Yep, went and made one I did. Lord knows why when I've got this very blog as a means to spread my inane bullshit but hey ho.
It's really so I can just share images of things that I like/find amusing/that make me seem cool. And well... you know. Who doesn't like a bit of self indulgence?
Find it here. Then follow it or do whatever it is with it that you're supposed to - I don't know. WHEN WILL THIS EVER END?
Proper update on here later this week when I can think of something to write about.
Big love,
Ryan.
Monday 31 October 2011
Wednesday 19 October 2011
Dios mio.
I'm writing you this straight from my brand new iPhone.
No adjectives can fully convey the scenes that are taking place right now.
Scenes, Jeff.
No adjectives can fully convey the scenes that are taking place right now.
Scenes, Jeff.
Wednesday 12 October 2011
Ryan in the afternoon.
A dark evening boars down on a wasteful afternoon, itself proceeded by an insignificant morning. Another day gone, another day forgotten. Such is the passing pattern of my life.
I have tried applying my mental prowess to various tasks throughout the day, you know. First off was trying to get my XBOX Live working, which was to no avail. I've come to the annoying conclusion that my industrial size Ethernet cable is royally buggered, caused probably from the teeth of an over enthusiastic puppy. Bitch. The next job was to try and find an iPhone plan that I could a) afford and b) actually gain some benefit for the betterment of my day to day routine as a mobile phone user. This ended even more disastrously than trying to fix the sodding games console. I can't afford an iPhone... probably. How do you all have one? WHERE ARE YOU GETTING YOUR MONEY? ARE YOU ROBBING BANKS? TELL ME. After this total failure I tried introducing some degree of success into my day by cracking on with as marathon game of Civ 4, trying at last to do away with the pesky Aztecs and their empire that's annoyingly sitting where I want to expand. Turns out their military are hard as fuck and I got royally dicked on in my efforts to invade. Back to the drawing board.
Point is, despite trying to inject some kind of proactive initiative into my day I'm sitting here in my room unable to shake off the feeling that I've idly let it go by. Wasted. Forgotten. Completely insignificant.
So here's a vow - one that I truly hope to stick by. This October will mark the start of getting my life back on track. No more sitting about doing nothing because I have cancer. I will do something meaningful. Raise money for charity? Sounds great. Work placement? Why not? Write some nonsense in the hope it might be good? Cool! Exercise? Well... maybe. But I need routine or I might just go stir crazy, further solidifying my status as a hermit.
Take that as you will. But hopefully this blog will soon feature a lot more interesting snippets of daily life rather than boring accounts of my meaningless sojourns. Hope the first one's a cracker.
Big love,
Ryan.
I have tried applying my mental prowess to various tasks throughout the day, you know. First off was trying to get my XBOX Live working, which was to no avail. I've come to the annoying conclusion that my industrial size Ethernet cable is royally buggered, caused probably from the teeth of an over enthusiastic puppy. Bitch. The next job was to try and find an iPhone plan that I could a) afford and b) actually gain some benefit for the betterment of my day to day routine as a mobile phone user. This ended even more disastrously than trying to fix the sodding games console. I can't afford an iPhone... probably. How do you all have one? WHERE ARE YOU GETTING YOUR MONEY? ARE YOU ROBBING BANKS? TELL ME. After this total failure I tried introducing some degree of success into my day by cracking on with as marathon game of Civ 4, trying at last to do away with the pesky Aztecs and their empire that's annoyingly sitting where I want to expand. Turns out their military are hard as fuck and I got royally dicked on in my efforts to invade. Back to the drawing board.
Point is, despite trying to inject some kind of proactive initiative into my day I'm sitting here in my room unable to shake off the feeling that I've idly let it go by. Wasted. Forgotten. Completely insignificant.
So here's a vow - one that I truly hope to stick by. This October will mark the start of getting my life back on track. No more sitting about doing nothing because I have cancer. I will do something meaningful. Raise money for charity? Sounds great. Work placement? Why not? Write some nonsense in the hope it might be good? Cool! Exercise? Well... maybe. But I need routine or I might just go stir crazy, further solidifying my status as a hermit.
Take that as you will. But hopefully this blog will soon feature a lot more interesting snippets of daily life rather than boring accounts of my meaningless sojourns. Hope the first one's a cracker.
