[Oldmanmatt]

Would you believe...

It worked!

[Oldmanmatt]

“Concentrate!”...

Says the voice.

God, this is greasy...

I can hardly feel my fingers...

Panting, scrabbling. Grunts of effort.

Oh, bugger! My leg’s going to go.
Here comes the sewing machine...

I bet that damn micro has popped...

“It went minutes ago”...
Says the voice.

What the hell is up with him today? One second too tight, the next; enough slack for two more pitches...

E4?

E Bloody silly, more like...

“For crap’s sake! Will you bloody well climb?!”
Says the voice...

Shit! There really is no pro and I’m a damn long way above that last Friend (the one that now has that dodgy micro hanging off it).

I still can’t see the top...

“But I think I can see the next belay.”
Says the voice,
“Not much to it. Maybe a crack for a small Friend?”

How the hell am I going to get there?

Crap! I’m scared...

Panting, sweat dripping...

The Friend slides home.

Relief.

“Not much of a belay.”
Says the voice.
“One Friend?”

It will have to do.
Sometimes, one Friend is all you get.
Maybe, it’s all you need.

“Onsqqerk”

Damn, I can’t speak...

“Aheemm... ON BELAY!”

Hands shaking, pulling through.

“That’s me!”
A small voice calls from the void below.
“What’s it like Dad?”

“Uh... Good! You’ll enjoy it...”

“Liar!”
Says the voice.

It gets harder from here, according to the guide and no one knows where the top actually is...

From the journal of an unknown climber, found at the foot of the infinite crag; below the route “Life” (E BS (Bloody silly,) 95c).
According to the Guide, grading of this route has proved difficult as no one ever reports back, after completion.
Every ascent...

Is the first.

[Oldmanmatt]

Sleep, baby, sleep...                                      October 27th 2011

A cheeky grin, feigned innocence, batted eyelids; she sings to me in an angelic falsetto.
She throws in a cutesy lisp, just to rub it in.

Two hours of pre-hydration.

Your Father tends the sheep...

I’d told her to get some sleep...

The problem was, I’d just persuaded (bullied?) her into accepting a blood transfusion. Her platelets and Haemoglobin were way down.
She treats this as though she has failed an exam, tries to say she will get more sleep, drink more beetroot juice and cram the vitamins.
It doesn’t work like that, I say. In a couple of hours, they will start pumping in the toxins again and that will knock you even further down.

Your Mother shakes the dreamland tree...

Red faced, I leave her singing.
In my mind, her lilting voice follows.
I need the kick of caffeine and the comfort of the crowd.
Somehow, it’s easier to find solitude, in a crowded room...

Down falls a little dream for thee...

Yesterday, they inserted a PIC line; to make it easier on her much abused veins.
There were blood tests, ECG’s.
There was waiting.

Today, is Chemo day.
Another eight hours or so, of pumping, flushing; poisoning.
Waiting...

A ray of hope?

Maybe...

The Oncologist says, that having sequenced the biopsy; the cancer is a good candidate for the new Immuno treatment trials and drugs.
Perhaps, her lazy NK cells and T-lymphocytes can be persuaded to deal with this?

Meanwhile...

“Bring on the poison!” she sings.

Sleep, baby, sleep...

[Oldmanmatt]

“Checking in, Sir?”                      October 28th 2011

Yes...
Yes, I suppose I am.

“Is that your Baggage, Sir?”

Yes...

It must be...

A moment’s fear.
I didn’t realize I was carrying so much.
Is it too much?

“It’s OK Sir.” smiles the girl, behind the desk “There are no charges for excess, not with us.”

“Did you pack them all yourself?”

Yes.

Although...

I had a little help, from life.

Especially, with the big black ones.

The ones I’m trying to hide, behind the small ones (with the jolly floral print)...

“Are you carrying any sharp objects, Sir?”

I don’t... think so.

I hope not.

She’s writing something...

I can’t believe I’m here.

I can’t believe I’m flying with this airline...

I never believed I would.

Not ME!

“If you will just take a seat, Sir.”

She’s smiling again...

“You don’t need to be nervous, Sir.”
She takes me, gently, by the arm and leads me to a soft chair.

