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.

He's got issues.

Mercy me.

I've been pretty occupied these last few days trying to sort out my life, basically. After coming back from hospital I've been faced with a big pile of hassle which requires my absolute fullest attention, and it's gotten me so stressed I'm perilously close to sacking it off completely and burying my head in the sand. Either that or just hiding the letters and ignoring the emails. Out of sight, out of mind and all that. However, deep down I know this avenue cannot be pursued and I'm just gonna have to deal with it. In truth it shouldn't take that long. I'm just being a whiny bitch basically. But this illness has made me so god damn lazy that the thought of committing even the slightest bit of effort to anything makes me sick to the core.

Finishing third year is gonna be a laugh, then.

I'll explain the situation. Basically, Sheffield uni have informed me that I need various forms of medical evidence to prove that I'm not a dirty little liar and that I do indeed have leukaemia. I also need them to be able to re-register and resume my studies. No problem, I initially thought, I'll just get my consultant to sort that out that business, and as expected he was more than happy to help me with my little issue. "YO I GOT THIS" he exclaimed (in much more professional eloquence). Cut to three weeks later and the uni inform me that they still haven't received the requested forms and that time is a ticking in regards to the whole matter. The fuck? I ring up the hospital and it turns out my wonderfully helpful consultant has only decided to fob off my medical forms and go on holiday for two weeks. Well. That's just fantastic.

So I've got to get my trials nurse to sort this out for me, and I'm hoping she's considerably more on the ball than my consultant is.

I've also got a few other issues to resolve. The uni think I'm coming back in September, when I'm actually returning in January. Needs to be sorted. My finances for next year are also in danger of going Pete Tong if I don't get the appropriate medical forms in. Needs to be sorted. And there's just not enough guava juice in this oppressive world. Needs to be sorted.

Still, I'm in a good mood. Despite now being completely bald, my clothes are properly fitting me again thus negating the need to go out and buy some more. A penny saved is a penny earned. I also seem to be keeping my eyelashes this time round so I don't look like a proper freak. You can always lay testament to the qualities of one's character if they possess eyelashes. I would also question those who have less than two eyebrows. If they have more than two... do your utmost to befriend them.

I'm signing off to play Forza. I know absolutely nothing about cars or how they work but I'm finding this game absolutely banging. There's nothing more satisfying than hearing the almighty roar of a computer simulated car engine. It's been in my head all day.

VROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM *gear change* VROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM *gear change* VROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM *break* EEEIIIIIIIIIRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR *repeat*

I'm not even joking when I say that it's fucking awesome.

Big love,
Ryan.

My youth is slippin', my youth is slippin' away.

Como estas, bitches! I've just got back from a four day stay at the hospital. It was a proper nightmare to be frank, and once I was mercilessly made aware of my 'dreaded 38' condition (a term I'm sure all haematology patients are familiar with) I was accordingly doomed to sleepless nights, relentless IV drips and an absolute fucking shambles of a bedding situation. I won't go into it though, mostly because I don't want to use this blog as a vessel of constant moaning. Looking at the past few entries it's in danger of going that way.

So instead, I'm going to reflect on something that has affected me quite poignantly, much to my surprise. I'd love to tell you that it's an actual serious topic, like the stock market collapse Mark II or polar bears getting their merkage on. Alas, it is actually in regards to the break up of one of my most treasured bands; a band that I have practically worshiped since my school days. RIP the great Alexisonfire.

A lot of you might not know who in the hell Alexisonfire are. Some of you might think they're utter shite and are laughing at me for my intolerable taste in music (if you are one of those people then I positively suggest that you do one). However, to the (probably) small minority of you who were familiar with just how incredible this band was, then you'll share my feelings of utter devastation and heartbreak knowing that they're no longer going to be writing songs, recording albums and playing shows. It's a huge loss to music.

However, having been dwelling on the news all day, it's not just the simple break up of the band that has left me feeling so damn gutted. Like I said, this is a band that I've loved since my, erm, younger and more vulnerable years. Back then music was such an important part of me, and my devotion to a certain small group of bands was of such a vehemence that it could be called obsessive. Now don't get me wrong, music still figures strongly in my life, but these days it's a lot different. Gone are the times of queuing outside music venues in the afternoon to get on the barrier at gigs, or the desperate need to get a band's latest CD days before it hits the shops. I'd rather explore what music has to offer rather than submit to the bounties of one single band or genre.

A lot of people would attribute this to simply growing up, and of course they're right. But therein lies the issue. The break up of a band that has featured so prominently in my life really does confirm the dreaded truth: I am getting on in life. Obviously I'm being far too dramatic in that statement. Let's face it, the bigger picture suggests that I'm not getting old at all and that I should be thankful for my smooth skin and slick joints and full hair and... oh balls. In any case, perhaps it's not so much I'm getting old but rather... I'm losing touch of my youth?

The whole thing got me thinking. As more and more of my childhood affections cease to exist, how will it make me feel as a person? Will I be more happy to embrace new life paraphernalia as the artifacts of my youth crumble around me? I like to think that I would, if not slightly begrudgingly, and in many ways I can sort of link this with the last seven months' events. Life goes on. Things happen. And whilst it's a great personal blow that Alexisonfire have broken up, I can accept it as an inevitability. Bands stop playing music. Unless you're the fucking Rolling Stones or whatever.

I'll have a fat listening session dedicated to the great band soon. But first, there must be a mourning period.

C'est la vie. Next week I hope to start chemo again, but because of this recent hospital stay that looks unlikely. Doubt I'll get any summer now, but oh well. Autumn is the best season anyway.

Big love,
Ryan.

Atrocity.

"So why weren't you weaned off of them?"

It's a question that pretty much everyone has asked me over the past few days. Friends, family, strangers. In fact, I could go round to my neighbour's house and tell his five-year-old son about the past few days and he'd likely pipe up with the same enquiry. Because it's only bloody common sense you know. Why on earth do my guardian angels stationed at the Oxford Churchill insist on ripping me off steroid dosage WHEN IT CAUSES SO MUCH GOD DAMN GRIEF?