Big love,
Ryan.
Thursday 6 October 2011
A crime against nostalgia.
Shalom!
So the line is out, and it's just a quick one today to let you know how the removal went. Initial thoughts are... good. Bear in mind that is initial, and once the anesthesia wears off it could be a completely different story. Naturally there's a couple of crushing disappointments to talk about, which I'll get to in good time, but first let me tell you a little tale.
And it will be little.
We arrived at the hospital around mid morning fully expecting to be given a hero's reception, complete with being whisked away to a spare bed to have the procedure start bang on time. Of course this didn't happen, and we were complete clowns to think that a hospital would even run to schedule, let alone treat us like royalty. So there we sat, for about two hours. Standard really. I got stuck in to a recent issue of SFX magazine, which was a surprise inclusion on the reading pile, and I laughed at the absurd magnitude of general geek on show, yet also cried over how much it resonated with my very being. Maybe I should take up lacrosse when I go back to Sheffield. Fucking lacrosse.
At about one I was told by the 'Line Doctor' (her words, not mine... I do wonder if her bachelors was a proper medicine degree) to get topless and get comfortable. Thinking this could go anywhere, I nervously plonked myself upon the bed and worked through piece after piece of Wrigley's gum. The doctor, meanwhile, produced - one by one - her vast array of cutting tools - scalpel, enormous scissors, hunting knife. With the curtains drawn, it was clear that the ship had long sailed for bailing on the twisted game that was about to be played, so I lay back and thought of England.
Turns out, the procedure was mostly painless. Once the local had gone in, it was just a case of hacking away at the skin that had grasped onto the line whilst it had been inside of me. All in all the whole process took about half an hour, and I was astounded at how thick the cartilage and skin was that was wrapped around the line when it was removed. Think of how a nut screws onto a bolt and you've basically conjured up the image of what it looked like. Tasty.
Fully expecting to be striding out of the hospital with line in hand, I asked if they could clean it and stick it in a bag for me, only to be told that it was protocol for old Hickman's to be destroyed and thus, I was not allowed.
...what?
Fuck! Now I can't hang it on the wall, or wave it around for everyone to get grossed out at, or even do a celebratory shot out of. What good is that? Instead my dear plastic companion of nine months was unceremoniously tossed into the chemo bin, where it would stay until incineration at a later stage of the day. What a tragic end to a beautiful partnership.
Oh well.
With that as well as maintenance starting today, things have been good. My mood is improving day by day, and I'm really looking forward to what is going to be a ridiculously busy but jokes October. Cheeky trip to Sheffield this weekend is on the cards, which will mark a nice start to proceedings. Always laugh when you can. It is cheap medicine.
Big love,
Ryan.
So the line is out, and it's just a quick one today to let you know how the removal went. Initial thoughts are... good. Bear in mind that is initial, and once the anesthesia wears off it could be a completely different story. Naturally there's a couple of crushing disappointments to talk about, which I'll get to in good time, but first let me tell you a little tale.
And it will be little.
We arrived at the hospital around mid morning fully expecting to be given a hero's reception, complete with being whisked away to a spare bed to have the procedure start bang on time. Of course this didn't happen, and we were complete clowns to think that a hospital would even run to schedule, let alone treat us like royalty. So there we sat, for about two hours. Standard really. I got stuck in to a recent issue of SFX magazine, which was a surprise inclusion on the reading pile, and I laughed at the absurd magnitude of general geek on show, yet also cried over how much it resonated with my very being. Maybe I should take up lacrosse when I go back to Sheffield. Fucking lacrosse.
At about one I was told by the 'Line Doctor' (her words, not mine... I do wonder if her bachelors was a proper medicine degree) to get topless and get comfortable. Thinking this could go anywhere, I nervously plonked myself upon the bed and worked through piece after piece of Wrigley's gum. The doctor, meanwhile, produced - one by one - her vast array of cutting tools - scalpel, enormous scissors, hunting knife. With the curtains drawn, it was clear that the ship had long sailed for bailing on the twisted game that was about to be played, so I lay back and thought of England.
