 minutes of physical activity that increases my heart rate on five or more days a week.
7. Not smoke.
8. Limit alcohol to one small drink a day. (That's because I'm a female. It's two small drinks a day if you're a bloke.)
9. Have my blood pressure checked regularly.
10. Do things to help me relax and reduce my stress levels.

I don't really drink and I certainly don't smoke but my hardest ones are 3 (I can’t resist eating crisps!) 6 (I’m lazy!!!) and 10 (I get wound up too easily!)

Which ones are hard for you?

More Needles than a Hedgehog

A nurse came to the house today to teach Rod how to inject himself. It’s all to do with his low kidney function. He’s got to administer weekly jabs of EPO to boost his red blood cells. But that’s not all.  Two weeks ago they gave him all his childhood injections at the hospital. At the same time they started him on a twice weekly course of B12 jabs... and I’m not even trying to count how many times they keep taking samples of blood to ‘see how it’s all going’.

I decided to use a picture of a cute hedgehog here rather than a not-so-cute hypodermic needle.

This time last year he was preparing himself for a seven week hospital stay which was to include a ridiculously high dose of chemotherapy, a stem cell transplant, four weeks in isolation and a period of kidney failure. The doctors are pleased with the way his Amyloidosis has responded to this onslaught. The levels of nasties in his blood have reduced considerably but every time I look at him I have this picture in my mind of a man leaking water...

   

4 for Friday: a trip to London

1. A London Hospital

Every six months Rod has to go to London for a two-day series of tests to check on his Amyloidosis. The specialists at the National Amyloidosis Centre were very pleased with his progress following last year’s stem cell transplant. We came away with grins on our faces.

The NAC is a specialist unit tucked round the back of the Royal Free Hospital, which incidentally featured on the National news when we returned home. The hospital had scored badly on its care of the frail elderly. Doctors are having to write out prescriptions for water so that elderly patients don’t die of dehydration. I’ve blogged about this problem here and here. I was featured in the local newspaper and I was interviewed for BBC TV News. 

I know that I can't make a difference on my own but I'm about to throw myself back into this campaign. There are so many issues still to be addressed and, of course, I'll blog about it.

2.  London Taxis

The cost of using the London Underground is now so expensive that we decided to go for a bit of comfort. There’s nothing quite like hailing a black cab and jumping in. I’m an excited kid again, being treated to a day out by my Dad.

Chatty London Taxi drivers took us from St Pancras Station to the Royal Free Hospital and back with no problems and the added advantage of being able to watch the tourists milling round Camden Market.

But at the end of the first day, when the hospital had finished with Rod until the next morning, we headed for the West End... and, oh my word, the traffic! Admittedly Barack Obama was in town and the Chelsea Flower Show was in full swing but even so! The taxi crawled. The meter ticked. When it clicked above £22 we paid up and walked the rest of the way... and a lovely walk it was too.

3.  London's West End

Street upon street of shops selling all things Union Jack, (I’m choosing to ignore the occasional seedy sex joint,) permanently full eateries and swathes of tourists wandering the streets. I suspect that many of them had tickets for the theatre and were passing their time, just as we were, in the London sunshine. 

We had a drink in a London pub and we ate spaghetti in a London Italian Restaurant. It's all so different from Leicester. Even the spaghetti had more taste... or was it the holiday mood that we'd adopted?

4.  A London Show: The Jersey Boys

People had been urging me to go for ages.

“You’ll love it,” they said. “It’s just your sort of show.”

And they were right. The Jersey Boys, showing at The Prince of Edward Theatre, makes clever used of the Four Seasons’ hit songs to tell the story of their fame and infamy. I never knew about the New Jersey underworld, the debts and prison sentences. I just loved their songs. I still do. The show was brilliant and you can hear some of the music here.

   

Was this the last train out of London?

