hating the alien

I guess I better give you something - the hits to my site keep coming and no updates from me is just not good enough. You deserve something.

Here is something. Predictably, it's another misery blog.

My first few days at home have been difficult. I had a few hours to myself, which resulting in some sobbing and then my father came up to be my cook, cleaner, waiter, taxi and friend. He did a sterling job, to be fair and we got on very well. More importantly, he kept me from drowning in self-pity, over these first few days of home-healing.

Perhaps surprisingly, my main pain 'complaint' has been coming from the stomach and gut. Huge trapped wind, bloated stomach, nausea (including vomiting, of course) and general 'bottom problems', resulting in dreams filled with the awareness of the pain.

I look in the mirror. I look like an alien. My arms are thin, having lost their muscle and shape over the last months. My stomach is extended, with a scar that runs from the centre of my chest to the groin area, taking a detour around my belly-button. I am white. Think closing scenes of Close Encounters.

Christ, I want to run. The mini heat-wave in the UK has reminded my that only last summer I was managing to get up and run 10 miles. Now, I cannot walk more than 400 yards without needing a sit down. It is utterly soul-destroying. I look out my window and see joggers on the canal - each one reminding me of how I've lost all my strength and fitness. God, how I want to start training again - but then comes the ultimate crushing thought ...

The thought is this: I'm recovering from this operation to get well enough to start chemotherapy again.

Getting better to be knocked down again.

Give me a break, Lord.

However, let's put a positive on this. Each day I am getting better. The stomach is settling down. I am eating better. My mind is waking up and I'm beginning to think about work, about music, about interests, about futures, about health ... I see this stage of recovery as days rather than months.

As my father wisely says, 'pain does not have a memory' and one day soon, I will wake up without it and have a normal day and this stage, like all my other stages on this ridiculous journey will just be a bad memory that I won't return to very often.

I've so many stories to tell you from hospital ... they can wait for now. The spleen was horrific. So horrifically large and rotten that the hospital took photos for medical research, which I had to sign off. They don't do that often. But that is for another blog - let me get back to some health, some writing ability, some wit and I'll try to piece together the low-lights for you. Some were very low.

So, there you are and here I am. Killing time, watching the healing and hating the alien.

Speak soon ...