Turns out, the procedure was mostly painless. Once the local had gone in, it was just a case of hacking away at the skin that had grasped onto the line whilst it had been inside of me. All in all the whole process took about half an hour, and I was astounded at how thick the cartilage and skin was that was wrapped around the line when it was removed. Think of how a nut screws onto a bolt and you've basically conjured up the image of what it looked like. Tasty.
Fully expecting to be striding out of the hospital with line in hand, I asked if they could clean it and stick it in a bag for me, only to be told that it was protocol for old Hickman's to be destroyed and thus, I was not allowed.
...what?
Fuck! Now I can't hang it on the wall, or wave it around for everyone to get grossed out at, or even do a celebratory shot out of. What good is that? Instead my dear plastic companion of nine months was unceremoniously tossed into the chemo bin, where it would stay until incineration at a later stage of the day. What a tragic end to a beautiful partnership.
Oh well.
With that as well as maintenance starting today, things have been good. My mood is improving day by day, and I'm really looking forward to what is going to be a ridiculously busy but jokes October. Cheeky trip to Sheffield this weekend is on the cards, which will mark a nice start to proceedings. Always laugh when you can. It is cheap medicine.
Big love,
Ryan.
Monday 3 October 2011
I need a saga! What's the saga?
Good day.
It's really quite astonishing how quickly time flies when you really aren't up to much. Getting down to the bare bones, this summer has been spent doing pretty much nothing, despite the fact that a lot has been going on. You'd think that the long and boring days of recovery would be... well, precisely that. Long and boring. Yet here I am slap bang in the middle of September (well, at the end really... I wrote this intro a while back, y'see (aha, now it's the beginning of October at time of posting. I really am just shit)) wondering where all the bloody time has gone. I fear that when I get to my forties and have my inevitable mid life crisis I'll be desperately shitting bricks over the anguish of not being able to recount entire years, let along weeks.
And keeping on the theme of time, it's been quite some time since I last spoke to you. Apologies for that. And apologies again for the rather morose entry of about a month ago. It was a tough time, but you'll be pleased to hear that since then things have taken a turn for the better in an almighty way. How great is that?
Very great.
Now, instead of piling everything into one jumbled mess of a narrative I thought I would divide it up a bit and offer you separate accounts of what's been going on this past month or so. It's more exciting for me that way and I get to pretentiously split it into 'acts' and even call it a saga. Aha! How many of you peons can refer to events in your own life as a god damn saga? Fuck all, I reckon! THAT'S RIGHT.
But yes. I digress. Over something that... isn't true.
So please do - if you will - give this a read. I'd hate to think I've gone to the terrible effort of trying to remember everything only to have nobody read it. Get on it.
It's really quite astonishing how quickly time flies when you really aren't up to much. Getting down to the bare bones, this summer has been spent doing pretty much nothing, despite the fact that a lot has been going on. You'd think that the long and boring days of recovery would be... well, precisely that. Long and boring. Yet here I am slap bang in the middle of September (well, at the end really... I wrote this intro a while back, y'see (aha, now it's the beginning of October at time of posting. I really am just shit)) wondering where all the bloody time has gone. I fear that when I get to my forties and have my inevitable mid life crisis I'll be desperately shitting bricks over the anguish of not being able to recount entire years, let along weeks.
And keeping on the theme of time, it's been quite some time since I last spoke to you. Apologies for that. And apologies again for the rather morose entry of about a month ago. It was a tough time, but you'll be pleased to hear that since then things have taken a turn for the better in an almighty way. How great is that?
Very great.
Now, instead of piling everything into one jumbled mess of a narrative I thought I would divide it up a bit and offer you separate accounts of what's been going on this past month or so. It's more exciting for me that way and I get to pretentiously split it into 'acts' and even call it a saga. Aha! How many of you peons can refer to events in your own life as a god damn saga? Fuck all, I reckon! THAT'S RIGHT.
But yes. I digress. Over something that... isn't true.
So please do - if you will - give this a read. I'd hate to think I've gone to the terrible effort of trying to remember everything only to have nobody read it. Get on it.
Act I: Châteux de Radcliffe.