And I'm not talking about a day or two of discomfort here. Readers, I can inform you with the utmost confidence that the last three days have been absolute physical torture. When I signed off my last entry about once again yearning for steroids, it was posted very much with tongue in cheek. But you have no idea what absolute horrors I've had to endure since Wednesday. I mean, how can I put this exactly? ARRRGGGGGGGHHHHHH. OOOOOOOOWWWWWWWW. EEAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGH. That about covers it. My legs have been rendered useless. My right arm cannot be moved without the sensation that it might in fact snap off. And I have such abdominal pains that I can't eat a single quaver without feeling like I'm going to have a heart attack. It has truly sucked.

So the good folks at the hospital aren't exactly my favourites right now. But on the plus side, my body finally seems to be adapting to the shock of withdrawal and I'm slowly feeling a lot more human, mostly thanks to two baths a day and copious amounts of 'pro plus'. Oh, and today saw a new addition to the family that has cheered me up no end...



PUPPY.

She's incredible. And not dead, despite what the picture might suggest. Everything you could ever want in a seven week old mut, really. Loves people. Loves to play. Irresistibly cute. She does love to piss everywhere, though, so training will be interesting. And our cat hasn't exactly taken to her kindly... yet. He can just wait till she grows to be bigger than him though. Then we'll see who's swinging his bollocks around giving it large.

So tomorrow will mostly be spent hanging with the new dog. Let's not forget Marble, of course. God rest her soul and all that. It's nice to have a dog who has such a different personality to Marble though. Makes her seem less and less like a replacement.

Less whinging next entry. I promise!

Big love,
Ryan.

Clean as a pro-wrestler...

Something I forgot to mention yesterday which is probably worth mentioning... NO MORE STEROIDS. Well, for quite a while at least. And whilst I'll no doubt be wrestling with the much maligned side affects of suddenly being deprived of them, in a few days I'll have a normal face and perfectly flexible joints to prance around with. Dexamethasone, you have been such a chronic pain in the arse I wish nothing but horrifying forlornness for you and your steroid brethren for at least the rest of time itself. Up yours.

Keep your eyes peeled for some changes to the blog - just design wise. I'm pretty happy with the template but I feel it could do with a bit of spicing up here and there. I've also enlisted my friend James to flex his creative muscles and come up with a super sweet blog header. I've not given him any creative guidance so I'm excited to see what he comes up with. Judging by the stuff I've seen him produce in the past it'll be awesome.

Until next time, when I'll probably be yearning for steroids again.

Big love,
Ryan.

Hair we go again.

It's been a bit of a struggle trying to sit myself down at my desk to get this blog entry down. In fact, just constructing that sentence I made three consecutive typos. Try and guess which words I cocked up. You'd be surprised.

In any case, I'm loaded on Codeine here so you know... try and hang with me on this one.

First off, sorry for the lull in updates. I've been very chipper, and therefore busy, so trying to catch the time to bust out some words has been tricky. I've actually had quite a thriving social life these past couple of weeks despite being jacked to the brim on various chemos, so I have to say I'm pretty pleased with that. As you'd imagine. I haven't gone skydiving or illegal raving or anything, but I've seen plenty of friendly faces and been out and about which is the best thing for me really. It's been absolutely exhausting, as I'll explain later, but being able to do things whilst under such pressure from treatment has really kept my spirits up. So far, so good for delayed intensive then, yes?

There was an unfortunate matter that had to be dealt with today however. And dear reader, I must say it has left me upset and beggared. For today. It was time. To face. THE CLIPPERS.


A sad face doesn't come anywhere near to conveying the sheer abhorrence I felt after going through with this. Don't get me wrong, my hair hadn't evolved to the growing locks I was used to before all this cancer business started up in January, but I still had a great deal on top that I could be proud of. And now I'm back to grade 1. It's July and my head is cold when I fetch the milk in the morning. It's just not cricket.

But fuck it. Hair. It grows back right?

It better. And spare me the jokes of 'it'll grow on you'.

So couple this with a day of being completely spent and it's been a tough one. But that's the price you pay for being such a social butterfly in times of trials and tribulations I suppose. I bought some chinos yesterday as well. Maybe God is punishing me for being such a fashion twat. More likely he's jealous. The chinos are dope.

This week I get a break from treatment which is swell. I've got Keri visiting me on Thursday so naturally I'm insisting she takes me for lunch. She's also promised me guava juice so I'm rather excited. One particular highlight of my hospital stay was when she rocked up to my ward with about six cartons of the stuff. Incredible scenes, they were.

As for the weekend? Not sure about plans, but Ellise will be here so it's sure to be great. Oh, and there's a new member of the family a-coming on Sunday. I'll give you more details next week, but it's all a bit bloody exciting!

Big love,
Ryan.

P.S. I thought I'd leave a quick shout to all my awesome Sheffield friends who graduated last week. I must admit it was hard to see the photos, as I felt I should have been there, but I'm proud for each and every one of you and I hope you all had a fantastic day and week. Now starts life, whilst I get to bum around for another year I guess.

Just remember guys, C.R.E.A.M.

Par for the course.

Memorable scenes, this week.

Wednesday officially marked the six month anniversary of my Leukaemia diagnosis. Quite the landmark date, and though many of you may be left secretly disappointed that I'm still strolling around the place looking pretty smug with myself I insist that I have my celebratory moment of reflection here. Six months isn't a long time in the grand scheme of things, but it's quite a slog when you're life gets turned upside down and you're left battling through the days without much certainty as to what the next one may bring. The general outlook of my illness is looking better by the day, but that still doesn't take away from what a stressful and arduous ordeal this has been for me, and to reach six months with my head held high really fills me with optimism for what comes next. I could not be happier.

Of course, I have so many of you to thank for that. Your support has been absolutely incredible. I can't quite emphasise enough how I would not be in such a strong position were it not for you people around me. So cheers!

