Being a horse fanatic and an inveterate reader I've been a fan of Dick Francis for about forever. I loved that he never wrote a book I couldn't somehow identify with, the detail of some of the subjects he included (flying, photography, glassblowing), the plot twists and clues that kept me amused and pondering throughout. Not heavy literature by any means but guaranteed entertaining.
A bit over three years ago when we got to see horses training in the early morning mist in the Cotswolds husband and I said to each other "it's like something out of a Dick Francis". His words had described the scene so well that that was the first thing we both thought of.
I was actually reading my way along the Dick Francis shelf in the bookcase this last week, noted over the weekend that I appear to be missing a book I wanted to reread and went online this morning to see if I could find a copy. There the news came up the Dick Francis died yesterday.
RIP
Monday, February 15, 2010
Friday, February 12, 2010
I didn't think I was finished yet - but maybe I am...
It has been a very bad couple of weeks.
Weeks that involve hospitals are generally bad of course, though when they combine morphine with the hospital experience it gets marginally more bearable. Not much, but slightly.
As absolute low moments go the late evening when a surgeon stood at the end of my bed and suggested that there was a possibility that they had perforated my bowel and if so I would die in the very near future as he wasn't going to operate given I was terminal anyway was probably a once in a lifetime low. (But I guess if they had actually perforated my bowel it would have been worse - thankfully they hadn't) He then had the audacity to say he knew how I felt! I told him fairly sharply that he had no idea how I felt at all and couldn't possibly and he did have the grace to look slightly abashed.
Anyhow he wasn't the only person who used the terminal word. And they combined it into sentences that were instructions, like "You need to accept you are terminal".
Actually I don't have trouble accepting I am terminal when I stop to contemplate it. I have no problem understanding that this cancer will kill me. That has pretty much been a given for a long time since there has been a complete disinterest in actually doing anything to positively improve my chances of survival for the last five years. I have a great deal of difficulty getting my head round time frames (of which there are none but sooner seems to be used rather than later - though they've been wrong about that for about four years too) - and we are all dying after all.
So in the spirit of being a good patient I wrote down some funeral instructions and a quick list of items I want to go to certain people. I guess that is admiting that sooner rather than later might be a possibility.
Anyway I'm home now, should survive the weekend, no longer subjected to hospital jelly or carrot soup (who on earth invented clear carrot soup!) and life is on the improve.
Weeks that involve hospitals are generally bad of course, though when they combine morphine with the hospital experience it gets marginally more bearable. Not much, but slightly.
As absolute low moments go the late evening when a surgeon stood at the end of my bed and suggested that there was a possibility that they had perforated my bowel and if so I would die in the very near future as he wasn't going to operate given I was terminal anyway was probably a once in a lifetime low. (But I guess if they had actually perforated my bowel it would have been worse - thankfully they hadn't) He then had the audacity to say he knew how I felt! I told him fairly sharply that he had no idea how I felt at all and couldn't possibly and he did have the grace to look slightly abashed.
Anyhow he wasn't the only person who used the terminal word. And they combined it into sentences that were instructions, like "You need to accept you are terminal".
Actually I don't have trouble accepting I am terminal when I stop to contemplate it. I have no problem understanding that this cancer will kill me. That has pretty much been a given for a long time since there has been a complete disinterest in actually doing anything to positively improve my chances of survival for the last five years. I have a great deal of difficulty getting my head round time frames (of which there are none but sooner seems to be used rather than later - though they've been wrong about that for about four years too) - and we are all dying after all.
So in the spirit of being a good patient I wrote down some funeral instructions and a quick list of items I want to go to certain people. I guess that is admiting that sooner rather than later might be a possibility.
Anyway I'm home now, should survive the weekend, no longer subjected to hospital jelly or carrot soup (who on earth invented clear carrot soup!) and life is on the improve.
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