It was going to be a bit of an outing… well not much of one to be honest, but two days of tests for Rod at the National Amyloidosis Centre, at London's Royal Free Hospital was as good as it gets these days. It was the first time Rod had been out since his stem cell transplant four months ago and so, if nothing else, we were planning to include a bit of window shopping in the new, shiny St Pancras Train Station on the way home. 

Fortunately the consultation at the end of Rod’s two-day test marathon was good. He is progressing as well as can be expected. The statistics show that the stem cells have just about done what they were meant to do. All we need now is for him to get stronger and put on a bit of weight which will, the consultant assured us, happen all in good time. 

There were light flurries of snow as we shivered our way from the hospital but at St Pancras 'cancelled' signs screamed at us from the departure boards. This was no time for window shopping. We joined the mass of panicky travellers and wedged ourselves onto what, according to the information displayed, was the only train heading to the East Midlands. It was going to Sheffield to be precise, with Leicester as its first stop. 

The journey was beautiful, white fields lit by dazzling sunshine, but by the time we reached Leicester it was snowing and as we alighted from the train we heard the announcer breaking the news to the remaining travellers. The train was no longer going to Sheffield but would terminate at Derby. We’re home now, heating on full blast, cuddling hot mugs of tea, but I keep wondering what happened to all those people who thought they were on their way to Sheffield.

  

Not enough blogging time

I’ve run out of time this week. I haven’t been to visit all my favourite blogs or made my usual blog comments and I know how much comments mean to bloggers. [In fact, some of us can be childishly overenthusiastic about them!] But I have a good/bad reason. Rod [Mr A.] was hoping [we were all hoping] he could avoid having that stem cell transplant that I’ve been muttering on about in my blogs, but the hospital say that it must be the next course of treatment. The amyloids are building up and if left unchecked they’ll damage his kidneys and spread to other organs in his body. He has no choice and so he will be going into the bone marrow unit on 3rd August.

I used to think that a stem cell transplant meant putting something new into the body, much like a heart transplant, but it’s not. It’s a way for them to give him an extremely high dose of chemotherapy. The dose would be fatal without the reintroduction of his own stem cells to help his body to recover. They were harvested last year and are stored at the hospital in what my mind imagines to be a container full of swirling dry ice, akin to something from a Frankenstein movie. Joking aside, it’s an aggressive treatment. He’ll be in hospital for about three weeks and convalescing for about three months. During that time he must avoid infections. He won’t even be able to touch his lovely garden. [I will try to make sure that it still is a lovely garden when the hospital gives him permission to dirty his hands again but I’m no gardener. Truly I’m not.]

And so we’re going to go out and about this week. We’re going to spend time with good friends, visit exciting places, keep busy and have fun. I won’t be around much in blogland for the next seven days so I thank you in anticipation [that’s a lovely old phrase, isn’t it] for your visits and your comments. Once he’s undergoing treatment I rather think I’ll be visiting you all quite a lot.

Well done me!

This is not something that I’m used to saying. It almost feels obscene to praise myself... but then again why not. I have driven over 500 miles in the last week. We’ve been out and about visiting family and, as Mr A is continuing to have trouble with his eyes, he’s having to put up with my driving. I hate driving distances so I think I deserve a bit of praise.

I have two major problems with long distance motorway driving; boredom and lane discipline. As a passenger I’d often overcome the boredom by writing. Obviously this is not an option for a driver but I can’t even think about a current story plot while I’m behind the wheel. My mind is totally engaged and yet it is so boring.

I know! I know! I need to drop my shoulders but somehow or other they always want to touch my ears when I’m on the motorway.

The other problem is anticipating which lane to get into. Why do motorways have to have left hand lanes that suddenly become a different road? One minute you’re driving along the M6, the next you’re being swept into the M56 and heading for Wales. How confusing is that? I do have a Sat Nav with a nice Irish man called Sean who talks to me in a gentle, reassuring way but even with his help I have been dangerously close to being swept onto the wrong road several times during this last week.

