All clear

To expand on what most of you would have read - yes, I got the all clear today. After three and a half years of tedious bullshit, I was given the moment I've been building up to since I was diagnosed. No more leukaemia. No more medication. It is over.

I feel pretty great, if not a bit cautious of how surreal the situation is. I've not technically had cancer for quite some time. Nearly three years, probably. But then when a doctor gives you the official verdict like he did today, then it makes it all the more legit. And this has always been a journey that felt nearly infinite in its length of time, so it never felt like being complete until the whole thing was done.

Anyway, I'm having a drink tonight because I feel like I could do with one. Thank you all for your messages of support over the years, your collective presence, and for hoping that I got better. I'm not really into superstitious stuff, but I genuinely believe that it made a difference.

Big love, as always.

This is a bit awkward.

Years ago our cat Barney disappeared for about 2 months. Inexplicably, without warning, he just upped and left for eight solid weeks, until finally he strolled through the front door, sheepishly crept into the living room and stared at us like he'd just shat on the bathroom floor. As he sat there hopelessly denying culpability, we could all tell that his conscience was wrestling with a desperate need to escape. He'd only come back because he felt like a right arsehole about leaving in the first place.

Well, here I am, similarly going through those motions. Nearly 3 months without an update and I feel obliged to give you a bit of a catch up as to what's been going on, all in the while horrendously ashamed that I've gone this long without even the slightest hint of a dialogue. Is that the right term? Dialogue? Well none of you guys ever leave comments so I guess it isn't. BITCHEH!

But don't worry, I'm not mad, and I hope you guys aren't mad at me. In fact, I really hope that your mood doesn't hinge on the regularity of my blog updates. If it does, seek help. If it doesn't, I envy your life's probable excitement that is likely generated by a reason to get up in the morning and a social life that doesn't involve two hours of travel, supplemented of course by extortionate costs and weirdos who complement you on your socks.

Oh what the fuck am I even talking about here? The be all and end all is that I've been a lazy, decadent dullard who can't seem to juggle the responsibilities of numerous things at once. The result of this absolute shambles has been utter negligence towards this blog, and here we are without an update in three months. One must start to question the passion that I have for the site these days as I seem to prefer lazy days involving watching episodes of Frasier to letting you all know what's been happening in Ryanland.

And yes, I'm trademarking that shit before you get any ideas.

The truth is, the longer this blog remains as an account of my life as a cancer 'patient', the more and more I lose interest in contributing to it. The way I see things, this whole cancer thing has, well... no. I don't want to say that it's ended. That's tempting fate a bit, yes? But... I'm moving on. I can't let leukaemia define who I am and the longer this place reminds me of my struggles through it the less inclined I am to hold it in such personal regard.

Don't worry though, this isn't a 'fuck this I'm abandoning ship' kind of deal. It's more of a 'we really need to move the furniture around a bit'. I really love blogging, writing and - if your words are to be trusted - entertaining. But things should really change. My life isn't that interesting these days, but I feel the things that I observe are. So if I can find the spark that can ignite my creative side again, then exciting things may well happen to this place.

So yeah, this space. Watch it.

Ryan.

p.s. The first change: Helvetica for all.

S M A S H

Kings and Queens and all your knights.

Hello.

Thought I'd just swoop down here and drop off a quick update regarding the weekend's proceedings. Seeing as I badgered you all not once but twice into donating money for Ellise I thought it'd only be fair to tell how how she actually got on. She smashed it. Much in the same way that Lenin smashed the Bolshevik revolution, or how Rivaldo smashed the sperm race, Ellise took the piss out of 10k, finishing the two laps of Regent's Park without a sweat even breaking upon her forehead. This of course means that London marathon is in the process of being sorted and similar expectations will have to be met. The hopes are all on your Irish shoulders now, Ellise. 

Well... obviously she did sweat. She's not RoboCop. But still. SMASHED IT.

Thanks for the donations to those who parted with their cash. To those who didn't, how do you sleep at night? If you're unable to answer that question and are indeed having trouble falling asleep with your TAINTED CONSCIENCE then you can rectify this by finding a link on the previous post and donating. Otherwise, out of my sight you hellions.