It hasn't all been plain sailing this week mind you. Delayed intensive has really settled into its innings, and today I went in for round two of Vincristine and Doxorubicin. As always the combination of the two has left me feeling fatigued and broken, but that's not the worse of it unfortunately. For some reason this cycle dictates that my steroid dosage is taken in separate weekly phases, meaning that I'm yanked off of them just as quickly as I get attached to the damn things. Steroid withdrawal is an absolute nightmare. When you're taking a drug which basically orchestrates your hormones, there are copious side affects that result from being suddenly deprived of that injunction. Muscle pains, mood swings and sleep deprivation are the main hitters, and when combined all at once your mood really does develop into something disturbingly tense. Lying in the hospital today was quite an extraordinary experience in that I had random flashes of paranoia for no reason whatsoever, which seemed to just conjure up from something as routine as a nurse putting a flush up or something. Extremely bizarre and not very pleasant, and the sooner I get shot of these steroids the better, believe you me.

Yesterday I could afford to relax amidst all the withdrawal chaos though as it was my sister's birthday. Myself, her and Min (is that grammatically correct?) went for a few quite drinks and a lovely dinner which on a cheeky note was actually my second meal of the evening. Chicken and chorizo with a side order of fatboy chips. Fit for a King, and I gobbled it down with great gusto. It was nice to escape from the house for an evening in the surroundings of a civilised environment, especially following my ridiculous bender in Devon a couple of weekends back. Lisa seemed to enjoy herself too, plus I got her a card with a retarded looking dog on it so all in all I believe the night was a raging success. The next family birthday is my Dad's. The family are planning something big for that one...

I'll leave it there. I'm still nursing my monster shepherd's pie from earlier. I've spoken a lot about dinner this entry, but what can I say? To quote a very dear friend of mine - "I like dinner".

Big love,

Ryan.

Blues of the world.

Oh to grasp life, and then to have it ripped away.

DRAMA. MERCILESS DRAMA. Pretty much sums my life up right now. Well ok, so it's not that dramatic. More a shock to the system than anything, what with the lethargy and apathy and anemia replacing the energetic splendor that I was experiencing on pretty much a daily basis for the past couple of months. The big bad chemo gang is back in town you see, and with me being the incompetent sheriff I'm struggling to find the effort to round up these outlaws and give them the royal bumming that they deserve.

What does that even mean?

On the plus side, I'm coping well. That basically means that (thus far) there is no negative as such and I can afford to be cautiously optimistic to the next six weeks or so. Anything can happen of course, such is chemotherapy, but so long as I look after myself this will be over soon enough.

Perhaps the biggest bummer of intense chemo that I'm going through right now is the vanity side of things. I've noticed that my face has begun swelling, all thanks to the contemptible dosage of steroids I'm taking, so I'm giving it about a week until I'll be fashioning a mug the size of the Millennium Dome. On top of this, I seem to be gradually putting on weight. "Get over it, you little princess!" I hear you shouting from the back. Well, perhaps, but it becomes troublesome when a) your clothes start becoming to small and b) you're on such a healthy diet you have no comprehension as to WHY IT IS HAPPENING. Unprecedented frustration.

Oh yeah, and the hair thing. You know how that works. That'll probably happen next week. NOOOOO.

Bitching aside though, I've had a decent couple of weeks since my last update. Devon was a hit, as expected. I got suitably wasted, somersaulted into a swimming pool and devoured my share of a pig roast and lamb. The journey home was an utter shambles but considering my record of stinking train rides it wasn't too bad I suppose. I'm thinking of taking an extended trip to Devon when this chemo is all finished. Maybe minus the excessive alcohol and lunacy this time though. I want to absorb the country life fo all it's glory this time; west country farmers can't get pissed up every night surely.

Speaking of lamb, I'm going to go eat some, thereby concluding the entry for today. If any of you lovely people would fancy visiting me any time soon, that would be bloody fantastic. Not that this is a desperate plea for friendship or anything, it's just in my current state I can't really go anywhere and obviously I'd love to see as many people as possible. So if you fancy a trip to the shire, come see me! I'll give you cake.

Big love,
Ryan.

Delayed intensive - no irony there, apparently.

So a couple of posts back I was moaning and groaning about starting a new cycle of treatment and giving it large about how my life was gonna be tipped upside down. Well, a week and a half later and... we're still waiting for the aforementioned cycle of treatment to start. I can only put this down to some epic clowning on my hospital's part, and it's now changed my attitude from 'scared shitless' to 'desperately eager.' WILL IT EVER END? Argh. I suppose I should explain.

I roll into hospital last Tuesday readying myself for some smackdown from the hospital staff. I had a bone marrow biopsy and a lumbar puncture scheduled for that day, so you could understand me wanting to get it done and dusted in time for dinner. However, after a routine blood check I'm told that my neutrophils are down and that I couldn't undergo any treatment for at least a week. Fair enough, I thought. Though it's frustrating, protocol is protocol. I'll just get my game face ready for next week.

Fast forward one week later. Aka, yesterday. I get a phonecall saying that I shouldn't bother coming into hospital as there's no way that my blood count would have risen that quickly and it would be a waste of a drive. Treatment should thus be delayed ANOTHER week. 'Right' I say, 'but what about my line and the flushing and the cleaning and the DRAMA?' We agree that my line still needs to be flushed so I rock over to Oxford again (btw guys I'm trying to make this sound cool as possible, in reality my Mum drove me) and await the nurses. In the meantime I suggest they take bloods as, well, you know, it wouldn't hurt to see how they are right? 'Of course' they say. You can see where this is going. Turns out my neutrophils had gone up exceptionally like the boss that I am and that treatment could have in fact started yesterday. However because they hadn't written up any medicine for me I now have to wait until next week. ARGH.

I don't like slagging off hospitals. I do love the staff at the Churchill, and they are saving my life and everything so we'll cut them some slack, but if they could stop ruining my summer plans then THAT WOULD BE STELLAR CHEERS.

To cheer myself up and make the most of my last weekend of prime health I've decided to journey down to Devon with Ellise and a few others this coming Saturday. My mate Dan's family is throwing a huge marquee party so I'm going down there to drink cider and eat lamb and generally absorb farm life to the fullest. I AM KEEN.

Have a good week gentlemen and ladies. I hope that you enjoyed my two post extravaganza today. It probably won't happen again.

Big love,
Ryan.

Step aside Rooney

...cause my hair is better than yours.

