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?

Good news at last...

... even if it does mean another change.

I’m always going on about how much I hate changes and it’s true. Even as I type this, Mr A is cutting down a wisteria. I fought for that wisteria to live. It provides green leaves outside our bedroom window but Mr A was adamant. The problem is that it hasn’t flowered for about ten years now and, as Mr A says, “What use is a wisteria that doesn’t flower?” 

He’s got a new one to take its place but it’ll be years before it reaches those heights and now I’m going to have to look at bricks from my window instead of leaves... I hate changes.

But there’s one change soon to arrive in our house that I won’t hate at all. Mr A is getting his driving licence back!! After one and a half years of having to rely on me to drive him everywhere he’ll be regaining his independence. All he’s waiting for is the licence to arrive in the post. It’s almost like a kid waiting for the postman on his birthday.

When his eye sight was first affected he was on a course of chemotherapy, high dose steroids and Gabapentin. The specialists still aren’t sure if it was his condition or the treatment that caused the problem but either way he couldn't see well enough to drive. I’ve always been a reluctant distance driver and so we were both uncomfortable in our new roles as 'me the driver' and 'him the passenger'.

For much of last year I drove no further than the hospital and back because he was so ill, but over the last few months his health has improved and he’s been eager to travel once more.  I’ve had no choice and in a way it’s done me good. My driving confidence has improved no end. I’ve driven to Manchester and back two weekends ago and down to London last weekend and I’m determined not to lose that confidence once he’s driving again...

...although there is something that I definitely will be losing, exclusive use of our car! But one look at the grin on his face makes it well worth it... I think!

    

A half-perfect mini-break

We’ve been away! (Quite an event for us these days!) It was only a tiny mini-break but it was much needed and we hadn’t been on a ‘daughter visit’ for ages, so as Rod had a hospital appointment in London, we booked train tickets to London and then on to Hertford (which meant that I didn’t have any hated distance-driving to do.) Daughter had discovered a lovely new B&B in the centre of Hertford so we gave it a try.

Staying in a B&B can be a bit of a gamble. We’ve stayed in some decidedly dark and dingy ones in the past but I’m delighted to say that this was not one of them. It’s called Rigby’s and it’s only been open for a few months. A lot of thought has gone into the design of the rooms. The bed was snugly comfortable with cushions and bathrobes... 

...and a luxuriously spacious bathroom.

There was a fabulous view from the window...

...and we ate our freshly cooked breakfast in a period dining room overlooking the garden. (Whoops, I'm starting to sound like an advertisement now!)

Walking round Hertford was like being in a pretty seaside town. Even daughter’s cat was on her best behaviour, deigning to sit on my lap (I’m truly honoured, says daughter!) What a perfect mini-break... well half-perfect anyway.

Rod’s appointment was at Moorfields Eye Hospital. His eye sight hasn’t improved since he was on his second course of chemotherapy over a year ago. He’s still not able to drive. His hopes were hanging on the London Consultant suggesting a cure but sadly nerves in his eyes have been damaged and apparently there is no cure. It’s a case of coming to terms...

...but things could be worse. I may hate distance driving but at least I can drive and I did just that as soon as we arrived back. During the train journey home we realised that Rod hadn’t had fish and chips since all those food restrictions that had accompanied his stem cell transplant last August, so I drove straight round to our local chippie and we were soon scoffing fish, chips and mushy peas accompanied by two big mugs of tea. Perfect!

   

Hospitals and Wormeries... Aaagh!

Rod will have been in hospital for three weeks on Tuesday. They said it would take three weeks for the entire stem cell transplant procedure, but they didn’t reckon on the chemotherapy sending his kidneys into hibernation. It would seem that the kidneys are lazy organs. That’s what the specialist said, and now they need to be coaxed into working again. The doctors are hoping to avoid dialysis because of the risk of infection but the machine is all set up and ready beside his bed just in case.

While he’s in hospital I’m in charge at home. I’ve managed to get the recycling sorted. The composting regime is easy but I made the mistake of buying Rod a wormery for his birthday earlier this year. A colony of worms is one responsibility too many. Those who know me well, know how much I loathe worms. If I touch a worm while I’m gardening the entire street knows about it but I overcame the fear. I had to. Rod’s wormery was letting in water. Some worms have drowned. I was mortified. I may not like them but I didn’t mean to kill them. The main problem is that it will not stop raining! So I’ve turned the mixture to let in some air. I’ve stirred in paper and oats to dry them out. Today I moved them all into the shed... without screaming once. Who’d have thought it?