I'll let you judge how serious I am with that thinly veiled belligerence. But yeah, nice one guys.

The next three weeks are going to be utter hell for me due to deadlines and exams, so apologies if I don't update this. If I get a spare moment I'll try and write some nonsense about abandoned buildings or disconcerting weather formations or trigonometry. 

Ryan.

The present is a point just passed.

I feel old today. Not in the 'oh my bones are creaking' or the 'God I hate kids these days!' sense, you understand. Balls to it if I'm going to go on one of those tangents; it's not like that hasn't been written and read and then written all over again.

What I mean is... I feel like a substantial portion of my lived has been lived. Not the most significant portion, or the most worthwhile portion. Just a stretch of time that I can look back on and think 'wow, a lot has happened here'. Now as harrowing a thought you think that might be for me to be dwelling on, it hasn't shitted me up nearly as much as I thought it might.

Let me start from the top.

Abandoned breweries. That's right, this life affirming epiphany came to me whilst dicking about in an abandoned fucking brewery. And when I say 'let me start from the top', I really do mean from the top. On a roof - to be exact - overlooking the breathtaking landscape that is Sheffield. But when the sun is setting and drawing a close on what has been a rather spectacularly beautiful day and you get the entire cityscape sprawled out in front of you, and you catch glimpses of buildings that have so much personal meaning, whether they be University tower blocks or former halls of residence or malevolently imperious hospitals, you can't help but take a moment and appreciate the very fact that a chapter of your life is soon to be finishing. And that's exactly how I felt today.

My life, like the life of everyone else, is ticking along. One day I'll be having this same moment, looking back over time that is yet to pass and wondering where it all went. Until then, I guess I'll just amuse myself speculating over what that time will bring.

Fat stacks, I hope.

I grow old... I grow old...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Badman Scribe.

Click this.

Get outta my head, Charles!

As of last night I was writing a few snippets and such about Find Your Sense of Tumour, which turned out to be a pretty great experience all in all. However, having woken up this morning to then immediately endure one of the worst panic attacks I think I've ever had to suffer through, I thought I'd change the tone of this entry and talk about something that's a bit of a grey area for cancer survivors.

The very thought of having to endure some kind of psychological issue has always shitted me up a fair bit. Obviously no one goes through their life without avoiding some kind of mental trauma along the way, no matter how devastating or inconsequential it may be to their everyday life. The fact is, every human being has a unique psychological bedrock that's equipped to deal with certain challenges or obstacles (or whatever you'd like to call them) in an ostensibly myriad amount of ways.

But is that really true?

I would agree to a certain point. The resilience of the human mind is an incredible thing to behold, and something that I've recently seen first hand amongst some remarkably headstrong individuals. Saying that though, an experience such as cancer or anything that not only brings one's mortality into question, but also their ability to perhaps live a normal lifestyle, can be potentially devastating to the manner in which they compose themselves and deal with issues that are mostly flatulent or paltry. What I'm getting at, and this is beginning to concern me on a personal level here, is how does one keep a hold on things when there is seemingly no end to the problems that are piling up on the horizon?

To make this explicitly about me, then. I worry about a lot of things. Uni, for example. Have I made the correct decision in coming back this early? Can I juggle treatment with a steady routine of work? Can I keep myself motivated to work through the random bouts of pain in order to keep on top? If the last few days are anything to go by, then most certainly not. And that's not all. What about life after uni? How can I work if I'm being consistently perturbed by little niggles that have a worrying tendency to develop into drawn out calamities? And then there's a potential family life. Will I be able to even start a family, let alone provide for one?

A whole amalgamation of worries there that might seem a bit overblown, yes I admit. But I can't deny the fact that for me right now it's the elephant in the room, and the more I try to leave it and ignore it the more it begins to have an ill-effect on my general well being. I can deal with with a bit of anxiety here and there no problem, but full blown panic attacks during the morning routine of Rice Krispies and tea? Nu uh.

