Odds and Ends

Before the weeks news, there is something that has been bothering me. In the hospital I had time to read Edgar Allen Poe's 'Selected writings'. Have you ever wondered why they put little quotations at the top of a chapter, often in latin or french. This one fascinated me and made me laugh. I could not see the relevance to the story or the year of writing (1820). Any ideas?

"In the name of the Prophet, FIGS"

.....cry of the Turkish fig peddler.

The Queen's Birthday

On Koninginendag or Queen's Day, the whole country turns into one huge combination of street-party and car-boot sale. Holland has had queens for so long that nobody can remember if there ever was a King's Day. Certainly none alive today ever attended one. In the street market it is always the same stuff every year, it just changes hands. The three-wheeled dinky-toys, the tearful little boy painted on velvet, broken coffee machines, plastic plate-racks, six-year old violin players scraping a living, bicycle thieves pedaling their wares, revolting orange muffins with cream going septic in the sun at 10 ct each. You don't eat them but keep them near you to attract flies and bacteria away from your person.. Bernadet is looking for that which she cannot live without. She does not know yet what it is but will recognise it when she sees it. I hope it's me.

There is always lots of music on the Queen's Birthday. Here we see Irene and Jan et al on the drums. I am sure it is very skilful and good for the soul and indeed the driving rythm was quite hypnotic, but I somehow prefer a band with a variety of different instruments. I would for instance have doubts about a ticket for Elgar  performed by an orchestra of 100 kazoos. I know, it's just me being picky. We did find a magnificent glass iron-framed lamp to replace the magnificent antique lamp in the hall, which now has to be put somewhere else. If not we can bring it to the Queen's Birthday next year.

The great Archeological Tour 

As you can see, they have been digging here.  They have found quite a lot of sand.

All around us, green meadows, horses, allotments and fields of flowers. Much of this will be replaced by 1200 houses in the coming years in the Zuiderloo Project. However, the law requires that a chance should be given to archeologists to see if the ground has an interesting history before the bulldozers move in. Bernadet has made a site that collects all plans, council meeting reports, contractors proposals etc in one place. It reached number 3 in the top ten at HEILOO-ONLINE, fame at last.
Bernadets Zuiderloo Blog

SpikesUitkijkpost never got higher than 5, and that when I spent all day clicking on myself.

We went to one of these digs last year but it was on a very small scale. There was a replica of a wooden spoon in the hole where it had been found, and a plaster cast of the skeleton of a 2500 year old dog. The original spoon and skeleton having been removed to Forensics. This proves that people with dogs lived here in the Iron Age. Or that the dogs were very smart at that time and mixed their own food. This time, we were taken into a container and shown the interesting finds. The replica of the wooden spoon, now in a replica of the hole in which it was found and photos of a plaster cast of a dog skeleton 2500 years old. I mean the dog was 2500 years old, not the photos. There were also lots of bits of broken pottery that may have come from pots, or equally from garden gnomes.

Over here! Another spoon!

When the group was assembled we went of to look at the findings with our lady guide. I had seen massive machines at work and assumed that the building chaps had started, but it turned out that the archeologists had abandoned the wheel-barrow and metal detector in favour of a giant earth-mover. The talk was very interesting, but there was little to see except enormous open-cast sand mines, all of which must be levelled again in 3 weeks for the builders. It seems that one side of the Hoogeweg was the sea and the other, land. The road itself sits on top of a sand bar, and the ground on the Zuiderloo side was 2 meters lower than now. Anything that happened thousands of years ago has been buried and protected by millenia of wind-blown sand. So lets get in there and uncover lost civilizations. Where the guide is standing, we are shown little round marks that apparently are made by the hooves of cows. The inedentations filled up with different coloured sand. There is also a ring of shadowy marks, 3 meters in diameter, which show that a circle of wooden poles stood here. Not very spectacular, but to increase the market value it is now known as 'Woodhenge'.

Keep digging! Legend says there were three stripy poles buried here!

Plastic Age findings

Now this is interesting. An Iron Age gardening tool. Not only did they live here, but they also had Garden Centres where they could buy tools. And gnomes.

It may seem that I am taking the piss out of the archeological efforts. Its just my sense of humour. I am really pleased that trouble is taken to preserve whatever happened here. Not a lot it would seem.

Scenes from the garden at Hoogeweg 34

I am able to spend more time than before on the garden. It's a bit of a mess at the moment but it's coming along. The table top is a side project. it will be all glass mozaic. The quotation is from a japanese naval officer who had his aircraft carrier shot from under him at the Battle of Midway. One of the few who were not killed or killed themselves. After the war he retired to his garden. I have misquoted him, and will correct it before the tiles go on. It should read 'It is better to have a garden than a war'. Originally I wanted to put the quote from  Abraham Lincoln. 'It's the life in your years, not the years in your life'  He only had 56 of them. Anyway, it doesn't have the word 'garden'. I have been collecting lanterns from the recycling shops. There are 10 of them now. A bit of yellow elecrical pipe and a small bulb and you have an electric candle. Looks great at night. 

Merel, the Horse Mumbler 

Merel spends more and more time with her horse. At one stage we thought it a pity to have a horse that never gets ridden and whose stall was perhaps not cleaned out as often as it should be (until the horse was banging his head on the ceiling). Now she lavishes love and attention on Katinka as never before, which is most pleasing as I get more chance to ride. I cannot do the heavy stuff  like shit-shovelling and heaving bales of straw around. Merel on the other hand, is incredibly fit and lithe thanks to the pole-dancing classes. She also gives lessons to little kids. Infinite patience and a warm smile make her very popular amongst the children who gather round as flies to a horse-turd. Here she is giving a lesson to a six-year old, the daughter of Karolientje's neighbour. For a first-timer, this little girl was fearless and competent. There is something ancient and mysterious about the peace that being with a horse brings. We three often walk around the lanes and these are the best moments of the day. We chat about everything and nothing, and let Katinka amble along stopping for snacks every few yards. Time just drifts. Most rewarding and therapeutic.