“Here” she says “all we care about is giving you a soft landing.”

The Trick Cyclist...
Will see me.

Soon.

[Oldmanmatt]

In the early morning light...                  October 29th 2011

Someone is shaking the fly sheet.

“Uh... Matt?” mutters a quiet voice, “can you give me a hand?”

Blearily, hungover, I leave the slumbering female form beside me and crawl out into the cool morning air.
The crickets and cicadas begin their morning song...

This was supposed to be a rest day.
After days of sun drenched climbing, it was time to kick back.
We backed my friends battered, old, red, Cavalier; down to the edge of the river.
The car stereo, was required.

Here, the Ardeche, ran slow, before the leaping, splashing, plunge; into the Gorge proper.
On a little sandy beach, we built a fire, uncorked some bottles and dragged up a few logs to sit on.

Across the dark, lazy, water; a party of French canoeists, had the same idea...

And that, really, is where it all went wrong...

Bangers, those little fireworks, that (in those days, at least) seemed to be sold in every French corner shop; had formed the basis for all humorous moments of the trip to date.
One had to be careful, not to be seen leaving to answer the call of nature...
There had been, a few, burnt buttocks.
The timely application of a match to touch paper, could render a crux quite interesting; for the poor sod on lead... Even more so, for the audience.

However, the combination of alcohol, gunpowder, a roll of sellotape, a rival (French!) group (also, similarly armed) and far too much testosterone; proved...

Well...

Explosive.

Being accompanied by a member of the more sensible sex, I retired to our tent; relatively early (some things are even more fun than bangers).


By the time I reached the river, the next morning, I was stone, cold, sober.
In fact, my blood had turned to ice.

The first body I saw... was surely dead.

 The unmoving form of my friend lay upon the sand, feet so far into the embers of the fire, that the soles of his Doc Martins had melted away. Slightly blackened toes, peeked through charred socks.

As my numb mind began to comprehend the devastation around me, I became aware of a strange red form, bobbing slightly, in the middle of the river.
Draped over this odd metallic raft, were several, inert; bodies...
Copious amounts of blood stained the sand, between the empty bottles (although, it smelt strangely of vomit).

There were dead fish...

Everywhere.

The cold fingers of panic, gripped my racing heart.

At this point, the dead body at my feet; sat up.

“Bugger!” said the Zombie.

It leapt to it’s feet and raced for the water.

A moment passed.

The Zombie squinted into the pale light, at the red raft. Ankle deep, a wisp of steam rising from the leather of it’s boots.

“Maybe” it said “we... should have left... trying to move the car... till morning.”

On the raft...

A body swore...

Quietly.

[Oldmanmatt]

In the quiet early hours...                  October 31th  2011

I lie awake.

The past week, has been spent sitting in Cherrybrook ward.
Cherrybrook is the Chemo ward.
Recliners replace beds.
The patients smile and greet each other, most have met before; an exclusive little club.
Help yourself to tea or coffee, biscuits, on the table; over there.

I hate it.
I hate it.
I feel like I can’t breathe.
In all those sad smiles.
In all those cheery hellos.
I’m scared, I worry, I fear...

That, I can see the future.

“You need to sleep” says the voice.

I know.

“Find a happy place” says the voice.

In the quiet early hours...

The minibus glides silently down the hill.
Engine off, lights doused.

By the square, with a muffled squeal of brakes, it comes to rest.

Dark clad, bandana masked; young men silently pour out.

From the base of the War Memorial, they grab the wrought iron bench.

Quiet curses, grunts; trapped fingers and bruised toes.

They force the bench into the back of the van...

A few hours later, just after breakfast; the Gendarmes arrive at the campsite.
They slowly cruise around, finally coming to rest beside a group of shamefaced, coffee drinking, young men and women.
Some of them are sat on camp chairs.
Some are perched on logs.
Some are sat on an oddly shaped pile of sleeping bags and carry mats...

Slowly, one of the Gendarmes, climbs out of the car.
He’s not young.
Quite probably, he has teenage children, of his own.

“Bon Jour” he smiles at the group.
There are muttered replies, although; eyes are avoided.
Last night, he says, someone stole the bench from the war memorial. The bench was part of the memorial.
It was, he says, important to the local people.
Had this group, of fine young people, seen or heard anything?