(This is not a play, by the way)
These days whenever I listen to Regina Spektor (which is generally a fair amount) it never fails to remind me of hospitals. Especially Soviet Kitsch, as there are quite a few songs on that album that resonate with my situation. Spektor has never been regarded as the most linguistically profound of songwriters, but I've always marveled at the powerful meanings that are often embedded in her quirkiness. So yeah, maybe that's why her songs always remind me of hospital wards.
Then again, it could also be because I listened to her a great deal during my double hospital stint during August.
There's no sugarcoating the hospital experience. You're taken in, examined, processed and before you know it you're lying on a tiny bed in a boiling hot room, probably hooked up to some kind of drip, unable to go anywhere. Food is horrendous - even the off brand cereals provide next to no gratification as far as breakfasts go. Visiting hours are strict, so much of the time you're left to your own devices, which leaves you awfully isolated - made worse as you're feeling extremely poorly on top of that. And then of course there's the slow pace at which EVERYTHING transpires.
The thing about the Oxford Churchill is that it's quite clear as soon as you enter the main foyer of the building that an almighty amount of dollar has been invested into making the place look suave. Marble decor, waterfalls, all kinds of useless shit, really. Now of course, it's nice to be surrounded by pleasant aesthetics when you're feeling like utter faeces, but I can't help but wonder if that money should have been invested on something a bit more prudent. Say, I don't know, nurses' salaries perhaps? Or more on call registrars? Maybe a pharmacy that isn't 800 miles away would be a great start. Things such as these - the lack of nurses, the ineptitude of attaining prescriptions - it all delays the process of getting better and leaving. Don't take this as me slagging off nurses or doctors in anyway, by the way. The ones I've encountered are a credit to their profession. It's just that there simply aren't enough of them to cover a huge haematology ward. If hospital investment wasn't treated as business investment, then I feel there would be a massive increase in the morale of patients many fold.
Anyway, hospitals are shit. Let us move on.
Perhaps one of the most challenging aspects of self care is learning to get a grip on doing just that. Taking tablets, avoiding sick people, beating animals. The usual, you know. Being neutropenic (if you're unsure as to what this means, it basically means vulnerability to infection to such an extent that you have to be super vigilante about avoiding illness) adds an extra edge to keeping yourself out of harms way, especially when doctors and nurses are basically saying AVOID PEOPLE, KEEP OUT OF SUNLIGHT, INITIATE LOCKDOWN PROCEDURES and so on. It's a rather stern reminder of the danger I'm in when going through this treatment. Chemo... it's a life saver of course. I'd be dead without it, amongst other things. But my days, the mortal threat that comes with chemo truly is a ball kicker. It's another two years of treatment... roughly. And despite the fact that the treatment will mostly, if not all, be maintenance, we're not out the woods by a long shot. Not yet.
But fear not, my loyal lovers. Times are a changing. Tables are a turning. West Ham are a winning. Arsenal are a losing. People are a laughing. And points are getting a lost here I feel. Which is a great way to conclude this segment.
Keep reading or I'll be saaaaaad.
These days whenever I listen to Regina Spektor (which is generally a fair amount) it never fails to remind me of hospitals. Especially Soviet Kitsch, as there are quite a few songs on that album that resonate with my situation. Spektor has never been regarded as the most linguistically profound of songwriters, but I've always marveled at the powerful meanings that are often embedded in her quirkiness. So yeah, maybe that's why her songs always remind me of hospital wards.
Then again, it could also be because I listened to her a great deal during my double hospital stint during August.
There's no sugarcoating the hospital experience. You're taken in, examined, processed and before you know it you're lying on a tiny bed in a boiling hot room, probably hooked up to some kind of drip, unable to go anywhere. Food is horrendous - even the off brand cereals provide next to no gratification as far as breakfasts go. Visiting hours are strict, so much of the time you're left to your own devices, which leaves you awfully isolated - made worse as you're feeling extremely poorly on top of that. And then of course there's the slow pace at which EVERYTHING transpires.