Mothers Day Breakfast 

Bernadet, when asked what she would like for Mothers Day, requested a breakfast.

We went shopping for the tastiest goodies and prepared a breakfast in the garden. What's the extra table for, asked the girls. Why, so that we can display all the gifts that we have for Mother on Her day. Stunned silence. Gifts? As in presents, wrapped in shiny paper with curly ribbons? Why, yes, that sort of idea. I do hope it will be big enough! Just joking! Just fill it up with stuff to make it look, well, full. Marmite, sandwich-spread, mint sauce, anything in a shiny bottle or packet. It was a great breakfast.        

Later in the afternoon I watched the Tukish Grand-Prix. My man Webber came second again. Vettel won again, not surprisingly. They have tried to make racing more interesting by allowing the car behind to modify his rear wing to make the car go about 20 mph faster on the straight. So you get past, but now you have the same thing happen to you on the next straight. Not really to do with the driving, is it? Also they have modified the tyres so that they do not last very long and you have to come in to change them. Again, not very realistic, just tampering. I prefered A1, in which all cars were identical. Only the driver made a difference, not the weeks in the wind-tunnel and the subtle changing of the rules. I personally think they should have a computer that connects a random device to all the cars. The random device consists of two wheels like a pair of electronic tombolas. One wheel has names of drivers, most of which are 'Vettel'. The other has 'happenings' such as 'Left front wheel falls off' or 'Brakes fail' and the message would go to the appropriate car and it will happen. Just before something happens, a warning message comes onto your TV - "Expect Something Nasty in the next 5 minutes". Now that'would make for exciting racing! I am drivelling.

Because of my illness, I have not been able to bring the Ricketts-Sprenkeling Holiday Home up to the VVV Tourist Board standard that would get it fully booked. We have only one booking for a part of a week and another for another part of a different week. So if anyone wants a very cheap holiday in Holland, we charge a paltry sum to cover the gas and electricity so that we don't go even further into the loss sector. Those dreams of a Butlins Empire are long behind us.

Lovely visit from Michelle, Carolien and Adam, but I have no photos, alas.
And from Ruth later in the week. Lovely to see her.

As I close for the day, the bath being full, I have a super DVD going in the background. It was sent by the God Halpin and is a recording of a live gig in Holland. Kieran and the amazing Jimmy The Smith at the Soldaatje. Great stuff. Just before the last song, Kieran says "Thankyou for being here. If you liked my songs my name is Kieran Halpin. If not, I'm Chris de Burgh".

Well done Chris. Oh dear. This is surely blasphemy and I shall be undone. Love to all and stay healthy and happy.

Dear All,

I had foolishly thought that my last visit to the hospital would be the final, but it was not to be. I went on a previous occasion when I could not stop vomitting, and now it has happened again. It is one of worst things that can happen to you when your peristalsis goes into reverse. Everything comes up from very deep. Hello, I recognise this stuff in the bowl. Yes, the colour, texture and the smell are a match, but I never dreamed I would also have to taste it! I have had a third operation and hopefully, the last. Stef has bullied me into continuing this blog, so here goes, but not all in one go. But I begin with some pictures. I promised myself that should I get out of this in one piece, then I would test my recovery by the ability to do two simple things. Ride the horse and play a bit of golf. The golf may be a bit ambitious at the moment, I don't want to undergo an embarrassing and rather messy unzipping of the latest stitches on the first tee, but you cannot believe how exhilarating it is to get on the lovely Katinka again.

There is lots to tell, but  easy does it. Again my heartfelt grats to all of you for the visits, messages and support. Will get behind the computer tomorrow. By the way Stef, your blog is still stuck around 2004.  

Right, here we are again. Back from Buggered-Internet-Router-IP-Address-Conflict-Land. A quiet moment as my daughters are off to their things, which now for both includes pole-dancing classes. Apart from a few twinges I feel good. Thanks for your concern everyone. I shall endeavor to keep myself quite ill so that I can invoke sympathy and concern and not fade into anonymity and wither for lack of attention. I had my little voice recorder in the hospital to make copious notes, but when I got home I found it had been left on. I replaced the battery, but the thing said 'memory empty'. Bernadet says it is quite normal for chaps of my age to lose their memory, so not to worry. 

Sorry about your expensive scanner.

I went back to hospital because my guts were not working and worse still, went into reverse gear. A welcome back from the nurses who must think I have a season ticket. Into a six-bed room with 2 men and three women. The next two days were spent being pummeled and squeezed and being given noxious stuff to drink to try to get things moving. Eventually I was told I would have a CT scan. This would involve the drinking of lakes of contrast-fluid so that the scanner could see where the guts were. I did point out that since everything that I ate or drank came out again in a violent gush with a loud cry of ‘Rembrandt’, was this really a good idea. I am in good hands, we know what we are doing, trust us I was informed, and my bed and I went off to the scanner, I trying to hold back a potential Victoria Falls situation in my stomach. Fed into the tube and the revolving cameras spin up like an Airbus turbine. Everyone gets behind the safety wall and a ghostly voice says take a deep breath and I move through the narrow pipe. I did warn them. The problem with violent vomiting in a narrow pipe while lying on ones back is that what comes up comes down again, all over one's head. And because of the mighty heave, I banged my face severely against the roof of the pipe. Which was wet and getting stickier by the second. Nurses rushed from their bunker and pulled me out. I thought I was being born again, feet first. I apologized profusely, but the nurses just muttered and started the clean-up job. When the machine was sparkling once more, I was fed in again, feeling and looking like a wet ferret. The hope was that enough stuff had been absorbed before the deluge. Wheeled back to my room through lifts and corridors and sympathetic gawping of visitors with bunches of flowers, and a hot shower. The scan had worked and the doctor would be along shortly. By which they meant tomorrow afternoon.