I'm not entirely sure what I want to achieve with this post. I usually use this blog as a form of lighthearted release - a jovial look into the world of a cancer survivor. Very rarely do I use it as an attempt to reach out and make real sense of the horrors that this awful affliction can bring to the table. But now, maybe more than ever, I think I need to know if there is a right way to do this or a wrong way to do this and, more importantly, if I'm actually doing it right or doing it wrong. Some guidance would be a bit tidy.

Sorry if this seems a bit unhinged. I'm not doing nearly as bad as the mood of the writing suggests, and I'm as confident as ever that I'll pull out of this with my head held high. It's just difficult to be reminded that all this cancer business doesn't just end with the word 'remission'. It sticks with you for a long, long time. Maybe not in your bone marrow, but certainly in your head.

I just hope I don't become part of the cliche and have it define who I am as a person.

Big love,

Ryan.

Oh, and also.

Any of you feeling charitable? Well you should be, because my old man and my girlfriend are putting themselves through some physical torment all in the name of helping others and it would be great if you could throw a few pounds to both of them (or just one if you're the kind of person who likes picking favourites) as they definitely deserve it. You could probably hazard a good guess as to what charities they're raising money for as well...

My Dad is taking part in one of Beefy's walks in Birmingham during April and is looking to raise £750. You can find his page here.

And in May Ellise is doing a 10K run dressed as a superhero. If that doesn't make you donate money well then what the hell is wrong with you? Her page rests here.

I know I post a lot of these charity things put what's a man supposed to do when he inspires such good will? But seriously, it'd be absolutely incredible if you could spare the slightest amount for these two incredible people. They need your support!

Big love,
Ryan.

Ong-Bak 4: Something about Pneumonia.

Like a grizzly bear rolling out of his cave after the long winter months, I have returned from hibernation. Or exile. Or pure fucking negligence, most likely.

Don't give me that look. I'm not on the clock here.

LIFE. It's a stressful thing, right? Life of the real variant that is. The one where you have to go out and do things and take on responsibilities and communicate with actual breathing specimens. So in truth, THAT is the reason that the blog has been somewhat dormant of late. Chief reason has got to be that I've written about 10000-15000 words of tedious uni work this past month, so that's most definitely sucked out the enthusiasm I once had for pouring out my nonsense into this medium. That's not to say I've fallen out of love with the blog, so I'll just promise - as I always do when I've been inactive for a long time - that I'll try and update this motherfucker on a far more regular basis.

But really? No promises. I can certainly promise that.

What's been happening then? Well, I moved back up to Sheffield. The place where it all began. The scene of the crime. The place that actually had no real significance on the fundamentals of my diagnosis. Being a man who likes to give cancer the middle finger (and I do a pretty good job of it too, dontcha know?) I decided to move back up to the city of steel exactly one year on from the day I was told that my blood was whack and that I'd need to make a deposit of 800000 fine brown hairs if I wanted to make it decent again. What's that leukaemia? Only one year on and you've already pissed off? What a pussy. A-L-L allstar, that's me. Parring life.

Of course... that's not been the case, and as you can imagine I've bitten off far more than my humble mouth can chew. Being out and about has left me exhausted and jaded and vulnerable, and everything culminated last week when I was admitted to hospital for FUCKING PNEUMONIA. Pneumonia!? Not to moan or anything (ha!) but I've had enough life threatening ailments for the meantime cheers. Fobbing off cancer was a rather excruciating experience believe it or not so I'd like to breeze through life for the next half century or so without having to deal with such bullshit again. But oh no, throw some pneumonia my way why don't you? Pneumonia properly kills people, so I've heard. And after doing a bit of research I discovered that it has a particular tendency of capping those with a history of... yep. Cancer. Oh great.

Luckily, what with me being the boss that I am, I'm pretty much past it for now. Obviously the antibiotics played their part but as I drift off to sleep some nights I like to think that my immune system is actually made up of thousands of miniature Tony Jaas causing utmost devastation to any malignant cocksuckers that dare mess with my health situation. Just a shame they spend most the time sleeping, especially when cancer rears its ugly head around, but nevermind.