The thing about the Oxford Churchill is that it's quite clear as soon as you enter the main foyer of the building that an almighty amount of dollar has been invested into making the place look suave. Marble decor, waterfalls, all kinds of useless shit, really. Now of course, it's nice to be surrounded by pleasant aesthetics when you're feeling like utter faeces, but I can't help but wonder if that money should have been invested on something a bit more prudent. Say, I don't know, nurses' salaries perhaps? Or more on call registrars? Maybe a pharmacy that isn't 800 miles away would be a great start. Things such as these - the lack of nurses, the ineptitude of attaining prescriptions - it all delays the process of getting better and leaving. Don't take this as me slagging off nurses or doctors in anyway, by the way. The ones I've encountered are a credit to their profession. It's just that there simply aren't enough of them to cover a huge haematology ward. If hospital investment wasn't treated as business investment, then I feel there would be a massive increase in the morale of patients many fold.
Anyway, hospitals are shit. Let us move on.
Perhaps one of the most challenging aspects of self care is learning to get a grip on doing just that. Taking tablets, avoiding sick people, beating animals. The usual, you know. Being neutropenic (if you're unsure as to what this means, it basically means vulnerability to infection to such an extent that you have to be super vigilante about avoiding illness) adds an extra edge to keeping yourself out of harms way, especially when doctors and nurses are basically saying AVOID PEOPLE, KEEP OUT OF SUNLIGHT, INITIATE LOCKDOWN PROCEDURES and so on. It's a rather stern reminder of the danger I'm in when going through this treatment. Chemo... it's a life saver of course. I'd be dead without it, amongst other things. But my days, the mortal threat that comes with chemo truly is a ball kicker. It's another two years of treatment... roughly. And despite the fact that the treatment will mostly, if not all, be maintenance, we're not out the woods by a long shot. Not yet.
But fear not, my loyal lovers. Times are a changing. Tables are a turning. West Ham are a winning. Arsenal are a losing. People are a laughing. And points are getting a lost here I feel. Which is a great way to conclude this segment.
Keep reading or I'll be saaaaaad.
Act II: My holiday, by Ryan age 23 ¾.
I'm trying to uphold some kind of chronological discipline with all this. So in respect to that, imagine me feeling not so great around the time of the last entry, leading up to the early days of September. This instalment I'd say begins around the, oh I dunno. 9th, maybe? Let's say 9th. Everyone likes a bit of 9. Emperor of China. Alan Shearer. Nine rings to rule them all... wait. No, that's not right. Nevermind.
Cut back to the 9th September then and things are looking up for me. Intensive chemo finished, feeling more alive, out drinking socially again, getting into confrontations on the Aylesbury scene. Well, that's not like normal, but some people HAVE to be dickheads. Starting on someone for wearing a hat? White trash vermin.
Straying off the issue. What I'm trying to say is that it's great to have a sense of normality again. You might recall some of my entries around the May/June stage of the year, where I was celebrating good health, hair growth and a relaxed lifestyle. Well... we're not quite there yet, but this month has definitely seen a great improvement from a few weeks back, and being able to go out for a few beers without the fear of great peril striking at any moment is a bit superb. Like the cliche goes, and like I've said about eight hundred times on this very site, it's all about keeping a good mental well being. Achieve that and you're pretty much home and dry, in a sense. Staying indoors, moping around and feeling sorry for yourself really isn't the way to go.
It was great to go to London again after such a long time out of the big smoke. I'm sure Ellise will have appreciated the break as well after an extraordinary run of weekends getting the train to come and see me. I feel pretty guilty over the financial burden she's had to endure to be honest, but I'll make it up to her. In my own currency! Ryans! 800 RYANS FOR ELLISE.
I do love settling debts.
London was brilliant, for a number of reasons. Seeing Ellise's family again was nice, and as always they let me eat their food and use their hot water, for which I'm grateful. I'll be sure to send some Ryans their way in due course. I also caught up with some old friends and saw some new sights of East London, although that really wasn't all that voluntary and it was quite dark, so the sense of dread was worryingly heightened. We ended up walking for a good hour or so around the streets and I was sweating bullets due to wearing a thick wooly hat (no, we're not past that stage yet). So all in all I was a bit of a mess, but it was class being able to be out and about again. Refer to what I said a few paragraphs back about 'mental well being' and all that.
Next was Sheffield. I'm fearing that this is really just devolving into some sort of 'what I did during my summer holiday' list, so in order to just speed up the inevitable, and because I'm lazy, here's a list of what I did in Sheffield. Green for GOOD. Red for BAD.