There is a God.

Just before I went into hospital, I had a run-in with a dodgy car repair business. Merel had borrowed my car but when she wanted to go home, the back lights were not working. Thijs and Alex found an ingenious solution. Remove the switch under the brake pedal and the brake lights are permanently on. But of course, no brake lights. It had to be fixed and we heard of a cheap repair shop not 200 meters from our abode. The resident Neanderthal would fix it and also do the MOT. He came up with an estimate of 600 euro’s. He phoned and said I should come along to hear something to my disadvantage. Bernadets big brother (and when we say big, we mean hulk) came with me. The cave dweller explained that although I had committed myself to the outlay of 600 euros for work planned but not actually started, the car would never get through the MOT because of carbon credits or something caused by a dodgy exhaust valve. Such an unfortunate situation. But I could trade it in for this very nice 1983 Renault Clito with only 40,000,000 on the clock for an additional large pittance. A lively debate followed between Jan and the Garage man. At the end, Cro-Magnon agreed with Jan's conclusion that he himself was full of shit and a total arse, and further that he would fix the lights, this work having been started, and the bill would be small. 150 euro’s of which 90 was for parts (I verified this cost). No choice as my steering wheel was off and bits of wiring lay scattered all over. The problem lay in the steering column, and although the lights were eventually fixed, my direction indicators don't now automatically return to the central position after straightening up, and the steering wheel rasps a bit when turned.  I went to pick up the car and offered my bank pass, but he said cash only. Well then, my good fellow, give me back the key and I shall return in 10 minutes with your cash. Oh no, said he. Cash first, then the key. He drove me to the bank in his giant Mercedes. I love it when people trust me. I eventually took the car to a real garage where the MOT and all work needed for it was done for a quarter of this sum. And the carbon emission was well within limits. Where you may ask, is all this leading to I hear you cry out as one man. Well, the first night in the hospital, a drunk was brought in, having fallen down the concrete steps and damaged his hip. Telling nurses and doctors to fuck off and what a fucking shithouse of a hospital it was and bollocks to your sodding injections and piss off everyone and what the fuck are you looking at, yes you, the aresehole in the corner bed? Fortunately there was another patient between me and him, but it was a sleepless night for five of us as we suffered the belching, farting, swearing and snoring of the sixth. He was known here, having fallen down the stairs on two previous occasions while drunk. Next day I heard that he was a car mechanic from our part of town. I wondered why he knew my name and took a closer look. Yes, it was him. I offered my heartfelt  sympathy as I beamed at him merrily. God moves in a mysterious way his wonders to perform. One young woman opposite me asked, very loudly, how long the pig would be with us. 

Secret Operations.

I, fortunately, would not be staying as the doctor informed me that as a result of the scan, there would have to be an operation. How soon? Well, now, actually. But I have just had two and my belly already looks like a map of the Cotswolds, with railways in dotted lines, motorways in red stripes, rivers in wavy blue. Why? Well as a result of the first or second operation, some 'strings' of scar tissue have grown through and around your guts and strangled them. He said it looks on the photo as if someone has been making animals out of long thin balloons at a toddler's birthday party. Chance in a million he said, although the woman next to me had the same problem. Chance in half a million then. Throughout my stay here, I have hardly ever seen the same doctor twice at the daily rounds. Here he comes, keen little students in his wake. It is all just like Green Wing. He studies the folder. Stop the Denderol and reduce the Polyblob to 25 mg. A student whispers that I am not actually on either of those, despite what is in the folder. Quite, then that decision is out of our hands, but we can start him on Viscous Glubbin, twice daily. Er, whisper, Mr. Ricketts is on 10 mg Scrotomax, is that not a fatal combination with GR? Well done Jenkins, I can see that you passed my cunning little test. Let’s just leave him on the stuff he is on already. He is, after all, still alive so it must be OK for him. Off for a lumbar thingy in the back, a sleeping pill and I wake up in a quiet room for two. Upon awakening, I discover that I have been stitched up with the dreaded metal staples and the willy-pipe is back. What is worse, the nurse arrives with a packet with a long thin pipe and says she wants to put it up my nose and down into my stomach, because I am not allowed to have anything going down into my guts. Why not? Because it says so on The Document. Three attempts to get it down, but I vomit it out of my mouth each time. Eventually it goes in, but I think there is a kink in it that is most irritating in my throat. The drip in my arm turns septic and my arm begins to swell up and go red, so they put one in the other arm. And a pipe under my collar bone into which a thin plastic tube passes through an artery and stops just short of my heart. This is for food, apparently. I now have more pipes than ever before, but on two different sides of the bed, so that I am roped down like Gulliver in the land of Lilliput, connected to two different poles with machines that go ping and have pretty lights. If I turn my head one way, something stretches and the left hand machine begins to squawk. These wretched things do not allow for sleep as I have so many tubes connected to plastic bags and bottles that one or another always needs replacement. Eventually the morphine pipe in my back falls out, and I can now lie comfortably, but not on cloud nine. I don't mind losing the morphine; you can get to like it. And it means I can go back to a single pole and do not need the nurse to help me shower. 

