Remission

Remission (medical): A decrease in or disappearance of signs and symptoms of cancer, signifying a major improvement, but not always a complete cure, as the disease can recur.

In a letter dated December 1957 Lewis wrote: of Joy Davidman's miraculous remission:

My own news continues better than we ever dared to hope. The cancerous bones have rebuilt themselves in a way quite unusual and Joy can now walk: on a stick and with a limp, it is true, but it is a walk–and far less than a year ago it took three people to move her in bed and we often hurt her. Her general health, and spirits, seem excellent. Of course the sword of Damocles hangs over us. Or should I say that circumstances have opened our eyes to see the sword which really hangs always over everyone.

The cure didn't last. She died three years later, a cherished three years together, but none the less three years of remission.

One of the first messages I received about T was in November 2016 and had this heading "Prayer works - keep praying" - T, who was nine at the time, had been admitted to hospital with a dangerously low red blood cells count, leukaemia was diagnosed...  Nine years later, and after so many treatments and hopes, the message I received yesterday read "we are devastated to have to send this message... Sadly, the disease in T's central nervous system overwhelmed his brain and he didn't wake after his procedure yesterday afternoon. We are heartbroken. We said goodbye to him this morning, with the sun shining on his face. It was peaceful and beautiful".

As in that most beautiful of books "I walked up the winding stair, and entered his room. A lovely figure, as white and almost as clear as alabaster, was lying on the bed. I saw at once how it was. They thought he was dead. I knew that he had gone to the back of the north wind".

In 2020 his parents had written: "A new cure for T's cancer (we have already exhausted the existing cures!) offers the only medical chance of life returning to normal for him. The virus isn't gone. His cancer is still there. As far we are concerned we're living with a fragile hope. Hope that we might beat the virus. Hope that God will heal T. Hope that his current treatment could put his cancer in stable remission for long enough so that other curative options might be discovered.  So we keep praying".

Remission. How I hate the word. The word that engenders, fuels, prolongs false hopes. Like playing with and savouring those iconic words "All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well" in full defiance of knowing that the reverse is true.

What am I to conclude? That prayer is, at best, wishful thinking? That I wasted my time hoping, and believing as best as I knew how, for "full and forever" healing? My insides are churning even as I write these words. I could revel, as many do, in vain platitudes but I hate such hypocrisy.  I rest my case.

Is it the end of a chapter? If so then I say that another chapter begins. My relationship with T's parents (who I have never met) is stronger for it. I might weep now but I will not forget the journey. I say that all the suffering was not in vain. Possibly even my own so weak faith in a loving God is strengthened rather than shipwrecked.

Why art thou cast down, O my soul? Hope thou in God (Psalm 42)

2024 Foray #6: Woodenbridge loop and PSA

This was going to be taking advantage of maybe the last fine weather this year, an overnight cycle exploring the Grand Canal. But I was uneasy for various reasons, one being the uncertainty of how much of the canal towpath was suitable for a road bike. This web page is the most up to date and comprehensive summary of work to upgrade the path to greenway standard. Maybe I'll get to do this exploration next year? But who knows what next year will hold for me?

Instead (and encouraged by A to make good use of the weather) I settled for a one day ride around the Wicklow Mountains, taking me over the Wicklow Gap, through Rathdum, the beautiful Vale of Avoca, Woodenbridge, Augrim, Tinahely, Hacketstown, Kiltegan, Baltinglass and home. Oh, and I tried for the coast but turned back through lack of time: that's the little appendage at far right of my track.

My track: 124.7km, elevation gain 1254m, average 16.3km/h

No photos. No thoughts of great inspiration, lots of hard slog, lots of magnesium supplement to ward off inevitable leg cramps. I also tried adding electrolytes to my drink: I'm not sure whether this helped. But all in all, I did it, I completed the course I had roughly planned the night before. My insides were a mess on returning home but I slept, oh how I slept (always punctuated by loo-breaks nowadays).

Loo breaks. Leg cramps. In a routine doctor appointment some six months ago the blood test indicated a higher than normal PSA level. This is a marker for possible prostate problems. That together with more frequent loo breaks recently. In spite of a second and a third blood test showing normal PSA level my GP sent me to a specialist at St. James, the specialist did an internal examination and sent me for an MRI scan and I now have an appointment on Tuesday next to hear the worst. Am I worried? Am I bothered? It one sense no, what will be will be. But worry isn't that easy to dismiss or control. Of course I am worried. I thought my body was doing passably ok for my age. Sometimes I look at my arms. Younger readers of this blog might think me simply phoney if I told you how I feel about my own arms. I know they've no muscle and are pretty mouldy, but I am so glad to see them. Why should that dreaded word "cancer" invade my thoughts? What right has it over my body? And so I cycled away yesterday with a big challenge before me to blow the cobwebs out of my machinating mind. Of course I am not worried: what good would that do?

Memories: Part 2

Why do we like to delve into our past? Is it because we are at least partly a product of our memories? Or maybe our memories are an increasing treasure as we get older, and might even in some small way live on in our children's minds long after we die. 

We are at the moment caring for A's aged mother who has been diagnosed with cancer. Her short term memory gets worse but every so often she comes up with a memory of long ago. Memories are certainly of value to her, even if for us we have heard her speak of some of them rather too many times! So I'm not at all sure that any of any of my readers has the least interest in the memories I recall herewith but maybe they will resonate or at least make you chuckle. 

I was about 13 when my parents took me to see the newly released Sound of Music. I became infatuated not only with the music (which has become a part of me) but also with Julie Andrews as Maria - to the point that my father thought it necessary to warn me that it wasn't any good falling in love with a film star. I hadn't thought I had fallen in love, but I bookmarked his words.

My dad's LP record collection was about as limited as my own small pile of CD's. One of his favourites was Mediterranean Moonlight by Frank Chacksfield and this became, along with hymn tunes, my early musical bread and butter: example tracks here and here. This music still haunts me. Lady of Spain I adore you...

My best friend's musical taste was much more refined than mine - I suppose I was less mature and had not yet discovered the sort of music that I would end up loving for the rest of my life. Back then I listened to what might be described as light music. As opposed to "pop" which my parents disapproved of. I remember Cliff Richard's Congratulations when it first came out and feeling ashamed because, though 'pop', I rather liked it. Even to this day I do not allow myself to listen to pop music channels on the radio whether or not I like what is playing (generally I do not but there are exceptions). 

Of this "light music" two songs are still part of the rather limited repertoire of tunes that to this day still go persistently around and around in my head.

Things is a song which was written and recorded by Bobby Darin in 1962 and reached No.2 in the UK. One pertinent line goes Memories are all I have to cling to.

The other is For all we know, this may only be a dream. We come and go like a ripple on a stream. So love me tonight - Tomorrow was made for some - Tomorrow may never come - For all we know, which was written before my time but was performed here by Bobby Vinton in 1970. I found the analogy of a ripple very evocative.

These songs are all mixed up in my memories with my adolescent discovering an attraction to the opposite sex: puppy love I suppose, but at the time it was heart rending. 

I am almost ashamed that I had such shallow musical tastes and I guess my recent "music appreciation" classes that I have given to four youngsters in our community have been my attempt to make sure they at least have the opportunity to hear some genuine music. Whether or not they like it! Although I doubt if my attempt will be wholly successful.

But then by accident I discovered Bruckner and all of a sudden I started to grow up.