The reason we’re doing a bit of travelling is that Mr A has just completed a six-month course of chemotherapy but unfortunately the levels in his blood are continuing to rise and the doctors are concerned that the Amyloidosis will spread if no further action is taken. They want to refer him for a stem cell transplant but we’re trying to delay them... just a little. He needs a break. It’s summer. We’re going to get away, visit family, go to the seaside, enjoy some typical British ‘warm’ weather. The family visits over this last week are just the start of our summer of busy... although I have to say there’s busy and there’s busy.

Last Sunday was spent daughter-visiting. It was a lovely day so we decided to take Josh-the-dog exploring. Nothing too energetic. It was more of a stroll than a walk. We wandered, we watched the ducks, Josh socialised a little...

...but everyone around us was so busy.

We were overtaken by joggers, cyclists, even canoeists – and yes that is a canoeist ‘shooting the weir’ or whatever they call it.

What is it with all this need for physical activity? Can it really be healthy, especially on such a warm day? The picture on the left doesn't quite show it but the joggers were passing us constantly. At one point I feared that it might become busier on that path than on the motorway... still at least there was no danger of being swept onto the M56 to Wales and I could do some of my Nosy Adam people watching and story-idea gathering without having to concentrate too hard on where I was going.

A note for other Nosy Adams/Parkers/Smiths/etc like myself: A project called Bugged has just been launched. There’s more information on their website but basically they’re asking writers to ‘go forth and eavesdrop’ on July 1st. We have to write something based on what we hear and send it to them by August 15th. There’ll be an anthology of the best coming out in October 2010.

Permission to be nosy… now that’s what I call fun!

Being a Nosy Adam...

...why should Parker have the monopoly on nosiness?

I was taking Josh the dog to the park the other morning when I noticed a red ribbon on a neighbour’s hedge. It made me think about Joanne Harris and her red ribbons in Blackberry Wine. I wondered if it could be some sort of a sign, a talisman. This gave me an idea for a story so I scribbled it into my notebook.

Further down our road there was a small group of people pointing at something out of my line of vision. No self-respecting Nosy Adam could have walked on by, so we made a detour to watch a large digger turn a perfectly good house into a pile of bricks. This was to make way for a road and houses in the backlands but what fascinated me were gardens that I had never seen before. There were bushes, trees, an old fashioned garden shed... or was it a Wendy House where generations of children had played or maybe it was a bolthole for Dad with a radio and cans of beer or better still for Mum with a mug of coffee and her mobile phone. Another idea and I was scribbling in my notebook again.

Josh was pulling at his lead. ‘Aren’t we supposed to be going to the park?’ he said. (OK, so he didn’t actually say it.) We resumed our walk. A cat who was watching Josh from the top of a fence, didn’t know that dogs can’t climb. She panicked. She lost her balance. A pair of claws grappled and disappeared down the back of the fence, followed by a clatter, a hiss, a meow. The Nosy Adam in me wanted to go and investigate but I knew that it would only make things worse so I jotted it down in my notebook.

The red ribbon was still caught on the hedge when we returned from the park. I knew that red ribbons have something to do with charity. The Internet said that it is the symbol of the World Aids Campaign. They are calling for nominations for the 2010 Red Ribbon Award and the closing date is 28th February. Well there’s a coincidence, I thought, bearing in mind last week’s blog post and I began to type this post...

But when I looked up the link for the Red Ribbon Award I was surprised to see that there is a Burgundy Ribbon for Amyloidosis Awareness... come to think of it that ribbon on the hedge was kind of a burgundy red and I have a husband who suffers from Amyloidosis. So it’s not a coincidence. It’s synchronicity. I started out writing about how being nosy gives you ideas for creative writing and now I’m reading a website about raising awareness of Amyloidosis as early diagnosis can save lives, I’m planning how I can get involved and I’m right back with my last week’s blog post about coincidence versus synchronicity. Isn’t life strange?

I don't believe in coincidences...

or do I?

I often start to say something to a friend only to hear them saying it first.