I woke up this morning to discover that - would you believe it - I have hair that I can style and everything. Not floppy or long or wavy, but it's still hair dammit. HAIR'S a picture to prove it hahahaha.


Sorry for the face. I would have used sepia shit cause that shit is dope as fuck.

Big prize to whoever gets that reference. Andrew Hill is exempt.

I should expect that I'll have this luxury of head gear for the next three weeks at least. But judging by the way things have been going lately it could be way longer. I'll fill you in on why that is in the next post, which will probably be tonight.

Big love,

Ryan.

Circle takes the square.

It's the early hours of the morning, the very early hours of the morning I might even say, and I can't sleep. My head's spinning a bit to be perfectly honest, as tomorrow marks the start of a big week for me. I'm nervous, a bit jaded (if that's the right word) and slightly daunted by what lies ahead. I'll break it down for you.

Oh, and just because I cannot sleep does not mean I'm all about my wits and senses. Spelling and grammar may appear... suspect, at best. But try and bear with me on this one.

Here's what's making me nervous, and I'm talking severe nervousness here, in the sense that I'm chewing on the many helpless inanimate objects that are unfortunate enough to be stationed near my person, such as the plastic casing on a USB pen whose texture more resembles the surface of AstroTurf than the smooth delicacy of an essential piece of memory storage. You see my next cycle of treatment begins on Tuesday, and it's a bit of a brutal one. Lumbar punctures, intravenous chemo, injections and all that malarkey. If you're a regular reader of this blog then you've most likely been subjected to my general feelings about these things before so I'll spare you the details this time. It's not the treatment itself though that worries me, it's the drastic change in lifestyle that I'm about to undergo which will be the real bummer. It's difficult to comprehend the constant sickness, the godawful tiredness, the lethargy, the aches and the horrid pain. Despite being able to remember it well from just a couple of months back, I've made a point of trying to push it to the back of my mind when reflecting on that time. And knowing that I'll have to go through it all again is absolutely crushing.

I'm not entirely sure what's brought all this on to such an extreme degree, but it might have something to do with uni ending for a lot of my friends. A time we were meant to share; a step into the real world I was meant to make with people who I had spent three years worth of experiences with. And whilst I take some comfort and appreciation in the fact that my time will come, there still seems something slightly wrong. Now they're set to enthusiastically embark on their respected summers, whilst I dread what the next two months shall bring. Its a sad realisation that I shall attempt not to dwell on.

So in short yes, it's all your fucking fault, out having fun and all sorts of japery, so yeah. Cheers.

Joking of course. I can't show any level of contempt for all you beautiful bastards. I'll try and not to hold any contempt for myself either, which I believe is the most important thing to do.

So let's do it. Chemo shmemo, time to resume this square dance so I can rejuvenate. I'll be out by August.

Things could be a lot worse, you know.

Big love,
Ryan.

The end of life, and other stories.

Yesterday evening I watched a documentary on iPlayer that had a rather profound effect on me and my attitudes towards a subject that no one ever really talks about: death. The documentary follows Terry Pratchett as he meets various people who suffer from debilitating diseases and who have considered, or are in the process of striving for, assisted suicide. You may have seen it on TV the other day when it was on, but if not you can find the documentary (although for a limited time only I'm guessing, since it is iPlayer) on the following link:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b0120dxp/Terry_Pratchett_Choosing_to_Die/

Now then.

Until recently the idea of dying never phased me all too much. What's the use in engrossing yourself in a fate that ultimately you have no control over? After all, everyone suffers the same end, and I had been 'dead' for billions of years before I was born anyway and that didn't bother me too much. Live life in the present and all that. However, with my diagnosis and the initial stages of uncertainty surrounding my illness, for the briefest of stages I was faced with my own mortality. As you can imagine it was scary to comprehend, but it was luckily a feeling that went as quickly as it came due to the early successes of my treatment. That doesn't change the fact that my complexion over death has changed significantly, but it was only after seeing this program that I've properly attempted to tackle my feelings over it.

I think it's the idea of death, and the uncertainty that surrounds what comes after, that shits me up a bit. Not the dying process itself. I fully believe that the human brain was not wired to comprehend such a concept, yet we as a species have evolved to such an incredible extent that we are forced to face the facts when it comes to our own mortality. I can't speak for everyone else, but I'm sure most people struggle with this as much as I am now. The idea of not existing is genuinely unsettling to me, and although it may be irrational, I can't get past that notion of not being around any more. How does that even work?

Maybe some sort of religious theory of an afterlife can bring solace to such gloomy thoughts? Perhaps, yet I can't get fully on board with such beliefs. I for one believe that religion came about as a way for us homo sapiens to deal with the breaking news of mortality many millennia ago. Whatever the scenario of such an afterlife, it gave people a reason to live, as if living life by a moral conduct will ease the realisation that the life you lead will eventually end. 'Death is just the beginning.' Were it not for such huge scientific advancements that have obviously come about long before my time, then I think I would find that belief a great one to subscribe to. Now I just see it as nothing more than a cold comfort.

Now, onto the documentary and this company Dignatas. Another grey area that I'm not going to offer much of a concrete opinion on I'm afraid, but here are my general musings. First off the bat I was pretty astounded at the general state of health that both men were in - neither were in a condition where they were anywhere near death. I was under the impression that one had to be a bit closer to the end to be considered for the process. After watching the first ten minutes or so the motive for the man suffering from Motor Neurone Disease became quickly apparent - to protect his wife and spare her the agony of watching him deteriorate rapidly over a relatively short space of time.

Fair enough, I initially thought. But the more I think about it the more that attitude unnerves me a bit. Consider this if you will: tomorrow scientists announce that they've only gone and cracked MND and have come up with a viable cure that they can begin distributing immediately. How does the wife feel then? Rather distraught, I would say. I've been conditioned to the school of thought that it's not over 'till it's over, and in many ways I think the same applies here. A man sound of mind manages to walk into a building, have a cup of coffee, share a tender moment with his wife and then drink something that ultimately kills him. Something about that does not sit right with me, even though I want it to.