The Quest for the Holy Gruel.

 Everything must go through tubes. Painkiller, saline, antibiotics. And food. The food is in large plastic bags, oatmeal coloured and looks like very thin porridge. My room-mate is Marco. He is 49 but is still just a big kid. He has long hair and loves fast cars. And his Nintendo. He reads Donald Duck comics, of which he has a huge stack. He is not allowed to eat either, but has no feeding tube. His goes in through a 'normal' drip At the first opportunity, he is off to the restaurant in his dressing gown, pole with ping machines and tubes dangling, and returns with a bunch of fricandels (skinless sausages allegedly made from chicken skin and other waste, with ground up beaks and feet to give them that gritty texture the Dutch love so much). Once, at visitor’s time, he had a large bag containing French fries and curious brown battered lumps into which he dipped his hand between bouts of armpit, groin and bottom scratching. He offered the bag to Bernadet as he had had his fill. Bernadet said she didn't mind if she didn't, thanks all the same. But Marco was great fun and a welcome change from some of the other depressed souls I have roomed with on various hospital bouts. He also knew how to stop the ping machines pinging. Either by pressing a lot of buttons or by a severe blow to the flow-sensor. Better nights but at the risk of embolism or worse as the machine could no longer call for help when bubbles got into the system (as indicated by a little pulsating bubble icon). One of the nicest times here was when Ruth, Tony, Elli and Anna came to visit. They did not seem to mind the tubes running in and out of me from various bladders and bottles on my wheely pole, nor the bag of urine I was forced to carry like shopping on our way to the main entrance. Nor even by the revolting tube up my nose, held in place by a now black and snotty sticking-plaster. We went outside, I in dressing gown and pajamas and had an ice-cream in the sun. Wonderful to be with these exuberant young people. Elli made me feel really good when she said that I was looking less skeletal in the face. Made my day! It was not usually allowed to go so far from the ward when connected to machines that go ping and bags and bottles that may need changing. Marco was now pole-free, and asked the nurse if we might just pop outside for some fresh air. Alright, but just for a moment. I had a massive array of stuff on my pole, including two ping things. We got to the car-park. It was a windy and not so warm day, but the sun was shining. My pole was a bit top heavy with a fresh 2 liter bag of thin porridge and all sorts of other bags and bottles, and I needed to have my other hand free to carry the rather large urine bag. Perhaps people would think I had popped out in my dressing gown for a bag of beer, but the willy pipe going up through the front of my pajama trousers probably spoiled the illusion. We crossed the car-park and came to the entrance to the hospital. Two old and middle-aged men in dressing gowns and pajamas, one pushing a hat stand on wheels festooned with stuff. We decided to go further. We ran out of pavement and the wheels dug into the sand. We carried the whole thing almost horizontally until we could set it up again on a flat surface. Both machines had by now had their complaining silenced by Marcos skilful button pushing. We came to the Children's Zoo, attracting almost as much attention as the animals and birds. The pheasants came to look at us, but scattered when a machine went ping. We had now walked almost a kilometer over rough ground, and although the machines were almost silent, they were lit up like a firework display. Also, they had slowly moved down the pole a few millimeters at every jolt, stretching the tube between bag or bottle and machine. The sun was also by now quite warm and the plastic fluid bags began to get flaccid and weary looking. Like a lot of see-thru scrotae. We came to the deer park where kids and mums were feeding the little animals. We came close to the fence next to them and Marco reached out and pressed a button on my machine. An angry squawk, a raising of heads and a mighty pounding of little hooves as the deer stampeded to the other side of the field. Glaring mums and pouting toddlers. We sidled away. My diluted porridge pack was not looking well and appeared to be lighter in colour. We came to a place in the road where sturdy men were banging cobblestones into the sand to make a new road. They stopped work and gazed dolefully at the two apparitions, dressing gowns waving behind them in the wind. Dressed for bed at lunch-time. What do you want, said the foreman. We are looking for work, said Marco. We have been ill but are now in recovery and seek honest employment to buy real clothes. They laughed and offered Marco knee pads and a huge hammer. All in good humour. Marco had difficulty lifting the hammer with one hand. Perhaps we are not yet as ready as we thought. We said goodbye and made our way back to the hospital in the distance. We were very tired. Back in the ward (Acute Intake Department – Merel says it isn’t all that cute) a severe public bollocking from the nurse for taking risks, and why were my machines showing symptoms of stress and mental breakdown, why were my machines at the bottom of the pole and the tubes all stretched, and why was my urine bag about to burst. But worst, I hope you haven’t been out in the sun with your porridge bag, Mr. Ricketts. That stuff curdles in the sun, and since it goes straight into your heart, we wouldn’t want clods of that running around our left ventricle, would we now. No Miss. Marco left a day later. A little boy about 2 years old came with the collecting family and Uncle Marco gave him a present. It was a plastic gun that fired plastic discs. Uncle Marco showed him how to use it, pointing it at the cork board where all the drawings and get-well cards are pinned up. A loud thwack and most of the cards fell of the wall together with a shower of drawing pins. There was a dent in the board where the disc had embedded itself and fallen out. Marco and the little boy agreed it was a ‘good-un’. Marco loaded it again and gave it to the little boy, who, with his thumb on the trigger, looked down the barrel to see if he could see the sharp edge of the plastic disc. I thought of Auntie Anne and bows-and-arrows and decided it was time for my walk. I shall miss Marco and his infectious laugh. He has been replaced with a stout old man who appeared to be able to take everything in his stride, especially the awful 4 liters of laxative and the runs to the toilet that we all had to take before a gut operation. Sadly, things did not work out well for him and he now has both physical and mental problems. I shall go back and visit and try to cheer him up. 