The muttered “Non”, from the few who could answer; was even less audible than the “Bon Jour”.

In the quiet early hours...

The minibus glides silently down the hill.

It comes to rest, beside the square.

With more muffled curses and  some loss of blood.

A bench is replaced.

Plans to install the bench on the Jardin des Ecureuils, are forgotten.

Silently, covertly; the van glides away...

Probably, if that group of young people had had more than two brain cells between them; they might have seen the flaw in the plan.
Their subtle error.
The slight oversight.

After all...

That season...

That minibus...

Was the only...

Bright orange, right hand drive, ford transit monstrosity, in La Palud.

[Oldmanmatt]

The telephone, rang...                      3rd November 2011

It’s a silly, insignificant, sound.
In the great, grand, universe; no more noticeable than a single atom of Hydrogen.
Even in the cafe, today, it hardly registered with those around us.
But still...

The telephone rang...

I’d been toying with the idea of writing a rant.
Of setting down, in black and white, all those selfish “why ME?” thoughts.
I was beginning to feel like the Locus.
I was starting to think it was all aimed at me.
It felt so unfair.
“There’s no time for ME.”
“What about ME?”
But then...

The telephone rang...

She answered.
She said hello.
Then with a puzzled, slightly worried expression; she passed the phone to her mother.
Mamia gasped, her shoulders shook and even before the tears rose and the sobs began; I knew I was not the one.
I knew, this was not my story.
Because...

The telephone rang...

You see...

My beautiful, gentle, wife; has not suffered enough.
The universe is not satisfied with ravaging her body with cancer.
It is not enough; it seems, to turn her mother and me into helpless passengers.
The universe is not sated, by making a mother watch her daughter in fear and agony; face death.
Oh no.
No, in the hubbub of the cafe...

The telephone rang...

It rang.

Because.

This morning.

Her father.

The Grandfather of our children.

Died.

[Oldmanmatt]

There is a question...

I leave her.
I have to take the children to school.
I have to take myself...

Away.

Just for a while.

She is rocking, backward and forward; rubbing her leg.
Gasping, sighing.

It’s been ten days, now, like this. We can’t get the pain under control.
The Doctors and the hospice nurse, juggle the drugs. They try but there are several hours, of each day, when the pain becomes everything.

Nothing to do, but wait for the drugs to kick in.
She doesn’t want to be held.
She wants to be left alone.

I go, but the question follows...

I train.
I feel strong, I climb well.
I chat to other climbers.

But...

In the quiet, between problems.
In the rests, between the campus runs.
As I drink a coffee, after.

There is the question.

I had my first, big, blow up; a few days ago.
In the car, another change of plan; another unexpected appointment with another Doctor.
Long delayed important things; postponed again.
Suddenly, I couldn’t keep it in any more.
Shouting, ranting, I ask the question.
In so many different ways.

After, came the shame.

But the question remained.

Yesterday, we had her birthday party.
Thirty five.

She had to rest, before the guests arrived; the morphine finally dulling the pain.
As she lay upon the bed, in blessed sleep; my daughter strokes her cheek.

Six years old, she turns to me with a sad smile.

In her eyes,

The question.

Why?

[Oldmanmatt]

There is confusion...                  24th Nov 2011

My Daughter comes into the bedroom.
“Daddy? I think it’s time to wake up.”

The fog in my mind won’t shift. My eyes won’t open.

“I made breakfast” she continues “and fed the cat.”
“But, you’ve been asleep a long time...”

I mutter an Ok and she leaves.

I reach out, across the bed; but...
She’s not there.

Suddenly, I’m awake and... I remember.

There is confusion...

The Jeepney screeches to a halt, breaks not rubber, on the jungle track.
She grips my hand, in fear, as I peer out into the gloom beneath the green canopy.

The driver, is cursing quietly in Tagalog; hands tight upon the wheel.

In the back, the fear becomes palpable; the breathing of the passengers loud against the jungle sounds and purring engine.
Blocking the track and from the undergrowth all around, emerge camouflage clad men.

They hold very large guns.

The heavy metal T-shirts and assorted bandannas, can only mean...

We have a problem.