‘Creepy!’ I think. ‘Am I psychic or was that a coincidence?’

Surely the most logical explanation is that we spend a lot of time together and so have similar thoughts and experiences. Likewise a phone call from my mother will often coincide with me thinking that I really must ring her.

I would like to think that serendipity* is not a coincidence but some sort of divine intervention. When I first joined Twitter I tweeted just the once and my name was seen by the Chair of Lapidus. This is a lady who never normally uses Twitter but she recognised me and invited me to a local Lapidus meeting. It was fortuitous, serendipitous, and I’ve gained a lot from that reunion, but why should divine intervention be bothering itself with my Lapidus membership?

Can synchronicity* be explained in a logical way? Have you ever read or written a story only to see the same scenario reported in the news shortly afterwards? When I interviewed Pippa Goodhart last month she told me that she had recently read in the paper about an aristocrat whose wife had given birth to twin boys by Caesarean section and they had to decide which of the two should become the heir.

‘That was almost exactly the dilemma I'd put into my Cake Test story where triplet girls get muddled by the nannies and they have to devise a test to choose which of them would make the best Queen. Isn't life strange?’ mused Pippa and it gets stranger...

Several years ago I was sure that I heard a voice as the phone began to ring. It was my father-in-law’s voice. He’d been dead for many years but I heard him tell me that I was going to have to be strong. In the few seconds that it took me to answer the phone I became convinced that something must have happened to my mother-in-law. I was relieved to hear my best friend on the line but she had called to tell me that her husband had died and I really did need to be strong. So was this a coincidence, because I’m not sure how comfortable I feel about any alternative explanation?

And now I’m faced with another coincidence. Rod has just finished his 3rd month of chemotherapy to control his Amyloidosis. I said in an earlier post how well he was coping with the Melphalan and Prednisolone but that was before he developed blurred vision. Eye Casualty said that his optic nerve is inflamed. They sent him for an MRI scan, lumber puncture, field vision and all manner of tests. Last Thursday he saw an Ophthalmic Neurologist, a Neurological Ophthalmologist and a Haematologist. Three ologists in one day - is this a record? None of them could say what is causing it. It came on shortly after he finished his 2nd dose of Melphalan but apparently blurred vision is not a known side effect... and so it must be a coincidence, or is it?

If you’ve experienced a coincidence without a logical explanation then I’d love to hear about it. Please share it in Comments below.

If you’ve had any experience of Melphalan and blurred vision then we would both be interested to hear from you. If you don’t want to post a comment then I can always be contacted through my website at www.rkawriting.co.uk.

I get mixed up with these two words and so have put the definitions here for myself as well as for anyone else with a similar serendipity/synchronicity confusion issue.

* Serendipity: when events coincide with a positive outcome

* Synchronicity: when a series of coincidences appear to be related

Waiting

Waiting rooms and people watching... or just waiting my life away

This has been a week of waiting around. The other day I had to sit next to Father Christmas in the hospital waiting room. It was the only seat left. He wasn’t real. I could tell that by the way his foot fell off when I shifted his knee away from mine, but it made everyone smile, even though we knew we’d be waiting there for the best part of the morning. My husband, Rod, is on chemotherapy again for his Amyloidosis and so we have to go each month for them to check him over and write out the next month’s prescription. There’s always a buzzing atmosphere in the clinic’s waiting room: friendships forged on the oncology day ward, people chatting, comparing side effects, number of courses this time, what to get the Grandkids for Christmas.

Waiting rooms are excellent places for gathering ideas for new characters. This week it was the grown-up daughter who was trying a little too hard to keep up the spirits of her anxious mother, buying her packets of crisps, taking photographs of her with her mobile phone, giggling a little too much. I slipped my writer’s notebook out of my bag and jotted it all down. You never know when she might want to appear in one of my stories.