Free at last.

I walk up and down the corridors in a wide loop at least 25 times each morning and afternoon. Mostly to show that I am fit to go home, but my bowels are still not working properly. There was a suggestion of another operation, but the latest doctor said that he did not actually mean operation when he used the word operation. I think I would have asked for a seventh opinion. Eventually a scan photo was taken to see why nothing was moving. This on Thursday, but on Friday afternoon we heard that the results had not been interpreted, and the surgeons were off for the weekend. Eventually the ward-doctor pestered someone to look at the pictures and I was allowed out after almost two weeks here, with a 100 percent, cross-my-heart guarantee that things may well turn out to be not as bad as they might otherwise have been if it were not so. Or something. Good Lord, I have been at this drivel for two hours. I am home and doing things again but taking it easy. Lovely visit from Caro, Adam and Michelle. Gotta go. Stef wants me to keep this blog going, but I would not know what to put in it. I shall post pics of my art work so that I can remember what I did before I re-use the canvas.

Merel training

Missed me? Probably missed more the apples and carrots I used to bring.

Love to All.

Back from the Brink

Friday Feb 4 2010.

Dear Diary,

Or whatever this thing is. I sometimes wonder why I continue to write this blog now that everything is behind me (well, not all of it, thanks to Doctor Scheurs). I do need to look back on things and remind myself of my immediate past as my short term memory crumbles and I stampede towards dementia and it keeps one busy and off the streets and out of trouble. I shall probably discontinue it if the final hurdle is reached successfully. That is the result of tissue analysis of what is left behind. If there is no trace of cancer and of everything starts to heal up as it should, then I can count myself very lucky to now be amongst us. Sorry Stef, I promised to put something up on Friday, but have been taking it perhaps too easy. Your short visit gave me so much strength and I am so grateful. Not having a computer or paper and pencil in the hospital, I relied on mumbled mp3 recordings while trying not to look like an aging git talking to his dressing-gown sleeve.

It is just over a week since the second and more drastic operation, and I have to sort out the most important events of this most stressful time. 

Friday. Merel passed her driving test. I wonder if I shall ever see my car again. Not feeling up to things, Merel took the Crejat Academie class for me. My homework painting, exhibited by Merel, was not too good, according to Venerable Master. The background was too dark (it was black) and the rules of Divine Proportion had not been followed. And it was too neat. Let yourself go. It was supposed to represent 'movement' and I quite liked it, but is it art? Apparently not. I shall also miss the next 2 weeks, but since this is lino-cutting and printing I am unmiffed. I came to learn drawing and painting, and cannot really get worked up about cutting up lino and coloured paper and sticking string and stuff on to sheets of cork. Leonardo thought about it for the Mona Lisa, but the buttons for eyes wouldn't stick to the canvas so he went back to using paint.

Sunday afternoon, and off to the pub with Irene and Bernadet for an Irish afternoon with an Irish singer. The singer was Dutch and not Irish, but had been to Ireland, so that was alright. He didn't do any Irish songs either, not even Viskey in der Yar. Nobody would have noticed anyway because he was on a lost cause in the noise and smoke of battle. I thought him a good all-rounder and admired his tenacity. I am pleased that I was able to walk all the way to the pub and back.

Monday, Stef arrived. This was just heart-warming. A long night ride on the fart-and-vomit bus, a day with me and then back on the same unhygienic transport for the long ride home and to work. Brilliant, and what's more, with 8 boxes of my beloved Shredded Wheat, 4 of which are secreted around the house to be brought out and feasted upon when the ladies are at school and work. A message from Emma in England that almost had me in tears. Off to the hospital with Stef where I would receive a presentation about what would be happening to me. Lots of coloured photos and diagrams of an intestinal nature, and a red spot is permanently marked on my belly to show where the stoma will be. I am on the 'fast-track recovery program', and will be given only the lightest anesthetic through my spine and will be walking around within hours of the op. 

Thursday, off to the hospital for the all-day pre-op. A very competent and friendly nurse called Patrick (total contrast to the other male nurse from the kidney removal session) explains what will happen to me. He then talks about euthanasia, saying now is the time to decide about DNR and other what-ifs. Apparently it is much more difficult after an operation as one is not deemed to be competent to make such choices. Then off to my 2-person room and told to drink from the huge flask, a substance that will totally clean out the bowels. The jug is one liter, and contains stuff that looks and tastes like thin wallpaper paste. I can manage a liter. Patrick says that there are 3 more packets of goo in the bag, each of which to be mixed with a liter of water, and all within 2 hours. There is a toilet with a notice - 'Reserved for Mr. Ricketts' in the corridor. This stuff works very quickly. We don't want Mr. Ricketts to find the toilet occupied and have him dashing around the department looking for another and having embarrassing experiences on the shiny vinyl. In any case, Patrick must be summoned by pushing the red knob in the toilet to view the results. Every toilet in the place was reserved for someone. I got the 4 liters in and summoned Patrick, but he said I needed another liter. The record is apparently 9 liters. This stuff gives you the most acute squits imaginable, and it was almost back to the radiation days, so painful. The young girl intern assistant to Dr. Scheurs, who looked to be about 14 years old, said she needed to do a presentation to the team, and would need to do a latex glove job on me. I said no, it would be sheer torture but she seemed unimpressed. I pointed out that her lovely new doctor's coat was very white and crisp, but would probably not stay that way, nor would the walls if she persisted. We agreed that the examination had been made and that I would confirm the fact if asked. We were both very relieved to have reached this compromise.