One of them approaches the drivers, open, window and a rapid exchange takes place.

In the back, no one speaks; we just exchange worried glances.
Without the breeze from the jeepney’s progress, the humidity and heat rise, rapidly; to unbearable.
Still, I hold her tight.

The driver turns.

Does anyone, he asks in English, have any Marlboroughs?

Dwight (thank you, thank you, and thank you!), pulls the red packet from his bag and passes it forward to the driver.

The driver passes the packet to the man at the window.

There is utter silence in the back.

A collective holding of breath.

Four of the men, join the man at the window.

Each takes a little white stick, from the packet.

And then...

The man hands the packet back to the driver, smiles and...

They are gone.

Foot hard to the floor, the driver takes us screaming down the track, before again screeching to a halt a few K’s along the road.

Raising his hands above him, he shouts a thanks to any God who might be listening; then turns to us and exclaims “Communists!!! Not Abu Siaf!”

Singing, he turns and we trundle on.


The confusion clears...

I had gone, last Tuesday, to Amsterdam.
It would mean I would miss her chemo on the Thursday, but everyone agreed I had to go.
I have to find a way to make a living, part time. The benefits just don’t cut it and the meetings planned were the best hope for us.
There were plenty of people, who would help while I was gone.
I called her to let her know I was back, midday, on Thursday (I’d planned to be back in time to collect her from the chemo, to be there for the days after).
“Um. Listen” she said.

My heart sank.

The Oncologist, had taken one look at her, that morning and admitted her.
She was rushed, hastily, into another CT scan and a new Doctor entered our lives.

The Pain Consultant.

For the next five days, they juggle and tweak and test and monitor; until she can think and sleep again.

“The scan is encouraging” says the Oncologist “the tumour is only slightly bigger and there is nothing new.”

“How,” says the voice “is bigger, encouraging?”

We smile and nod, just as the Oncologist smiles as she speaks.

We all ignore the look behind the smile.

There is damage to the sciatic nerve.

There was too-ing and frow-ing.

The world became so hectic.

The worry was overpowering.
By Sunday, I was exhausted.

And,

I woke,

Alone.

I don’t like it.

[Oldmanmatt]

There is something strange...               27 Nov 2011-11-27

About climbers.

It doesn’t matter if it’s pulling over fragile gear, swinging ape like above resined anchors, panting a few fatal inches over flimsy crash pads or delicately picking a way up some frozen cascade.

We all know it and, deep down, we fear it.

Joe, chose the word and the word was good.

Like rubber soled Knights, we dip our fingers in magic fairy dust and then, alone amongst the modern challengers of mortality; we turn our back upon the enemy.

Behind us, always felt, never seen.

It can never be defeated.

At best, we can avoid it.

It gets us all, in the end; sooner or later. Climber or not.

The Void.

Even stranger, perhaps, we pay money, to dance with our nemesis; in the sanitised environs of “The Wall”.

This is no exercise bike, no treadmill.

Oh, the crash pads and the anchors lend some comfort...

But who, even here, has not felt the pull, the leap of the heart, as the void calls.


“That was stupid” says the voice “all it took, was a little more... commitment”.

I’d finally finished it. A boulder problem, at a climbing wall; over soft mats.

It gets a V6+/ V7, it’s no push over.

I suppose I’d tried it ten or so times, in the two weeks since it was set.
Got it all wired, except, the last move.

I told myself I wasn’t strong enough.

But, as I lay on the mat, on Friday evening (having just fallen from something else); I realised.



I know the Void.

I’ve looked into it more than once.

And now I see it every day, when I look at her.

It had sucked something out of me.

Only my Daughter witnessed it.

Smoothly through the moves, to the critical point.

There it was, the pull that sapped my strength.

“Are you going to give in?” said the voice “Again?”

Sod the Void!

My hand slid home to the final jug.

I did it again, to be sure.

I jumped down...
 
Different...

Just a boulder problem.

At a wall.

[Oldmanmatt]

I sat on the train...                     8th December 2011

In the distance the white capped mountains slid by.

The sun shone and the compartment was desperately hot, after the brisk, icy; morning air of Como.

My mind wandered...