Of course, there is a flip side. Now I do think that when a human being is suffering, and I mean really going through a lot of pain that has been caused by a terminal illness where there truly is no hope left, then that human being should unquestionably hold the right to end his or her own life. I think it's barbaric that we can put a cat or a dog out of its misery yet when it comes to a human life, we can't see past prolonging the agony. I don't accept that the politicians of this country believe that this is the right thing to do; rather, they do not have the balls to tackle the issue head on, and therefore we proceed in what I believe is a primitive way of dealing with the issue. It will be interesting to see how this matter progresses in the next decade, both in this country and internationally.

The question for me is, where do you draw the line? Should physical pain be the only prerequisite to being allowed to go through with a procedure such as this? Or should mental pain also be taken into account? I mentioned that in the case of John from the Pratchett documentary I felt a slight unease in the circumstances surrounding his decision. That's just me talking, perhaps others see a completely reasoned approach here. But who gives us the right to judge such reasoning? If anything like this is going to come to fruition in a way that it has in Switzerland, then it would seemingly do so under the credence of 'mind your own life.'

I feel I've covered a lot here. You might wonder how the documentary made me wonder about the intricacies of my own life, but you'll be relieved to hear I have no such desires to look into the process of ending my time here on Earth. Yet the program brought a resurgence of feelings that I've been dwelling on here and there for the past five months or so, and it feels good to express them through the medium of this blog. Ultimately the good old 'live for the now' expression certainly rings true for me over anything. I have a lot of good things to live for, and whilst it's daunting trying to understand what we will never know, there's little point sulking over it in the long run. Enjoy what you have.

Thanks for reading, and I'm sorry if this has been a bit too morbid as far as light reads go. But I do hope this inspires some kind of debate in the comment section.

Big love,
Ryan.

Good night, sweet prince.

Old Whitey officially retires today. New macbook comes in, old one gets thrown into the second drawer down never to be seen again and the wheel keeps turning. The circle of life I'm afraid. And although I'm beyond excited to be getting my chubby little hands on a brand spanking new laptop that's gonna kick some serious backside, I ask you spare a thought if you would for my ridiculously reliable macbook that has served me so well for five years now. Five years! They don't make laptops like they used to anymore. Well, Windows don't at least. They never did.

Now all I have to do is come up with a name for my latest acquisition. New metal? 'Cause it's new. And made of metal. TOO CLEVER. I'll add it to the 'maybe' list.

Not much else to talk about really. I've been spending the last two weeks going back and forth to London and I've had an awesome time of it. A couple of weekends ago was spent having barbeques in the rain and drinking in gypsy bars and glorified cesspits. We all loved it mind you. Then last weekend we took our custom to the slightly-more-but-not-by-much civilised Big Red in Holloway and had one almighty piss up. First time I've been drunk in months and I sure paid for it the next day, but it was worth it. It kinda reminded me of how things were before all this nonsense started. Not that we were all massive alcoholics, like. Everyone was just relaxed and having a bloody great time. It'll be a lifestyle I'll be returning to full time soon enough.

But before that comes THE TREATMENT CYCLE OF EVIL AND DOOM, which alarmingly starts in just one week's time. Oh snap. Next Thursday I'll be having both a bone marrow AND a lumbar puncture so obviously I can't wait for that to come around. I'll BYOB to that slammin' party, believe. Urgh. But oh well, what must be done will be done. Seven weeks from then I'll be all Ash Williams with the chainsaw, giving it large as I ride out of the hospital doors screaming WHO'S LAUGHING NOW.

At least for the next month I get to have a relatively normal set of hair. It's back, save for a little soul patch on the back of my head, and give it another week or two I reckon I could even style it. Ambitious, yes, and I'm even open to suggestions on how to make my baby hair as totally bodacious as possible. A fellow blogger with leukemia had hers styled in a sweet mohawk and it caught my admiration, so perhaps I'll do the same? Oh gosh it's exciting.

I'll leave it there. Off to collect the new laptop, so the next post... will look exactly the same. But if the hype is to be believed, come next time I'll have become a complete boss in video editing.

Big love,

Ryan.

Remission.

Hello world.

Sometimes when I'm low on inspiration I mash my hands against the keyboard in hope that something will pop out at me and I can then build on it from there. Unfortunately this has an approximate success rate of 0% because who can really draw inspiration from phrases such as 'vwiubvw kfj ;wj wk wjkw k'l' s jl qKPA lk'L LKKLKL'? Today's a bit different though because I can't seem to find the right flow for other reasons. In what can only described as a pathetically tragic cliche, I'm a bit lost for words. Here's why:

COMPLETE REMISSION. It's a term that every cancer patient wants to hear, and I got an ear full of it today. Big news, oh yes. So what does that mean? Well, alas, it does not necessarily mean that I am cured... yet. The word cured has a funny meaning in the wacky world of haematology, and generally most folk stay well clear of using it for years after their diagnosis. The reason for that being is that fundamentally it's difficult to cure you of cancer in just say, six months or perhaps even a year of asking. Relapses can be very common and the idea of routine chemotherapy is to keep the cancer at bay, not to continue eliminating it. It's all very well that the cancerous cells are taken down early, but think to yourself, how easy was it for those cells to develop in the first place? And what's to stop them from just coming back and doing more damage once you turn you back? That's why cancer treatment can be such an arduous process, taking years and years to be fully effective.

So here's the deal with me. I am in complete remission. There are no leukemia cells in my bone marrow and my body is producing normal blood cells at a satisfactory rate. Next month I will carry on as planned to the fourth cycle of chemotherapy treatment, delightfully named 'delayed intensive.' This will make me feel like absolute horse shit, and it's likely that I'll spend some time in hospital due to complications that come part and parcel with any intense cycle of chemotherapy. After that's over I'll be into maintenance, which I believe most of you know the jist of. For about three years I'll be receiving varying forms of treatment to ensure that my body continues doing what it's supposed to do. So I'm not out the woods yet. But the outlook is looking superb.

I'm in quite a reflective mood today. At no point have I punched the air in delight or broken into song or danced a merry jig or anything to similar effect. I've mostly thought of today as just another step of the way. It's been only four months or so since I was first diagnosed, but the distance I've come since then has been quite astonishing. Yet the journey continues, and it will for a long while yet.

And you know, so far it's not been such a bad ride.