A visit from Bernadet, Merel, Thijs and Emma. How's my car? Merel said she has a checklist like pilots on airplanes. Are windows closed? Handbrake on? Lights off? Oh dear, the lights are already off. How can you drive from Heiloo to Alkmaar without lights and not notice? Oh well, one must start somewhere. I feel very sorry for the lady who shares my room. She came in because of a bowel infection, but the scans show that she also has lung cancer. I was shocked to hear that my kidney would have to go, but lung cancer is something more serious.

Friday Jan 28. D-Day. A good night’s sleep and very fresh in the morning. I have the utmost faith in Dr. Scheurs. I have a shower and wait for Patrick to wheel me away. I have no fear and this for the first time in this whole business. Off to the lumbar room and pipes and things put into my back. There is a delay and we wait for an hour or two to clear the tail-back in the theatre. I get a sleeping pill, the same type that I tried at home that didn't work and kept me awake all night - Romans Drains on the History Channel.

Eventually into the theatre looking up at the big round lights and avoiding all the chromium cutlery. Apart from Dr Scheurs, there are 4 other women. I hope that they will put me to sleep as I don't want to be a spectator even if I feel nothing. Then the mask and oblivion.

Awake it seems at once, and unlike the kidney operation, no pain at all. Very happy that it is over and that there is nobody standing around the bed with a 'Sorry old chap, shit happens. We did our best but, well, when we stuck the knife in, you started to bleed and that came as a surprise and etc....'

Because the anesthetic is local and light, I am far more awake than last time and feeling very good. Tineke and Wisse came to visit and left a basket of fruit and a large bottle of grape juice. Then Merel and Thijs came in and then back to The Mayor of Casterbridge on the I-pod and the delicious grape-juice. Brilliant

Midnight. I am violently sick. I grab the bowl and throw up. Grape-juice. Bit too soon perhaps for the Fast Track Recovery Program. About 4 am, same again. Somewhat paler grape-juice this time.

Saturday Jan 29. Looking at Emma's message on the wall, and her painting. The message says how boring the wall is and needs cheering up and how much she loves me. The nurse says that if I am sick, I will have to have a pipe shoved up my nose and down into my stomach to vacuum up any fluid. This means that I would not be able to eat for 3 days. I have a cup of tea and feel sick, but smile at the nurse and say I think it's alright now. Please go away so that I can quietly and secretly vomit. Still not too much pain, but cannot find a comfortable position. I have things in my back and all sides, along with 2 abominable abdominal drains and the awful willy-tube. 

Later the pain gets bad on one side only, and it seems that the thing in my back may have slipped. I cannot keep anything down and the stomach-tube looms. Off to the lumbar man to pull up the thingy in my back a few centimeters, but that didn’t help the pain. They noticed that my back was wet, and cleverly deduced that this was the stuff that should be going into it. We start all over again with a new needle which worked well for a while. Michelle and Bernadet had to come down to this basement to find me. Not happy with the assistant to the anesthetist. Before touching anything, he licked his fingers. 

Trying to eat and not let anyone see that I am almost throwing up. I must avoid that pipe up my nose at all costs. Hide my ill complexion behind a book, but am listening to another. I usually read too fast, often skipping the less interesting sentences. Audio books are a revelation and force one to listen at the pace of a real reader. I shall do this more often.

Lots of visits and phone calls. Thanks to all I cry. Still feeling pretty good. The cancer is gone, and although I feel like Bionic Man, it is all a small price to pay for life. Thinking about life a lot, well I suppose one would stuck here where some make it and a lot don’t. I admit I had doubts about Adam becoming a priest, but he is acquiring a priestly aura that I find comforting. It may well be that sickness brings one closer to life as well as to death and more into the spiritual. We will all take insurance just before the end. Nothing to lose. Is it something that is happening to me or to him? Or both?  

Today I got out of bed determined to take a walk. Everything that was attached to me I hung on my pole, willy-bag and all, and prepared to march out and join the pole-dancers streaming up and down the corridor. Something held be back. It was the oxygen pipe that ran from my nose to the wall, and electric power for lots of little gadgets that flash green and red diodes and go ‘ping’. Everything had to go back again, like taking the Christmas tree down in January. The nurse says nice to see you standing up, Mr. Ricketts, but don’t try to walk because you are plugged into the wall. Patrick is gone for the weekend. The nurse says we should get started on that pipe up the nose and down into the stomach. What? Didn’t Patrick tell you? Better to try to eat and keep stuff down. Patrick’s very words, Miss. Honest. No way will I have that tube in me. The next lot of food will stay down even if I have to stop breathing.

Sunday Jan 30. This afternoon the second painkiller fails. It is decided that I shall be detached from the thing in my back and have injections in the legs instead. Fine by me, it means I no longer need electricity and since the oxygen is also gone, I am mobile, albeit with a pole to hang stuff on. Managed to get out onto a chair. Freedom, and the food is staying down.

A new room-mate arrived. Bram, A very old man whose head hangs down on his chest. This, he said, was caused by working a computer in the wrong position. He said he was 65, which shocked me because he looks so much older. He is also in for cancer but will not need a stoma because his tumour is just floating around somewhere between the organs. He turned out to be extremely negative about everything and complained constantly.  

