We saw Nick's fabulous consultant, Dave a few days ago for the three-monthly check up to review her latest blood tests and have a quick look for lumps and bumps. To quote Dave, Nick's bloods were "hunky dory". He followed this up with, "That's the technical term, stop me if I'm losing you.."! We've missed Dave! Even Nick's stubborn neutrophils are finally back to normal along with everything else. The pain in her hip is greatly reduced and the movement much improved. This has been slow progress but continues to move in the right direction. In short Dave is very happy with her progress but is far from ready to be outright celebratory. One year will be a good landmark, two years is a great landmark, in five years we crack open the champagne. One step at a time.
I remember last year in the midst of Nick's cancer treatment part of me just couldn't wait for things to go back to normal and part of me thought that 'normal' was the very last thing I wanted to slip back into. The temptation to make big dramatic changes in our lives was overwhelming and yet the desire for no more drama was massive too! When her treatment finished in the autumn the tug of war between these two options was unbearable at times so we chose not to choose, to let the dust settle, hibernate a bit and slowly recover from and reflect on the year that we'd had. Almost eight months on from her stem cell transplant and things are changing here and there, some subtle and incidental, some more deliberate. I realise now that it's all about balance; make some changes, let other things change naturally, enjoy the things that remain comfortingly familiar. Keep moving forward but make time for stillness.
In a couple of weeks Nick will go back to work. She was keen to do this some time ago but her employer wasn't happy for her to work one or two days a week as she felt able despite her GP feeling that she was fit enough to do this. So until she meets with an Occupational Health doctor next week Nick has been making the most of an extended period of (unpaid) sick leave by working hard with a personal trainer to get fit and rebuild the muscle that was lost during the final brutal chemotherapy and the transplant. We also took the opportunity to go abroad for two sunny but windy weeks in Lanzarote where we walked up mountains, swam in the sea and ran in the barren volcanic landscape feeling fit and strong. And today is the 113th day of 2018 so Nick's done 113 press ups....as have a few other people who have joined this madness!Thankfully the weather seems to be changing too after the wettest of winters which had a snowy sting in its tail. Unfortunately Nick's goal of completing the 10k Run Exmoor in March came to nothing as the village was cut off by deep snow drifts and the event had to be cancelled.
The biggest change we have decided to make is to sell our house. Anyone who has been to our house will realise that this was a huge and in some ways heartbreaking decision. We love where we live, we love our home, our garden and our place in the landscape of Exmoor. We love the owls in the surrounding woods, the view over the moor, our local Roe Deer population, the Red Deer stags roaring in autumn, the rivers where we paddle and swim, our secret places and our pond full of frogs. So why would we move? Well, if cancer does one thing it makes you re-evaluate and consider what is really important in your life. All those things I've just listed are the most important things to us. So in order to enjoy them more we want to reduce our mortgage, eventually work a bit less and get out to play and explore a bit more. So if all goes to plan we'll be leaving Simonsbath in a few weeks and moving to another Exmoor village just a few miles away, excited to find new special places, explore a different side of the moor with new rivers to swim in and to make a new home which we will no doubt come to love just as much as the old one. We've spent months thinking about this and looking at our options but then it all happened scarily quickly so if anyone has any spare cardboard boxes....
As is our way when things get a little crazy at home and we need to escape we've come to Norfolk for a few days before we need to start clearing out some of our accumulated clutter ready for the move. We are looking forward to having less 'stuff' in our lives. I always seem to find time to write a blog when we're here but this time I also found time for a little adventure (unfortunately on my own as Nick had to stay here with the dogs).
Yesterday I went to London to watch the marathon. 40,000 people running 26.2 miles in the searing city heat and another million or so cheering them on, screaming the names of their loved ones, standing on tiptoes to catch a glimpse, desperate for reassurance that their runner knew they were there to support them, knew they were loved, knew that they were inspirational. What it doesn't feel like for the vast majority of runners and spectators is a race. The atmosphere was like a carnival, a nomadic joyous festival of noise and colour snaking its way past London landmarks with pain and delight in equal measure. Right there on the streets were 40,000 personal stories, this the culmination of 40,000 individual journeys, everyone running for a reason close to their hearts but most of these stories only shared by one or two runners and just a handful of people in the crowd. I think the immense emotional energy that reverberated across the city, on the streets, in the packed sweaty tube trains and within the stampeding echoes underground came from these stories although they mostly go unshared. Everyone there knows that everybody else is just barely keeping it together because this is a huge deal. The emotion erupts when a runner spots a loved one in the crowd and weaves through all the pounding legs, fancy dress costumes and waving arms to get to the barrier for a tearful embrace. I witnessed many of these such moments and experienced a few of my own and they were all wonderful. As you probably know our friend Di was running to raise more money for Lymphoma Action (known as the Lymphoma Association until five days ago when they relaunched and re-branded) having also run the Brighton marathon last weekend (wearing the old Lymphoma Association kit!!). So she was 'my' runner, the person I strained my eyes to spot amongst the masses, inching my way to the front of the crowds as other spectators moved away to chase their runner across the city once they'd seen them. I walked six miles during the day and managed to see Di three times, the first time was a very tearful and emotional encounter at Surrey Quays, the next was more fun as I ran alongside her for a few hundred metres near Southwark Park trying to get a decent photo and the third was from the grandstand right at the finish where I was lucky enough to sit with Di's sister Julie in seats kindly given to us by the Lymphoma charity. That final time was pure relief that she'd made it safely to the end after the hottest London marathon ever and sheer pride in her incredible achievements, knowing that our fundraising total that started with Di and me doing the Great North Run last year, had tipped over the £5000 mark just a few hours earlier! Thanks again to all those who kindly donated.
We then met up at the charity reception where Di got fed and massaged and we were all able to reflect on the day and compare notes - 'Did you see the man on stilts?' 'What about the Stormtrooper?' 'And the firefighters from Grenfell Tower each carrying nearly 60kg of clothing and breathing apparatus...' A lot of fun and a lot of very poignant and moving reminders of why this event has raised almost a billion pounds for charity since it started 37 years ago.
When I got back to Norfolk last night Nick and I wrote to Di and told her how amazing she is, how incredible her and Jon's love and support has been since Nick's diagnosis. She said that compared to what we'd been through this was 'just putting one foot in front of the other'.
I guess that's all any of us can do. Whatever we are faced with, as long as we keep putting one foot in front of the other we'll get through it, we'll help those around us get through their challenging journeys, we'll find love, we'll make changes both big and small, be inspired by ordinary people doing extraordinary things and we'll stumble across beautiful places that we never knew were there. I remember being taught a Swahili proverb as I learnt to deal with altitude sickness when climbing Mount Kenya - 'Pole, pole ndio mwendo'. Little by little is indeed the proper path. Or, slow, slow is the way to go.
So here's a cool story to finish on, a reminder that moving quickly isn't always better than moving slowly...
<3 <3 <3
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