High five to the normal life.

It's nice feeling like you're in good health. I actually ran up the stairs today and didn't feel like I needed an oxygen mask and a power nap straight afterwards. It's funny because lacking any stamina and having to contend with aches and pains does become the norm after a while, so realising that actually, I'm not made of glass and I can walk up the road without buckling at the knees is fantastic.

That's not to say I'm ready to go on ant expeditions up Kilimanjaro or anything. I'm horrendously out of shape, owing to the fact that I've hardly moved over the last few months. My weight's fluctuated between underweight to doughy, currently sitting somewhere on the high end of the spectrum. And nil would aptly describe the level of motivation I have to do anything about it. Why? Well, it'd all be a bit pointless. Y'see, being involved in a regimen that has more cycles than a game of Monopoly, any efforts to regain a respectable level of fitness would only be for nothing once I get pumped full of drugs again. I do like being on this interim maintenance (or whatever it's called) but the reality of chemo induced madness is only just around the corner. I can't wait for it to finish.

I'm not sure where this whole post is going. Don't take normality for granted, perhaps? Learn from me, for I am wise. Yeah, cool story bro.

Also I feel like getting drunk. It's been a while. It'd be cheap as chips as well, seeing as I'm now a total lightweight. The other day I had two pints and I'm sure the room starting spinning.

Big love,

Ryan.

Technobabble.

The time has finally come for me to invest in a new laptop. Oooooh my days.

See it's been five years (more or less) since the purchase of my current machine, and the battered macbook that has affectionately become known as 'Old Whitey' can truly take no more. I almost feel sorry for the poor old bastard as he trundles along, moaning like a capsized whale as I load up a puny word document, as if the world's gone full circle and it's the end of days. The thing can't even operate without being hooked up to a power socket. It's one dynamic trait as a laptop ripped away, like a violent circumcision. The shame of it all.

Oh it's ever so dramatic. BUT THAT'S LIFE OLD WHITEY. You came in, did your duty, made me look like the pretentious prick with my skinny jeans and thick rimmed glasses and Macintosh laptop. Ooh la la. And I'll always love you for it, but it's time to go. You've turned into the one thing that has gone and made you obsolete. Rubbish.

Being the mac fan boy, I'm looking into a macbook pro, of course. Mightily expensive though, but those good folks at DLA have for some reason decided that I deserve crunk loads of money so what the hey? Providing I can swindle it tax free, I think I'll go for the 15-inch, 2.0 GHz quad-core i7, 4GB 1333MHz 5400 RPM Intel... OH BALLS TO THAT I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT ALL THAT MEANS. IT'LL BE BITCHIN' THOUGH.

I think I'll even take up photo editing, seeing as one of the main selling points in reviews is 'look how many photos I can edit! Wow!' And seriously, how the hell can a laptop be 'aerodynamic'? What does that even mean? Does it fly? For the money I'll be paying it better do.

This has all been a welcome distraction from feeling a bit rough lately though. Vincristine is so evil. In fact, if I ever get a dog I think I'll call it vincristine. Keep your enemies close and all that. The pain it's caused to my muscles, bones and organs has been unprecedented, yet all they can say at the hospital is 'man up', because it's the only option I have. I hate the stuff. Oh well, it's not like I have to have shots of it for the next two and a half years or anything HAHA. Oh wait...

I do.

This weekend I'm going to watch Thor I think. You know what the most exciting thing about the cinema is? ICE BLASTS. And when you mix the two colours so it's blue AND red? Magical.

Much love,

Ryan.

Miracle hair growth needed!

This weather's been absolute top drawer. I love a bit of sunshine, I do. Hot sunshine, light breeze, cool evenings, no humidity. Perfect. However, the twist in the tale comes with my unfortunate hair situation, in that a) it's growing back so slow I'll actually develop chest hair before I have anything to work with on top, b) it's growing back much lighter than before, blonde in some places and c) there's not a lot of it really. So in the line of blazing sunshine this basically makes me look completely bald, and coupling this with my general sullen disposition, it makes me the most obvious cancer patient ever. So if anyone has any crazy hair growth solutions that might not be COMPLETELY legal, then drop me a comment down below and I'll consider all suggestions.

It's been a good week so far. Treatment is done with and all I have to drop in for next week is a blood test, so I'm trying to come up with ideas of things to pass my time with. Exercise is practically out the window, my blood count is still a bit too low for all that intense nonsense and I'm still left knackered after taking on a set of stairs. Perhaps a hobby of sorts? Get back into music? Try and master the yo-yo? Go clay pigeon shooting? Again, hit me up with some suggestions so I can actually do something productive with my time!

Times like this I really wish we had a garden. Though this village properly stinks of manure today, so perhaps it's not such a bad thing. I'm starting to get majorly envious in regards to everyone but ME already enjoying some tasty looking BBQs this year whilst I'm settling for cheese sandwiches and jacket potatoes. Again, the drawbacks of not having a garden. Need to draw up a pros and cons list really.

That'll do for now. I just noticed I went a bit mental on the caps key on my last blog. THAT'S BECAUSE THE CAPS KEY IS AWESOME. Right.

Much love,

Ryan.

I'm back off the wagon!

That's right, without so much as a whimper I'm back on the hard stuff again. Get it in me man, I live for these cell killing, mood tampering, fatigue inducing drugs they call CHEMOTHERAPY. "Did you enjoy your lumbar puncture?" How about I puncture your lumbar you sick FREAK.

It's been a month to the day when I had that last dose of cytarabine and left Sheffield never to return there for treatment. Since then things have been a little awkward, you might say, culminating in today's events when we FINALLY got underway with the third phase of my treatment at my new home, the Radcliffe hospital in Oxford. Well, technically it's the Churchill, but they have so many damn 'centres of excellence' or whatever the hell that means that I can't distinguish between any of the individual wings of this clusterfuck of a network, so for now we'll just stick with the Radcliffe yeah? And as you can probably tell my first impressions of the place haven't been too glowing.

