Meowing at the door

Yes, I know it's been less than a fortnight since my last post! But quite a lot has happened and I also promised to try and blog a bit more frequently; so here goes...

I'm starting this post in Macy's downstairs bedroom, which has been turned into a makeshift laundry-cum-ironing-cum-family hair-drying space while she's at uni in Manchester, listening to some Kraftwerk remixes in my noise-cancelling headphones. Outside it's surprisingly raining after a morning of sun which saw me shuffle out for a run earlier for the first time since Saturday. Winnie's probably meowing outside the door - which is shut to stop the fresh laundry being infiltrated by the slow-cooker smells of spicy butternut squash stew wafting from the kitchen.

Macy's room (converted from the house's garage before we moved in) has a large black wooden desk, which is why I'm in here rather on the lounge sofa with my laptop on my, erm, lap top. It feels like I'm back at work, which is pleasing. Lisa is actually at work in her office upstairs, her Teams chatter spilling down the stairs (well it was before I put my headphones on!).

So, what's been going on? Last time, I explained the range of emotions that accompanied the prospect of a return to Treatment Land. This was after my three-monthly CT scan showed potential growth in a small tumour on my left adrenal gland, plus a mysterious new shadow spot on my liver.

This morning we've been to Derby hospital to get this liver spot checked out through an MRI scan. I've had several MRI's, but it was unusual to have one focused on my liver which involved a lot more holding and releasing of my breath than normal (as instructed), and weighted padding covering my abdomen, along with the normal chorus of banging bleeps and bass drills, which juxtaposed with the classical music in my ear protectors. All being well, we'll get the results at a meeting with my oncologist at Burton hospital next week. Then it will be decision time.

Nailing these appointments down took a while. This uncertainty around dates can produce the most anxiety. I had made plans, in January, to visit our friend Mike in Cumbria for a few days last week. But, when last Tuesday came and I still didn't have a date for the MRI, I wasn't sure what to do. Should I sit around at home waiting for the scan date just in case I was called to hospital at very short notice (which never happens!) or get on the train to the Lake District? A short conversation with Lisa and Dan convinced me I should do the latter for all of our benefit.

I'd spent the run up to Lent wondering what I could give up for 40 days and failing to think of anything sensible or do-able, my capacity and resilience narrowed by all that's been going on. But a helpful podcast by Kate Bowler gave the period traditionally known for chocolate or booze abstinence a new, deeper, spin.

She says: "(Lent) is the season where God is on the losing team.... We walk together on the down slope of God...This is the season that asks us to stop pretending we're holding it all together. It is a time to pause, to sit with what's fragile and unfinished, and let God meet us in the hardest part of our lives."

Sitting with what's fragile and unfinished (or unconfirmed) - that's where we are at the moment. And it dawned on me that waiting patiently and trustfully, rather than anxiously, might be my 2025 Lenten practice.

This didn't stop me emailing Sharon - the Colorectal Cancer Navigator (best job title in the world ever?) at Burton hospital who has the amazing capacity to fix and sort things when no-one else can - about the Derby date. But it did leave me feeling more relaxed as I got on the train to Penrith. A message to Sharon as I pulled into Crewe to change lines found me, minutes later, answering a call from Derby to set the MRI scan up. I was so excited (it really is small things like this that bring maximum joy on the cancer journey!) that I left my Chai Latte at the coffee stand, where I took the call while buying it, and had to run back for the drink before the connecting train left without me.

The time in Cumbria with Mike, who was house-sitting at his brother's home near Penrith, turned out to be just the tonic. We spent a bright afternoon clambering up the Steel Knotts and Hallin Fell mountains from which there were fantastic views over Ullswater. The day after, in greyer weather, we revisited woodland and hills near Derwentwater (pictured above) which we'd explored when we last camped as families together in 2007 (kids pictured below minus Reuben who Lisa was pregnant with at the time). This sparked some bittersweet nostalgia which I've felt when visiting significant or memorable places since my diagnosis. These emotions are a signal of having a foot back in Tragic Time where, again, every experience feels like it could be 'the final one'. As I've mentioned, noticing this emotional pattern, which doesn't necessarily reflect reality, is helpful, however tough.

Going to Cumbria, spending time with a good friend, was one of several lighthouses which have brightened the murk of uncertainty in the past fortnight.

Others have included a day-trip to Worcester Cathedral for Dan's graduation with a Master's of Science in Sport (Applied Performance Analysis), which now means he's the most qualified person in our family. As well as the ceremony itself, it was good to relax afterwards with complimentary cupcakes and Prosecco, accompanied by a noodling jazz trio, in Worcester University's cavernous sports hall.

We got home in time for Lisa to try out our new pancake maker and complete the Shrove Tuesday celebrations. It's Rosie's favourite event of the year (well, maybe after Christmas Day) so the pancake stakes are always high. Thankfully, Lisa (and the new machine) passed with aplomb, earning a master's in crepe-making.

It was also satisfying to enjoy Reuben notching his first goal for his new football team on Sunday, despite a 4-3 loss.

As always, these everyday landmarks bring light and joy and make our waiting easier. I've also been compiling a Spotify playlist for Lent which, hopefully, isn't as gloomy as it sounds!

Now, I'd better go because Winnie's meowing so loudly at the door I can hear her through my headphones.