From the clinic we went straight to Pharmacy. The sign said ‘one hour’s wait’ and we knew that meant ‘at least one hour’ so we resigned ourselves to more waiting in the WRVS cafe. The cafe is good for a different kind of people watching: nurses, doctors and assorted members of staff rushing in, grabbing a sugar fix and rushing out again. The care assistant with the glitter on her cheeks, reindeer antlers on her head and a miserable look on her face was a great character to capture in the pages of my notebook, so too was the volunteer working behind the counter. He had a Santa hat on his head and was singing Christmas Carols and joking with us all as he provided us with mugs of coffee and mince pies.

The next day I took my mother to the dentist. Another chance to people watch, or so I thought, and I went fully prepared as usual with my writer’s notebook and pen, but what a difference from the atmosphere in the hospital clinic. Everybody was sitting in silence, looking down at their feet, glancing up each time the nurse came in with an expression of gloom and the end of the world on their faces. I think we need to get things into perspective here.

Even the dog’s waiting

(a shameless excuse for sharing with you a picture of Josh the dog)

This week saw more waiting with the promised delivery of two flat-pack wardrobes. Why is my address always the last call of the day and why couldn’t they tell me first thing in the morning instead of making me wait? It’s the same when we need a plumber or electrician. Who are these people who have the first call of the day? I could now start complaining about waiting for buses and the way that they always sail past our turning just as I get to the corner but that would make me sound like a grumpy old woman and that would never do.

Waiting does seem to take up a large part of my life. I am forever waiting to hear from a publisher, and it’s a lovely phone call that I mean, not a rejection letter. For some people waiting is how they pass their entire lives: waiting to grow up, waiting for the right partner, waiting until they can afford to have children, waiting for their summer holiday, waiting for Christmas, waiting for retirement. Let’s stop all the waiting and do a bit of living instead otherwise before we know it we’ll be waiting to die – the end.

The Powerful Pen

Dumping baggage, chemotherapy and notebooks

There have been many times when I’ve started to write about one thing and found myself writing about something that I didn’t even know was in my head. It sounds as if the pen is magic but I suspect it’s more to do with my sub-conscious. Be it magic or sub-conscious activity, it’s a particularly useful way of dealing with a troubled mind, with worries and problems that won’t let you think clearly. It’s a way of dumping your baggage. Just sit down and write about everything that is worrying you. It's best to use a notebook, then you can close the book and your worries are safely held inside. You don’t have to be a writer to do it. It doesn’t matter about spelling or grammar. You’re the only person who need look at it and so you can write what you like, when you like. There are no rules – except maybe that the notebook should be a cheap one. I once made the mistake of buying a beautifully bound notebook which is still on my shelf, unused, pristine. It was just too beautiful to sully with my problems.

I’ve been filling up a lot of notebooks recently. On Monday my husband, Rod, starts his third course of chemotherapy. It looks as if this will now be a regular feature in his life to try and control his body’s production of Amyloids (sticky platelets). His first course was in June 2008. He was given a bag full of pills which he had to take in varying amounts on different days of the week in 28 day cycles for three months. The treatment was referred to as CDT which stands for cyclophosphamide, dexamethasone and thalidomide. I was shocked to hear the word thalidomide again after all these years. The specialist warned us that it could cause peripheral nerve damage. That made sense. I clearly remember being horrified by the headline news stories in the early 1960s of all those babies who had been born with malformed arms and legs and shuddered at the thought of Rod having to take that same drug. Before he started the course the specialist read out a form which Rod (aged 65) had to sign in his presence. It was all very serious and solemn. He had to declare that he would not have any relationships with any women of child bearing age while he was taking the pills.
‘You mean, it’s ok for him to do so after he’s finished the pills?’ I wanted to say but I didn’t. Now was not for time for flippancy. When I got home I told my notebook all about it, using angry, vitriolic words in the safe knowledge that this writing was for my eyes only. Logic says that it should have made no difference to how I felt but it did make a difference. It really did.