OH WHERE TO BEGIN. I might like to throw in an apology at this point for not posting in nearly a month but for all of you this is free so WHY SHOULD I? But in seriousness, the last few weeks have been a right bloody struggle and I'm trying not to go on a massive spiel so I don't completely undermine my last blog entry. I did make a chronological list earlier of what to say, crudely handwritten on the back of a tescos receipt, but that's somehow disappeared in the vortex of my own wallet so I'm gonna have to rely on my anything-but-flawless memory for this one. Here goes.

First, my induction goes absolutely tits up and I end up spending nearly two weeks in hospital for reasons that could have been easily avoided. Am I bitter? Gosh no, don't be silly. But what kind of place takes your blood, discovers the Hb is meandering around 6.9 and elects not to tell you? This follows with me nearly collapsing at home, having to rush in, being kept in overnight for a bag or two of blood, then picking up two infections of the bacterial and fungal variety and being remanded as hospital bound indefinitely. LAME.

To be fair, my family and Ellise did a great job in keeping my spirits up, and the nurses were rather sound (the more jaunty the character the better the nurse, I tend to find). And two weeks is nothing compared to say, I don't know, five weeks. But it properly puts a damper on the attitude, you know?

I get released at last and the following week I go in for my bone marrow (which actually turned out to be a SURPRISE bone marrow I was in no way prepared for, leaving me slightly disturbed mentally). Horrific pain aside, this goes rather smoothly. That is until the registrar hits us with a bit of a bombshell that my treatment is being changed, from what is called Regimen B to Regimen C, a much more savage and stronger course of treatment that might as well be described as intensive. The main issue with this was that they couldn't explain to us WHY they had decided to do this; the trials nurse had trotted off home by this point and my consultant was off in clinics so couldn't go through any of it with me. Cue a weekend of me and the family shitting it a bit until TODAY we find out we're going BACK to Regimen B because there was a BIT of a COCK UP with the communication between doctors. No big deal really, happens all the time. Made the heart skip a beat or two though! At least we get a happy ending... for now.

So there it is. A rather difficult period that I believe has come to an end. From here I'm hoping to properly regroup and get back to roughing up Luke if he things he's gonna be bringing the ruckus. I promise I'll update on a more regular basis, though I'll have to find more things to write about as it'll be kinda quiet on the chemo front. My own actual life? God forbid.

Now I'm off to watch the Game of Thrones pilot episode. I'm a bit wet for fantasy drama. Sometimes I think to myself that the LOTR trilogy is better than Star Wars. Then I promptly punch myself in the balls for even entertaining such an idea.

Big love.

Ryan.

Revelations.

Right then, first thing on the agenda is to at least acknowledge articulate panda's (aka MY BESTEST BUDDY ANDY) birthday today. If general life musings and thoughts on the modern media world float your boat, then you should click this juicy link to check out his blog.

http://andrewchrysostom.blogspot.com

Don't be fooled by his 23 years though, his immaturity knows no bounds.

Now then, it's been three weeks since my last update, and honestly it hasn't been the greatest experience of my life. Massive tiredness, aching joints, hospital trips, painful teeth, vital organs showing little enthusiasm to do their jobs. So on, so forth. Up until today I was starting to get into that whole mentality of 'oh why did this have to happen to meeeee.' I mean, not to brag or anything, but I've gone through quite a great deal these past few weeks. It's been... tricky. Emotionally exhausting. Physically testing. You get the idea. With all this in mind, it was very easy to fall into a thought process of dismissing everything as not fair and believing that the whole world is up against you.

Like I said, this all changed today. I don't want to throw out names or type out paragraphs of condolences as quite frankly, it'd be a bit strange for me to do so, but today I discovered (quite accidentally I might add) that a girl on my course at uni died not too long ago of... cancer. Now let's not kid ourselves, people pass away because of cancer on a daily basis. It's a horrible disease and in some forms can be absolutely devastating. But today I couldn't help but think of the phrase 'why me' in a completely different light. Why am I the lucky one who has such a good chance of overcoming my condition? Why am I the lucky one who gets the opportunity to write a blog about the whole thing? Why am I the lucky one who gets to see this whole ordeal as the moment before the rest of my life? There's no denying that for me, things have been hard. But for others cancer is incredibly more difficult, and can not only poison the life it takes hold of, but destroy the lives around it too.

I saw myself as a bit of a selfish arse this morning. Yet I'm all for redemption. From now on, it's thinking positively all the way. I owe it to the people who don't make it as far as I have. As Greybeard has said so many times, I'm lucky to have come this far so quickly.

I also want to start doing some charity work, maybe after I make a full recovery. Anyone know of any good fundraising ideas? Let me know.

Big (awkward) love.

Ryan.

The trouble with chemo.

My palms planted firmly on the bathroom floor, my head hovering back and forth over the toilet bowl like Psycho Mantis, my exhausted eyes reflecting back at me from the water. I'm tired, achy, haggard, yet I still manage to inspire fierce concentration in trying to overcome these feelings of nausea. All is for nothing though. The bright glow of the bathroom light pierces my absorption, the stomach muscles spasm sporadically and, realising I'm now completely at the mercy of whatever power regulates this universe, I vomit unceremoniously into the toilet below.

My main thought is how strange an act this is when you're sober.

Side effects can be horrid. This is one of them. Now I'm no stranger to puking into your toilet with all sense of dignity or class in tatters, yet it's not something I want to be going through on what's in danger of becoming a daily basis. Not to mention I'm at such big a risk of infection (OH GOD will he stop going on about that!) So I'm going to try this new tactic I've come up with which involves not eating anything. When this spectacularly fails (I give it an hour) then I guess I should tell the doctors and see if they can change my anti-sickness medication. Logic prevails.

I'm also reeling after seeing my hair grow back uneven and well, not as full as I was first anticipating. All I want is hair. We humans really do take it for granted, unless you're a weirdo who shaves it off out of choice. No offense or anything but... weirdo. Anyway, I love having hair more than Charlie Sheen loves his given namesake and I really do wish this chemotherapy nonsense doesn't piss around with it too much. If you could see me now you'd think I'd been attacked by a crackhead with a razor but I'm so socially unaware that I have no desire or energy to shave the rest off. What? Sense? None made. IT'S PATCHY IS WHAT I'M SAYING. I'm not keen for this at all.