Not all of my additional responsibilities are yuk, for example taking Josh-the-dog for his evening walk. The evening walk was always, always Rod’s job but I’m starting to quite enjoy it... if only it would stop raining! It hasn’t stopped raining since the day after Rod went into hospital. He’d set up an elaborate array of watering cans etc to make it easier for me to water all the pots but I haven’t had to use them once. I’m starting to wonder if someone up there has noticed the title of my blog and decided to be ironic!

Rod is still not able to eat solids, his kidneys are still struggling, his resistance is rock bottom because of the high-dose chemotherapy and he’s very weak but he is really hoping to be home by next weekend or the beginning of the following week. I hope he’s not disappointed. I guess you’ll all be relieved too because it’ll mean that I’ll stop moaning on about hospitals and treatments and start talking about something more interesting instead so, for all our sakes, here’s hoping.

Hospital Visiting is Exhausting

Having someone ill in hospital is hard enough without having to find your way to the appropriate ward, work out what you can and can’t do as a visitor and then, having got all that sorted, you have to think of interesting, uplifting things to say. Parking the car is yet another problem. Our hospital has an almost permanent queue of cars attached to it. With Rod undergoing a stem cell transplant this is affecting me on a daily basis. But here’s the twist. The queue has become a source of fascination and a useful discussion point. Before I explain I’ll give a brief Rod Report for those of you who have kindly been asking after him.

Rod Report: He’s now in isolation as the high-dose chemo (Melphalan administered on Wednesday) has upset his digestive system badly and his blood count is dropping. I’m allowed to go in and see him but I must wash my hands and gel them before I go into and when I come out of his room.

 

They reintroduced his stem cells on Friday but the doctor did warn that this procedure would feel like an anti-climax. Three bags were removed from a huge tank with liquid nitrogen floating around (as I had imagined). Each bag was placed in a warm bath and as soon as it reached body temperature the liquid (red with tiny white dots i.e. the baby stem cells) was fed in through his drip system. They are helping him to fight the chemotherapy but he won’t feel the benefits for some time.

 

He’s very uncomfortable and is on a saline drip because they’re concerned about his lack of fluid intake and the condition of his kidneys. He’s likely to be in the unit for at least another two weeks. We’ve been warned that during this week the symptoms will get steadily worse. I’m trying to busy myself with writing so I’ll get back to my blog now.

 

Talking is making Rod feel sick. I’ve never had a problem generating idle chatter so as soon as I arrive, I start chatting to him... but I keep mentioning food. This is not good. Fortunately I’m sitting on a chair beside the window overlooking the queue of cars for the car park and I can give Rod a running commentary about the many and varied quirks of queuing drivers.

Here are just a few:

‘Swap the driver’ These people must be first-time visitors. The regulars know that the one with the appointment needs to be in the passenger seat so that, after inching along the road for half an hour, they can jump out of the car and run into the hospital (health permitting) to avoid being late.

 

‘The crawler’ Some drivers won’t pull forward when a car goes through the barrier. They try to play the ‘let’s see if I can keep moving very, very slowly’ game. Please don’t. For those people behind you it’s highly irritating.

 

‘The entrance blocker’ Most drivers leave the orange box areas free for delivery vehicles to enter other hospital gates, but just a few steadfastly don’t. It causes chaos.

 

‘Alternative pick up point’ I’ve done this for quick treatments like blood tests. Rod gets out of the car as I join the queue. I crawl along and before I reach the front of the queue he’s finished and rejoined me. We pull out and the driver in the car behind thinks I’m great.

‘The ignorants’ Every so often a car speeds down the outside lane and swerves into the car park when it reaches the front of the queue. This has happened in front of me on several occasions and it’s infuriating. There’s nothing you can do about it because they’ve got through the barrier by the time you’ve decided to get out and tackle them and you’re left with high blood pressure. At least the hospital has an A&E Department if it all becomes too much.

I know that the official line about hospital parking is that it’s preferable to get the bus but it isn’t, truly it isn’t. When I get out of that hospital all I want to do is to climb into my car and drive myself home. Hospital visiting is exhausting.

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.

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. We were overtaken by joggers, cyclists, even canoeists.

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!

Spring: A new beginning or more of the same?

Yesterday was the Vernal Equinox. We’re halfway between the shortest, darkest day and the longest, lightest one. We can say with confidence that it’s Spring, but is Spring a new beginning? It might be the time when flowers start to open but those buds have been growing for months. So where does our yearly cycle really begin? I’ve never understood why January 1st should be a new beginning. The Winter Solstice would be more logical, or even our birthday. If it comes to it, do we have a natural yearly cycle or are our bodies governed by a monthly cycle, or a daily one... or should we be ‘living in the moment’?

