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.