But oh well, I'll always have more hair than my friend George. I hope he reads this.

Much love.

Ryan.

Vulnerable.

A devastatingly poor weekend has just passed me by. Being admitted to hospital on Saturday for having an infection and not being discharged until today was lame, putting it lightly. Stoke Mandeville Hospital is an actual madhouse. The nurses are mental, the doctors are mental, EVERYONE IS MENTAL. Not to say I'm being ungrateful or anything, they took good care of me on reflection. But there comes a point when the novelties of eccentricity wear off and you start doubting whether you'll actually make it out of this place alive.

More than anything though, the whole getting an infection kinda put a downer on my 'bring it on chemo ain't sheeeeit' attitude. Maybe I should just try harder when it comes to looking after myself, or maybe I have to drastically improve my living conditions (which, trust me, has its own issues). But I really didn't see something like this happening so damn early on. I'm not even neutropenic yet. God forbid I get a bug when I am at that stage because I might actually die.

I despair.

But then if you're going through hell, keep going. Winston Churchill said that one time to someone apparently. A bit apt, it seems.

And I won't die, don't worry.

Bitesize blog this week. I used to watch those bitesize revision things for foundation maths when I was at school. But that's because I was crap at maths. I only got a C. C for crap. I know my times table though.

Big love.

Ryan.

Level 2.

I wonder what the boss will be like.

Back in Sheffield then, chemo cycle two now into its second day. And as I ponder quite ridiculously which figurative Bowser awaits me at the end of this phase (the boss is more likely to come in the middle really seeing as that's when you feel like the crap's been kicked out of you the most) I must say the nerves are a tingling. Looking after yourself whilst on chemo is quite a challenge, say the doctors and patients I've spoken to anyway. Infections can be common, tiredness prevails on most days and going about your daily routine can be stressful when having to deal with hospital visits on a daily basis. Oh it might seem all doom and gloom but whilst I am nervous I'm not scared. I'm just happy to be out the hospital on a full time basis so if it's just a case of keeping an eye on my health then it can't be too difficult can it?

Plus I have Ellise to basically look after me so I'm sorted.

Day clinic is weird. You arrive and well, nothing really happens for a while. Like yesterday. Turned up at 10 o'clock sharp (it was stressed that it was absolutely imperative I arrive at 10 o'clock sharp) and... nothing. For like, two hours. Then a nurse pops up and goes 'well, your medication hasn't actually been authorised yet so you might as well disappear until the afternoon.' I can see this kind of pattern developing annoyingly. In any case, I returned and got my chemo. Bucket loads of Cyclophosphamide and a tiny bag of Cytarabine. Look at those pretty new names. The first stuff looked evil as sin. Presented in three big black bags not too dissimilar in liking to biohazard warnings, I'd by lying if I say they didn't make me feel a wee bit of apprehension. But so far I don't feel to bad, so bring the rest of it on! Obviously.

Other than that there's not much else new to report. My legs are complete waste at the moment. Having been in hospital for a month and not had to take on gravity during that time my muscles have weaned away to a state of liability that makes the Ethiopian weight lifting team look like world beaters. So the problems that this has caused have been plentiful. But I get by, mostly by having to rely on public transport and running the risk of brain aneurysms because of the sheer stress that this creates. WHEN I PRESS THE BUTTON THAT MEANS STOP YEAH, NOW I HAVE TO WALK FURTHER.

Officially a bus wanker.

I'll try and get a few photos involved with the blog over the next few entries, including maybe a picture of myself with what's gonna be the closest you'll see to me having a bald head I HOPE. The hairline is still visible which is all that matters really.

Big love,

Ryan.

A Big Step Made.

I've been umming and ahhing over this blog entry for the past few days because I'm in many ways struggling to find the right words that really portray the emotion that Wednesday brought out in me. You see, a lot has happened since I wrote on Sunday. Since my excursion to Smiths I've since then traveled a lot further, because on Wednesday I was discharged from hospital from my first phase of chemotherapy. I'm home, sitting in my room, typing this blog entry from my desk. It's bloody surreal.

I was in hospital for one month. Normally during a first phase of treatment patients with ALL can stay up to six or seven weeks, completing their chemo then facing a slog of recovery as they await their blood counts to climb back up to a healthy level. Apparently my counts were doing so well I was told staying in hospital was unnecessary and that I would be home that week. This was on Monday, Valentine's Day, perhaps the best day to get the news seeing as Ellise was right there with me. We celebrated with a curry takeaway that evening and it was bloody great, perhaps the best I've ever had. I think it was made all the more sweet by the prospect of leaving the hospital mind you, but that's irrelevant. Oh, and it was free too. That possibly played a part.

SO ANYWAY, Wednesday arrived and home it was. Arriving home with a car full of things amassed over the course of a month and two very excited parents, seeing the house was quite the superb experience. I imagine that would have been obvious, but more so after a long two and a half hour journey in the car. I walked in gingerly (bone marrow biopsy the day previous, I was in a world of pain), mobbed the cats, sat down and didn't move really for quite a while. There I was, home. Started the week thinking I was going to be in hospital for another two weeks. Wednesday comes and I'm watching the Arsenal - Barcelona game on my sofa whilst eating a fat pasta bake. Life can really surprise you.

Christ, this entry has been a bit of a mess. Things are still complicated. I need to get back to Sheffield for Monday to start my second phase. This makes me nervous, starting chemo again for another month. I don't have to be in hospital twenty four/seven, which is great, but a chemo phase is a chemo phase and this time the emphasis on me looking after myself and making sure I don't come up ill is heavy indeed. A new experience perhaps? Chemotherapy on the outside word. Bring it on I say. If I can manage that first phase, which really was the most brutal month ever, I can handle it again. Nervous, yes. Positive? You better believe.

The blog will take a new turn, I suppose. Coping with Luke and living a life. That's if I don't have to be dragged back into a hospital ward again. But I'll still be writing, a bit more coherently next time I hope. This entry has been difficult to write, perhaps my most challenging one yet. Big times and all, but I hope you still enjoyed it. Next time I'll let you know what the second cycle involves and how I'm coping with having basically no hair.

Big love, thanks for reading.

A very happy Ryan.