Monday Jan 31. Decided to have a shower, with myself on one side of the curtain and my pole on the other. Fabulous! One by one all my pipes and tubes are going. The doctor says he is very pleased with my progress. And could he, and the huge crowd of white coated students, have a good look and a prod. Oohs and Aahs, and that’s really nice stitching, and I can leave on Wednesday. Finally, the willy-tube is gone and I am my own man. Bram is scared. I try to assure him, but he is so down about it all. The nurse came in with a newspaper and did we want one? Yes please, say I. No way, says he. I don’t read that crappy rag. And could she clean him up down there, after his little accident. Not worth it, says Bram, it will probably happen again. I don’t know whether our attitude to our illnesses have any bearing on the outcome, but it is certain that we can change the way we experience it for the better, whether we win or we lose. Take a look at Irene.

Tuesday Feb 1. Not such a good time last night. Because I have been on an infusion for so long my body is saturated with water. I stagger to the bog like a giant cactus for a massive pee, but need another almost immediately. And next day I have Bram to contend with. Do my wife and I sleep in separate rooms? Why? Because she can’t gets much sleep with all that snoring. But don’t worry, I have sent for ear-plugs. Can I have some too? And do I leave the bathroom at home in such a filthy mess? What’s wrong? Apparently I left my soap bag on the glass shelf under the mirror. The nurse comes in and says she wants to ‘prick his blood’. Not possible, says Bram. You can prick skin or balloons, but blood, a liquid, cannot be pricked. The nurse looks at me. We offer a mutual sigh. Later he asked if his painkiller drip could be increased. Yesterday he said he would not need much because his pain-threshold was much higher than normal people. I have to get out of this room.

Hilde phoned. She asked how is it going. I told her that the stoma, as I had been warned, made a lot of gurgling sounds in the beginning. Also, I had lots of folders and stuff from the Stoma Association. Maybe they have get-to-know-you evenings. What the Dutch would call a ‘borrel-avond’. Hilde said that would be a gas.

Bram takes his First Walk. Leaning heavily on the nurse and his pole festooned with bags and pipes, they are at the door to the corridor. You are doing really well, Bram. Look everyone! By all the blessed saints and a sure sign that my slight leaning towards belief and the existence of a deity is welcomed, Bram’s pajama trousers fall to his ankles.

Wednesday Feb 2. Tuesday night was very bad. Awake all night in a cold sweat. My blood pressure is way over the top and we must wait for the doctor to give his blessing for my departure. Lots of humming and harring, but eventually we are out.

I don’t know whether I will add anything to this blog, probably just the results of the biopsy to see if there is anything cancerous left in me, but I cannot leave it without giving my thanks to all who have supported me in these months.

God bless you.

Good news

Spike's recovery is going really well. He might be leaving hospital on wednesday!
Love
Bernadet

latest news

A short note about Spike.
He had his operation today and everything went according plan.
He is already making jokes. He's following the quick recover programm, which means that he is allowed everything he wants. (well almost everything) he can eat what he wants. Tomorrow he will be doing his first steps out of bed. He might be out of hospital before the end of next week. So that is great news.
Love Bernadet

Much relieved! My future is ahead of me and not behind.

Dear All and Sundry,
.
We have just spent a day at the MCA getting the results of the scans and being passed from one department to another to prepare for the operation, involving lots of waiting rooms and dog-eared copies of Top Gear, 'Which? Rectal Thermometers - we test them all' and Bed-Pan and Pee-Bottle Review. First to the Lady Surgeon of All Things Oncological in The Entrails. who said that things were looking good and that the tumor had shrunk and could be removed. There appeared to be no further signs of spreading, although one doctor from the gut department said there might be something in the prostate. The urology man, in whose sphere of influence the prostate clearly falls, being as it were connected to all things urino-genital, said he thought perhaps not. This is probably inter-departmental rivalry. Whatever the one says, the other will automatically disagree. I shall have another scan in two months or so, and we will have a pompous winner and a depressed loser who will be prostate with grief. The Lady Surgeon said that since we had never met she had no familiarity with my condition and perhaps she should have some hands-on experience. She nodded towards the little bed and snapped the latex gloves. A young woman in jeans and jumper sitting by the door asked if she could watch. What the hell? Some kind of pervert who sidles into consulting rooms to watch embarassing scenes? It turned out she was a student so I grudgingly agreed. She has to learn and be able to recognise the target. What on earth she hoped to see I have no idea. There aren't a lot of combinations in the mechanics of putting a latexed finger up old mens bottoms. Then, rather surprisingly, the Lady Surgeon said that there were three surgeons in the MCA who could do the opertation and I could chose. Good Lord! Should I ask to have them all in a line so that I compare their qualities? Er, number three, step forward and show me your slicing technique. I opted for the Lady Surgeon as we had shared an intimacy that I did not want to have to go through again  with a stranger. I had already heard that she was very good and has quite a low kill factor. Then we went off to the anaeth, anethes, aenethes.. the one who puts you to sleep. He asked a lot of questions about having my own teeth and legs and was I allergic to anything. He said that to begin, my back would be getting a large prick. Good Heavens. I pointed out that the one I had at the front was functioning very well, and was this really necessary? Oh, I see, sorry, but you hear about strange mistakes in hospitals. Then off to the intake person. We had met her before, totally miserable and who does not look at you or offer a hand. Then to sort out a problem with the insurance. Fortunately resolved as I could not possible afford to pay these people. Home for lunch and then off to Caro in Hoorn for coffee. The only damper is that the op is on Friday Jan 28, which means I will miss the Crejat Acedemie, Jon Strong in Mulligan's, a secret birthday party and probably Kieran Halpin as well. But I am going to live.
See you all later, and much later and again much later after that.