I had some hours to kill.
I roamed the castle, in Milano; stared blankly at the stalls of the Christmas fair.

My mind wandered...

Now, I have a job.

Something else to occupy my mind. Something to ease the money worries and combat the demons of the looming future...

In the smiling crowds.

My mind wandered...

In another country, too far away; they hook her up to the poison.

Again.

My mind wandered...

I catch my breath and sense overrides the urge to pound my fins, to race across the cave and drag her clear.
I try to shout.
It is lost, in a cloud of bubbles.
Camera held in front, her cylinder brushing the roof of the cave, she squeezes forward.
She knows this is stupid, she knows not to do it; she knows the risk.

But...

This was why she was here.

At the back of the cave, much larger than the Mountain Girl, the White Tip Shark turned to watch her.

Gills pulsed, jaws flexed; the tail twitched.

The camera flashed.

Silt.

Bubbles.

Panic.


I sit on a train...

It’s dark outside, it’s a different country, the sunshine of Milano seems such a long time ago.
The cold, as I waited on the platform at Reading, cut far deeper than the icy Como breeze.
Snug in the quiet carriage, I call her, to say goodnight, to tell her I love her; that I will try not to wake her when I finally climb into bed.
She’s tired from the Chemo.
For the first time today, Mamia went with her.

Mamia, got a bit upset; it seems.

Three hours to go.

My mind wandered...

Heart pounding, I sprint across the cave mouth. In the cloud of silt I feel her leg and pull her from the cave like a rag doll.

I can see nothing.

I feel...

Everything.

The silt clears.

She grins and waves the camera, eyes flashing.

I

Love

The Mountain Girl.


My mind wanders...

Songs echo.

I try to ignore it, but the voice sings...

What’ll I do?

When you, are far away?

And I am blue.

What’ll I do?

[Oldmanmatt]

Notice requiring possession...                  29 Dec. 2011

What goes up...

Must come down.

It’s Chemo day.

It’s my birthday.

Notice requiring possession...

It came, six days before Christmas.

Beneath the curling lip of the towering wave…
The Dark Light spreads.

She sleeps, as they pump the poison; I hide amongst the crowds of the hospital restaurant.
Difficult to smile, difficult to think; difficult…

To be.


The sun has not yet risen, not quite.
The Jungle more awake than the drowsy village.
As I struggle in the water, I feel myself begin to lift and my heart begins to race.
Fearfully, I glance behind.
Beneath the curling lip of the towering wave.
The dark light spreads.

In the dark, before the dawn, I had sat with Harry and Dixon. Nelahni, brought me Scrambled eggs and hot buttered toast. Harry laughed, scoffing at my Englishness as he and his brother tucked into their Rice and Curry.
As the Jungle woke behind me, the crashing, pounding noise of the ocean, a few yards in front of us; told me I would not be paddling out for a dawn session today.
Through the gloom of the beach, Siri appeared, board tucked under his arm. Calmly he strolls over to me. White teeth, in a dark face; he grins.
“Coming?” he says.
“No” I plead “It’s just too big, I can’t even see if the channel is clear enough to paddle out”.
He grins again, shrugs his shoulders, mutters something in Sinhalese and strolls off towards the water.
My cheeks burn.
Harry sn**gers.

I wait a moment longer and then grab my rash vest and board and hurry after Siri.

Seconds after plunging in, I realise my mistake. The wornout Velcro of my watch strap, had meant I’d been leaving it in my room and now I’d forgotten to take it off. Feeling it come lose as I paddled, I ripped it off and shoved it in my mouth. In the dark, I was sensing the waves approach, timing the duck dives to sound and sensation, not sight. There was no time for distraction, around me waited the hungry coral; eager for my blood.
In the growing light, exhausted, I reached Siri, sitting in the calm water just behind the line up. I paddled on a few more meters, to be sure.
“Bugger!” I curse through a mouthful of watch. There are no pockets in my board shorts.
I drop off the board and pull the leash strap off my ankle.
I begin to cram the watch into the key pocket, but it’s tight, I have to concentrate.
The sun is just below the mountains, far beyond the Jungle, the water smooth as glass in the gentle morning breeze.