My notebook doubles as a writer’s notebook and so in-between my rants are funny snippets of conversations overheard when I’m out and about, descriptions of fascinating people I see on the streets, special events that I want to remember. I sometimes browse through old notebooks for ideas (yet another way of avoiding doing any real writing!) and I’m often amazed at how many little snippets of good or funny events are slotted into the times that I thought were filled with only bad.

I’ve included a few extracts from my notebooks below – but not the really private vitriolic rantings. Like I said, they’re for my eyes only.


My notebook extracts:

20.04.07 Pegging washing on the line when a small squirrel saw me and froze. He stared at me. I stared at him. I could see a free, wild look in his eyes. I wonder what he saw in mine.

15.04.08 Kangeroos don’t really like boxing. They hate contact sports. [No, I don’t know what it means either!]

14.07.09 It’s weird how we say How are you? when we meet. We don’t really want to know. Can you imagine if we all started going on about our troubles? [I developed this idea into a poem which turned into quite a therapeutic activity for me. Not sure if it will make sense to anyone else but I’ve included it below anyway.]

How am I?
I glance at a reflection of a face.
There's a family likeness, my mother perhaps.
My face is not so pale, or
tired, or lined.
I'm right… aren't I?

Ask me about the back of my
hands.
I know them.
They're wrinkled, liver spotted.
They work hard.

Ask me about my feet,
The corn on my little toe,
The aching
arches,
The thickened nails.

But don't ask me about me.
You see,
if I dwell on who I truly am
I will be reminded of my fragility,
My transience.

So let me busy myself with daily tasks,
Fill my mind
with the banal,
The cat, the dog,
Cooking, cleaning,
anything
To avoid a space in my head
For being aware of me.

Plot lines, gasmen and stem cell harvesting

My new children’s novel is starting to come alive. I've written a crisp one sentence strap line and a lively promotional paragraph about my female protagonist with attitude and the ghostly sightings that defy logical explanation. I’ve plotted each strand and divided the story into manageable quarters. Last Friday I completed the first quarter. All was going well... until life’s great hefty foot kicked away my flow of creativity once again.

Yesterday my husband, Rod, had his stem cells harvested. Over the weekend he had to inject himself with a hormone solution to stimulate stem cell growth. It stung. It made his bones ache and, to add to his discomfort, the central heating gasped a final warm breath and we were plunged in 1950s style chill, icy mugs and plates, shivering clothes in the wardrobe, even the carpets are too cold to walk on. I’m typing this while I wait for a gasman to arrive with a new control board. If only it were that simple for humans.

Rod has Amyloidosis. It’s rare, sticky platelets in the blood that build up on the organs. It’s treated in pretty much the same way as myeloma. He had two course of chemotherapy in 2008 but the platelet levels are rising again, hence the stem cell harvest. He will be starting his third course of chemotherapy shortly and the stem cells have been frozen in liquid nitrogen in case he needs a stem cell transplant in 2010.

The process of harvesting stem cells could have been lifted straight from a sci-fi novel. The machine is a bulk of metal with knobs and buttons, wheels and tubes, flashing lights and buzzing bells. Black, bakerlite style knobs spun, clicked and whirred as the machine sucked blood from a needle which had been inserted into Rod’s left arm. It travelled through a spaghetti of tubes into the machine before returning to his body via a needle into his right arm. In the machine the blood was spun and separated and over the next four hours we watched as plastic pouches filled with different coloured liquids. The most important pouch was the one containing a brown/beige sludge, his precious stem cells.

I have learnt a lot about medicine in the last year and a half. I used to think that a transplant meant putting a new part into the body because the existing one was faulty. It does in some instances but not in this one. The stem cells will be reintroduced to Rod’s body to help him recover should he need to have high dose chemotherapy treatment. We hope they’ll never be used but it’s reassuring to know that they’re there if needed, rather like my writer’s notebook where all my treasured ideas and creative thoughts are collected and stored just in case one day I need them.

Future blogs:
How I use my writer’s notebook
There’s more to a name than signing a book