Saw a lot of friends, all of whom are doing good. Looking forward to hanging out with them when I return full time in January.
Some people I didn't get to see or didn't see as much as I would like. Will resolve this soon. Or send Ryans.
Got a lot of uni stuff sorted. Literally will be picking up where I left off come January.
Registration still not done and dusted. Health service cocked up and finance forms still not been sent yet.
Got drunk as all kinds of fuck.
See above. Hangovers are becoming more troublesome.
Saw The Big Lebowksi on the big screen. Far out.
So I've been busy. Ok, I admit, it's not the makings of a saga, is it? It's not the most exciting of adventures to the common man, who's probably looking back fondly on his summer holiday to Peru, and is already planning ahead and looking at winter breaks to fucking Laos or wherever, but to me it's been a mighty big deal. And what now? Do I get on with proper grown up things, like work placements or even a job? Or should I just swan about doing fuck all until uni starts again in January? Well find out in the next entry.
WHICH STARTS NOW.
Act III: The end of the line?
Oh God, this is strenuous. If I ever go into some type of career that revolves around writing, please let it not include writing about myself. It's boring, and that really doesn't reflect well on me, does it? It's a very simple logic. Bored about writing about your life? Then your life is boring. If I don't pull my finger out and do something exciting like base jumping or heavy drug use soon then the future of this blog doesn't look great.
However, one exciting thing that I CAN tell you about is in fact occurring this week. The Hickman line is coming out. Hasta la Vista. Yippee Ki Yay. Dead or alive, you're coming with me. It quite literally is... the end of the line. I remember writing about the line of Hickman all the way back in January, which in so many ways involved me singing its praises and jizzing in excitement over being half man, half... plastic. Well, fuck all that. I cannot wait to be rid of this horrible, needy, monstrous pain in the arse, which hangs out of my chest like a saggy set of old man's bollocks.
Now then, don't get me wrong. The line has been an absolute saint in regards to longevity. Not one infection, not one snag, not one reason to rip it out and shove another one straight in. And it's been an absolute godsend for taking/administering blood and of course for treatment. But the thought of getting this thing out of my bloodstream and having it hang on the wall like some sort of hunting trophy is insanely appealing.
I think the concept of it being a major step forward, rather than being shot of the little annoyances, is what's probably giving me a hard on just thinking about it. It's a huge landmark in my treatment and recovery. Having something there that I've been so desperately dependent on has been a significantly testing psychological experience in itself. So suddenly realising that you don't NEED it anymore? Oh, such scenes! It's the point when you finally accept that the worst might just be over.
And to really sweeten the deal, I might even get a gnarly scar to go with it. I hear chicks dig scars, so long as they came about as a result of a fight. I can make up some sort of story involving a grizzly bear, I'm sure. Watch out, Ellise. ;)
So what now? Well, I have uni to look forward to in January, but that's not for a while yet. I've got my birthday, Christmas and then Ellise's birthday to look forward to before then, and I really wanna see as many people as possible before I relocate up north. I might even do a work placement for CLIC Sargent. If you're unfamiliar with who they are, it's a fantastic charity who help and mentor teenagers and young adults who are going through the horrible ordeal of cancer. Look them up if you get the time, they're an awesome bunch of guys who have helped a great deal for me and a lot of others I know. I even went bowling with a few of them last week.
So that's that. I hope you enjoyed it. My biggest hope is that it wasn't tiresome to read. If it was then perhaps I should brush up on my style. Or maybe not, because that truly would be effort. In any case, its credentials as a sage is really up to you to decide. One thing is for sure though, I won't ever do it again.
Big love, as always.
Ryan.
p.s. A shout out here that you should definitely take a look at. My good friends Lucy, Joe, Andy and Simon are all running The Great Yorkshire Run this coming Sunday in an effort to raise money for the P3 ward at the Hallamshire Hospital in Sheffield. For those of you with keen memories, this is the same ward that did an amazing job in looking after me during my initial hospital stay at the beginning of the year. It's an utterly fantastic ward, but any further investment would be of huge benefit not only to those being cared for, but for those working there as well. It's a fantastic cause so if you're able to spare any pennies then that would be incredible!
Here's the link: http://www.justgiving.com/run2beatleuk/
Big love.
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