And then the Dark Light spreads…


It is not going well.
The pain is giving her a rough ride, robbing her of sleep; eating at her sanity.
Her easy smile and gentle nature, fading.
The Oncologist is worried by the pain and more by the growing numbness in her leg. Day by day she loses control of the muscles, she can no longer extend at the knee or even lift her leg to walk properly.
She falls.
Often.
She lashes out at Mamia and me, when we rush to help her up.
“Go away! I’m fine!” she says…
“It maybe, that the Chemo, is not doing…. As much as we had hoped…” says the Oncologist.
Time for another scan.
Time to begin the negotiations for the Monoclonal Antibody treatment.
It’s new.
Because her cancer is rare, it doesn’t have a body of evidence for this application.
It’s expensive.
“I will fight, I can fight” says the Oncologist.
I don’t even bother to watch her eyes anymore, the hands say everything.

“Notice requiring possession” says the voice.


The Dark Light spreads…

The wave is huge.
A rouge.

Breaking much further out than the already huge waves ahead of it.

And I?

I am in the pit.

“DOWN!” says the voice “THINK HEAVY!”

Still holding my leash, with a panicked death grip, I swim down until I feel the Coral brush my chest.
The wave rolls me, almost gently to its back.

Relieved, I almost break the surface and then…

The leash goes tight!

I let go, but it’s too late; the tug draws me up the back of the wave.

There is a moment of weightlessness, a grabbed glimpse, in the pale light; of the Void beneath the lip and (perhaps) the coral waiting below…

Somehow, I turn to put my feet toward the coral, in a frozen instant in time.

I drop.

Here, in the Dark Light, the world tumbles; vicious claws rip at my spiralling form.

Noise and pain.

Seconds as hours.

Drowning.

Dumped, bleeding, broken; high on the white coral sand.

Gentle hands, kindness in the eyes of strangers, worry in the eyes of friends.


Notice requiring possession…

We are being evicted.

Not because we haven’t paid the rent.

Not because we have done anything wrong.

No.

Just because the landlord wants us out.

Notice requiring possession…

Six days before Christmas.

Just to confirm my atheism and to mock my dying wife’s faith…

Because,
You see…

Our Landlord, who knows all about our situation, is…

The Exeter Diocese of the Church of England.

Amen.

[Red]

It's hard to know what to write to anyway console or express shocking disbelief at your terrible situation. We are both thinking of you.
If you can face it, you should contact the newspapers as this is unacceptable in the highest order.

Lu and D x

[iain]

Unbelievable.

I'd also suggest writing to the bishop directly as well pointing out how this is kind off at odds with his "mutually supportive community" christmas message.

bishop.of.exeter@exeter.anglican.org

Actually maybe a few folk could write, fill his inbox so it can't be ignored. If you're up for that I'm certainly willing.

[andy popp]

bishop.of.exeter@exeter.anglican.org

Actually maybe a few folk could write, fill his inbox so it can't be ignored. If you're up for that I'm certainly willing.

I am too, though we might need a little detail in order to make the case properly. Definitely write to the press too, stir up as much bad publicity as possible.

[Nibile]

I'm thinking about you all Matt.
stay strong.

[nik at work]

bishop.of.exeter@exeter.anglican.org

Actually maybe a few folk could write, fill his inbox so it can't be ignored. If you're up for that I'm certainly willing.

I am too, though we might need a little detail in order to make the case properly. Definitely write to the press too, stir up as much bad publicity as possible.

Add me to the list of willing emailers.

[fried]

Me too. I was so pissed off when I checked out their sanctimonious website. Not something you need at the moment. Our thoughts are with you.

[Nibile]

+1

[tomtom]

bishop.of.exeter@exeter.anglican.org

Actually maybe a few folk could write, fill his inbox so it can't be ignored. If you're up for that I'm certainly willing.

I am too, though we might need a little detail in order to make the case properly. Definitely write to the press too, stir up as much bad publicity as possible.

Add me to the list of willing emailers.

Matt, if you want us to email then maybe if you PM'd a few of us (who have expressed an interest) a little context / details about your landlord(s) that we can put in an email? Also, Neil Mann (@fieldproducer) is a influential journo (he has loads of followers), climber and used to post on here.. so if you were to make a www page that he could re-tweet  etc.. then that may well spread the message suitably to various media types in particular...