Love you.
Dad

Happy New Year

Dear All.

Firstly I wish you all a happy and prosperous new year. And for myself, I wish to have a few more of them, although I do not yet know how things are going along inside which explains why I have not reported for a while, there being little to report. The nasty effects of radiation and chemotherapy are much reduced, although I can still feel that thing inside me, and it is not a comfortable feeling. I had hoped that it would magically disappear on its own and that surgery would not be required. I am however assured that surgery always takes place, as a preventive measure.  Bugger. I am still smarting from the last lot of butchery and can’t say I am looking forward to the next lot. We went to see Dr Proton and the chemo chappie. Neither had much to say except how is it going. Dr Proton wanted to know how often I had a poo and what was the consistency. The Romans could tell the future by cutting up sheep and examining the entrails. Maybe Dr Proton has invested heavily in the New Year Lottery and is encouraged by the state of my waste products. He always worries me when he says ‘If I see you again…’ Unfortunately, in Dutch ‘If I see you again..’ and ‘when I see you again..’ are the same. The most cheerful news that he had to impart was that BATHS ARE ALLOWED!!!  Rejoice, it will be morning and evening baths with perhaps a midday one if the other two don’t overlap. I have purchased several flagons of Badedas, my favourite, and a vast quantity of P.D. James, John Grisham and Ruth Rendell to fatten up in the steam.

 Christmas was great; we all went to Irene's for a mighty feast contributed by various members of the family. I was personally charged with the making of 18 prawn cocktails but had about five of them during the making and had to thin them out a bit. Followed by cards and scrabble on assorted tables. Nobody felt like Christmas presents, but I got one anyway from Tony and Elli. Haven't been able to get to the golf club lately, and would probably unzip myself into two halves at the first good swing. I do however spend a lot of time on the bog and can now get in some much needed short-game practice.

New year we would normally be off for a huge family bonanza, but this time we stayed at home, and in good company.  Cris, Cheryl and the adorable Tallulah Pixie. Sorry if there are rather a lot of photos of her, and sorry if I am in many of them. She is photogenic and lovely to be with so we were often together when cameras were flashed around.  A walk on the beach at Egond aan Zee in the freezing wind, a cup of something warm in a beach cafe,

 New Year's Eve with Irene, Cris, Cheryl and Pixie. Adam and Caro came for a short time but had to get the train back. An unlikely meal of cheese fondue and table grill/gourmet. And then three rounds of scrabble in English, in all of which I came last, way behind the Dutch. And then something that wasn't champagne and outside to see the neighbours lighting up their sparklers and making rings and figures of eight and stuff.

Many thanks to Cris, Cheryl and Tallalah.

Jan 9th and off to the MCA for 3 scans in one day. A PET scan, A CT scan and a MRI scan. I have no idea what it all means. I have had scans before, but nothing prepared me for this one, I think it was the pet scan. Lay still on the bed for an hour after drinking a huge flagon of goo that looks and tastes like wallpaper paste. Then an injection of radioactive fluid which came in a metal container which nobody wanted to get near. Shades of Chernobyl. Then to the machine which is a long and narrow pipe. I would be fed into the pipe very slowly. The whole trip takes 35 minutes. No problem, I'll just fall asleep. Then my arms were grabbed and stretched behind me and my hands secured with a Velcro strap. It felt like one of those medieval rack things used on heretics in Tudor times. My shoulders felt like hell. And this for more than half an hour. I told the doctor that it was excruciating, but he assured me that it would only get worse and life isn't always what we would wish for ourselves and no more talking or it would spoil the pictures. I counted seconds in my head for about 15 minutes, and the nurse said that the first five minutes were gone already, and only 30 to go so it goes a lot faster than you think. Does it now. The pipe is so small that I could stick my tongue out and lick it, but I didn't want to spoil the nice body-slice pictures. At the end I could not move when released. I had to be helped up, my arms had no more structure than a pillow case. The other scans were not so bad. For the one with the magnets, the MRI, I was allowed to bring in a CD. The machine made so much noise that I couldn't hear anything at all. I wish I had brought in 'Amateur transplants'. The pictures, being digital, are instantly available, but we must wait until Jan 18 to get the results.

The scans being on a friday, I missed the art class at the Crejat Academie. Thanks to Merel I have been able to keep up. I was doing my homework at the kitchen table, when Emma and Bernadet asked to join in. The results are very good. Emma's rose is now framed and on the wall. I am quite impressed with Bernadet's still life. For a first painting, very impressive.

Rose, by Emma

Still Life, by Bernadet

Crejat homework - Still Life

Crejat Homework - Rectangles

The spring is coming, the snow is gone.

Hilde and Michelle came on Saturday. Nice meal, lots to drink and endless rounds of klaverjas, scrabble and laughter until the early hours. Sunday for a long walk to the chapel. I am not really a believer but it is a place of peace to sit and ponder deeply.  Why are ostriches? Is Africa? While the ladies light candles and curtsy to statues and stuff. Back home for a last round of klaverjas. Thanks Michelle and Hilde. Good fun. 

Two more good things coming up. Jon Strong plays in Mulligans and Kieran also has a gig in Holland in  February. I hope I can make them both.

It is Monday night. Tomorrow we go to the MCA to find out if the treatment is working and whether my future is behind me. I shall phone Cris immediately and he will call others.

Wish me luck!
Take care now.