So that was that, then. In regard to what's coming up, this weekend I'll be going to the Find Your Sense of Tumour conference at Center Parks in Sherwood Forest. So not only will I be attending what should be a great weekend with a whole bunch of young people who have shared my experience, I might even get to meet Robin Hood. Failing that though, I'll just go swimming in the ridiculous pools that they boast in those parts and probably get water trapped in my ears. Whatever happens, I'll make sure to do a blog on it after I get back and maybe even post some pictures. Be sure to keep an eye out!

Must dash I'm afraid. Got to get to Tescos for some Relentless so I can casually bust out 1000 words of storytelling. I would post my stories onto the blog but I think this site's seen enough crude writing for a few lifetimes let alone one so I'll just keep them to myself for now. Maybe if I get a super sweet mark in one then I'll share it to the world but judging by my recent grades that looks unlikely.

Big love,

Ryan.

They're just numbers on a calendar, really.

Well, what a year.

WHAT. A. YEAR.

And to celebrate what can only be described as an approximate three hundred day molestation of my general health and mental well being, I'm going to march over to the nearest off license with as much swagger as the body allows, pick up a fat bottle of Jameson's, demolish the first curry I see and then get involved with another molestation of my general health and mental well being, this time brought about through my own designs. Should be a chuckle.

I've grown tired of holding out optimism for New Year's Eve, so getting plastered and following the crowd rather than spearheading the entire operation is my plan of action this time round. An Indian restaurant followed by a party somewhere? I can abide by that. Fingers crossed for fireworks and a calamity punch up down Holloway Road.

So aye, have a jolly night whatever you end up doing. But for the love of God, whatever you do, don't rub your nipples against a cheese grater.

Big love,

Ryan.

Merry Christmas.

To anyone who's ever taken the time to pass on their best wishes, or give me support, or even just read this blog, I hope you have a Merry Christmas. Quite a year this has been; let's hope 2012 brings a bit more joy and cause of celebration.

Remember, it's a slap in the face to the chef if you don't take a cheeky nap after finishing your Christmas lunch. So don't go around offending anyone, ok?

Have a good one you beautiful bitches.

Sexy Dirty Tumblr.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I'd rather be lost in a spooky forest.

This week has been tough. I guess I'll explain later, when I don't feel like death multiplied by death plus death divided by arghhhhhhh.

So yeah, as the title suggests, I'd rather be fighting off ghosts and bears and inbred woodsmen with chainsaws, all the while having no bearing on a means of escape.

Fuck chemo.

Big love,
Ryan.

Redecorating.

I'm in the process of sprucing the place up a bit, as you might have noticed. The books were nice and I enjoyed the various Asimov titles that spread themselves across the pile but it didn't look right with my brand spanking new title. And isn't it just fan-fucking-tastic? Yes ok a bit disturbing I'll admit but that's what you get with a Giger inspired mind.

And I must give credit to that mind. James Wragg did the artwork for the title and even coloured it in which saved me a massive headache I can tell you. You can find a collection of his artwork and comics over at his blog, masterfully titled Thrusting Pens. I'll also add it to the pathetically small list of links that you've probably missed over on the right hand side of this page. Networking for the win.

My good friend Andy Bobandy is also gonna have a go at redesigning the whole look of the site for me. When I say 'have a go' I really mean absolutely own it as coding websites is kind of his thing, really. The weirdo gangly demiurge that he is. It'll still be blogger, which will probably serve as a hindrance to his innovation as blogger do tend to be arseholes, but nonetheless I'm sure he'll whip up something badass extraordinaire. Or at least he better. It's exciting times for The Deadly Rhythm. I'm just looking forward to my blog not looking like it came straight out of the blogger template love factory of shite.

I had aspirations to give you an actual update of my goings on over the last few days but if I'm being honest, I'm so tired from treatment that I don't think I have the creative power to muster up something even mildly enthralling. The hardships of chemo, right? However, I'm keen to get a few thoughts down soon so hopefully tomorrow I'll be far more productive.

Until then, yeah?

Big love,
Ryan.