+1 from me too..

[Oldmanmatt]

I'm not ignoring you.
I'm touched.
I needed to think.
I want to put together an answer, later, when the kids are in bed.

[Oldmanmatt]

I am deeply touched by your care and concern.
I had not intended to spark a letter writing campaign or the like.
I had to speak to my wife, to ask if she wanted the fight, because I cannot act alone without dragging her with me into the unknown
I am angry, but part of that anger is unjustified.
I am angry and finding an outlet for that anger is difficult. Trying to throw it somewhere where it will do no harm is a daily struggle.
So part of this answer I will post in the forum, part (the next, missing, paragraph) I will PM to everyone who posted here or PM’d me. It suddenly seems important, that people do not see this as some massive wind up. I actually read the blog from the beginning, something the councillor had been asking me to do for the past few weeks. It just seems so unlikely that one family could have been through so much. I gave up on telling my “war stories” and “travel tales” at dinner parties years ago, after being met with frank disbelief once too often (although my life has been quite tame compared to some of the posters here, I’m sure). I don’t want that to happen here.


We cannot face the fight.
We have enough to deal with already.
When we came back to Britain, in 2008, we had to rent. We had the money for a deposit but no history of income here and a fledgling business. So not much chance of a Mortgage in the spring of 2009…
By the middle of 2010, after a year of battling cancer and the recession, there was no money left.
At the same time my wife was diagnosed with the new tumour, we were served notice on the house we lived in. We had very little time and few options. We ended up moving into the Vicarage. We knew it would be temporary, although there had been no decision if a new Vicar would be appointed or the parish merged with another.
We did not know, then, how bad the cancer would prove to be, incredible to think now, we really thought (as did the doctors) that it could be cut out and we could all laugh about it later…
She went in, for the failed operation, four days after we moved in.
And then we forgot about it, just hoping something would turn up, perhaps, even; a little pity.

I’m an Atheist and if I turn out to be wrong and I find myself standing before the big cheese, being judged someday, HE/SHE/IT will need some fairly hefty security, or I shall be doing them serious damage… See you! Pal! Ya Basta!
My wife is an Orthodox Christian.
Many of our friends are part of the parish and members of the church.
Why should we deny them their Vicar?
As I said, unjustified, I should have thought it through; that was my responsibility.
It would have been better, if they could have been more helpful, even a letter; not just some cold legal form (sent twice, to be signed for). Why they had to send it six days before Christmas, I don’t know, would a few days more have been so bad?

Please, though, share the link for the blog.

Because, the real battle might be just around the corner.

My wife’s cancer is an Anal Squamous cell Carcinoma.
It’s rare.
It’s even more rare, for it to metastasise.
The drug Cetuximab, is a Monoclonal antibodiy.
It is effective in preventing cancer cell division and growth.
If a cancer cell has epidermal growth factor receptors, the cetuximab bonds to those receptors and prevents growth/division by excluding the growth factors.
Her cancer has those receptors.
The drug is approved for use by the NHS.
BUT NOT FOR HER TYPE OF CANCER, BECAUSE IT’S TOO RARE FOR ANY LARGE SCALE TRIALS TO HAVE BEEN CONDUCTED!!!
So there is no body of evidence for the Oncologist to cite in support of her application for the treatment.
We will have to fight to get the drug.

And I’m getting really, really, tired.

[Stubbs]

Matt,

Just wanted to add my name in support, you blog basically has me in tears every time I read it.  I wish I was in a position to offer you help besides kind words.

With the church being one of the largest property owners in the country, you would think they could be more helpful!

Best

Tim

[slackline]

  having a terrible situation compounded by such crap must make the nightmare even worse, especially when some preach compassion.

[jimdar]

Matt,
Jeez, you guys are going through hell.
You probably have not heard but Marion(Wagg) and I have had our troubles also, although nowhere near what you are going through. Marion had a gas embolism after a dive on the Zainab last August and nearly died. She pulled through and is now undergoing extensive rehab. Although her injuries are not life threatening, my/our dealings with the medical professionals are also less than satisfactory.
Keep your spirits up as best as you all can and give everyone our love.
Jim Darbyshire