These were questions that I threw at yesterday’s local Lapidus group. We had gathered in Leicester and, although I was leading the session, I still had the day put aside as well-earned ‘me-time’. I had spent most of last week with Rod at the specialist unit of London’s Royal Free Hospital. They told us that his chemotherapy treatment is to be extended for another two months. I was ready for my ‘me-time’.

The group agreed that they were influenced by a yearly cycle but none of the ones I had listed out. It was the academic year, with the end of the long summer holiday marking a new beginning in many people’s lives. We talked about seasons having smells and tastes. Smells are so evocative. They can take us back to long-ago events from similar times of the year but these memories are often negative. Would it not be better to live in the moment? By all means plan and prepare for future events but why do many of us mourn for the past, worry for the future and ruin the present? (ok, ok, so I'm talking about myself here!)

At this point I introduced out first writing exercise. We chose one moment from that morning before we met and we followed a simple format of listing the senses. I love these group writing sessions. They always produce as many ideas as there are people in the group. Our chosen moments ranged from a precious early morning cup of tea to an uninhibited dance in a rain-drenched garden.

The poem The Art of Blessing the Day by Marge Piercy inspired us to write our own words of appreciation for the small things in life. We blessed just about everything from the smooth satin lining of a much-loved jacket to a nice cup of tea... I could take a hint. We stopped for tea, biscuits, news, gossip and general chatter. My me-time had once again turned into me/we/tea time. I created this phenomenon in an earlier post and firmly believe that we all need it every now and then.

Before we rushed back to the real world I read a piece from the Strictly Writing Blog. Guest blogger, Tara L. Masih, talked of her father’s advice to always put positive, beautiful images into our minds because images never leave us. Once our vision processes a scene or picture, it is stored in our subconscious forever. Tara likened our minds to one big filing drawer that stretches to infinity. This is why she tries to avoid graphic violence on TV and film, likes to garden, go to art museums, and explore different places and cultures.

As I was reading, the group were nodding in agreement. We don’t want to waste space in our mental filing cabinets on negative thoughts and so we gathered up some positive thoughts to take away with us, like the feeling you get when you’re lost in a good book, or when you see an amazing sunset. For me it was my day with the local Lapidus group which has now been filed safely away in my mental filing cabinet under the letter p for positive.

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

Help! I have a newly retired husband?

Suggestions in the comments box below, please.

Cups of tea appear beside my laptop at regular intervals, with a biscuit balanced on the saucer and his 'next new project' to be discussed. My husband has retired from work. It's not that he doesn't support my writing, it's just that he's there... all the time. I used to be able to stare at the window for an hour or more if an idea needed thinking through, or sit at the computer all day if the ideas were flowing. Now we have lunch at lunch time, a set routine to the day and he's trying out things in the kitchen. A few weeks ago it was the making of pastry. Every afternoon my cups of tea arrived with tarts of varying texture and colour placed on the saucer. By the end of the week he was moderately satisfied with his dough technique but issued threats that trials would begin again just as soon as I'd bought more flour. He's a determined man. This week he cleaned out the kitchen cupboards. Yes, yes, I can hear you all slapping your cheeks in envy and amazement but, no, it's not as wonderful as it sounds. I can't find a thing.

It was the right time for Rod to retire. He struggled through last year trying to get into work while he was on the Valcade chemotherapy treatment. When he was not well enough for work he lay around feeling guilty. Even he agrees that he's earned a well-deserved rest. At the moment he's halfway through a course of Melphalan taken at home in pill form. As I commented in an earlier post, thankfully he's tolerating it quite well. He's been out walking Josh the dog most days and that's my benchmark for his fitness level.

Which brings me to another problem linked with his retirement. I hardly ever walk the dog anymore. I'm becoming increasingly unfit and I've put on weight. I could go with him but this way I get a full hour's concentrated writing time. I do miss the people. Dog walking is good for writers. There are so many fascinating characters on the park. If you have a dog they always want to stop and chat and there's often a whole pageful of incidents and observations to jot down in my notebook when I get home.

Of course I still walk Josh when Rod is having a bad chemo day but as I no longer walk him regularly I'm out of the routine. It's a real ordeal to have to pull on all those layers of clothing and go out, especially on a cold winter's morning. Josh is a big dog. He pulls me along on the ice and he always prefers to walk across the muddiest fields on the park. But as soon as I'm out there on my favourite field, surrounded by frost covered trees and birdsong, I feel totally exhilerated... Yes, you're right. Tomorrow I'll go with him. The writing will just have to wait.

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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'd recommend a notebook to everybody.