[Oldmanmatt]

2012-02-08-13-43-24_1E8D1698-175D-4F79-AF50-87BCB70A540D by oldmanmatt, on Flickr

We cried.

[nik at work]

Good.

[casa]

Thats one little ray of sunshine.
May you have many more.

[rginns]

I should think so too...

[Bubba]

They finally did the right thing;  I'm so pleased you now haven't got this hanging over you on top of everything else. Sweet!

[systema_ian]

funny how our sense of morals were stronger than theirs.
As is our sense of community.

let's hope this is the first of many good news items Matt

[Oldmanmatt]

Thank you everyone.
Thank you all.
It really was you who made the difference.

System_ian, was the Zombie, by the way...

[tomtom]

Great news Matt

[Nibile]

great news Matt!!!
 

[iain]

  with everyone, really, really good news

[Oldmanmatt]

You know, you should at least know what they look like.

Feb 2011,
BCN.
Just before.
Only a year ago...


2011-03-10-08-57-45_00000000-0000-0000-0000-00000000342E by oldmanmatt, on Flickr

[robertostallioni]

I reckon the one at the backs adopted. 

[Oldmanmatt]

Oi! That's my best outfit.

[SamT]

Good news. 

[Oldmanmatt]

We got it!,
Treatment starts at 11:15!!!!

I open my eyes.

And cross my fingers...

And toes...

[stevej]

Nice one!!

[systema_ian]

i'm crossing my legs, but that's due to too much coffee and trying to finish an assignment before  heading down stairs 

Good luck, and hopefully, i'll see you in a couple of weeks.

[slackline]

Good luck, hope the side-effects aren't too bad.

[Jaspersharpe]

Best of luck.

[rich d]

Hopefully this is your luck turning, got everything crossed for you guys.

[Oldmanmatt]

Lights...                           27 February 2012


Flash by...

In the gloom of the tunnel.

Eruption.

Into blinding sunlight.

Church towers...

Thrust from rocky hill tops, straining to match the majesty of the towering peaks.

Squat, solid, castles...

That speak of long forgotten war.

Of cold steel and bloody battle.

Not princesses.

Not...

Magical kisses...


"Cresi Anno".

The year of the battle of Crecy?

"Cresci Anno".

The year of the Crazy?

The voice, is playing word games, while I concentrate on the traffic.



My mind is caught, by a long ribbon of white water cascading over smooth, worn Granite. Shining in the afternoon sun. A bridal train of beauty.

Lost, for a moment; I almost miss it.

The village is smaller than I had expected.

 This does make it easy to find the Hostel...



Two elderly men sit, at separate tables; one with a small dog at his feet.

They look at their glasses or the back of their hands.

They don't look up, when I walk in.

Aside from the murmured conversation of a young couple, buying water from the grey haired woman behind the  bar; the loudest noise is the ticking of a clock.
As the couple leave, I smile and greet the lady behind the bar. I ask if there is a climbing shop nearby?

"There was." says the man without the dog...

"No one wanted it..." he gestures to the door in the corner, "It's the kitchen, now."
He heaves a fatalistic shrug.

I ask if he knows where I might buy a guide book?

"Oh we have those. That's all they ever want.." he sighs, "Guide books and chalk."

They had two, Cresciano and Chironico.

I bought them both.

I couldn't afford both but the voice wouldn't let me buy just one.

I ask him about mats.

"We had them... " he said.
"But they took them..."

Another shrug.

I park, in the forlorn little car park, down in the village.

It is almost empty, save for a single white van, with UK plates and emblazoned with the words "Operation Beastmaker".

Despite the youth of the year, it's 26 degrees in the car park.

I bundle my Duvet in the pack and lash my jumper around my waist.

The path is steep, uneven, still, quiet and...

Hot.

The looming mountains and tumbling water are stunning; each pause for breath reveals another breath taking view.

After taking two of the ankle breaking paths that cut the exaggerated sweep of the winding road, I turn onto the tarmac to take a look at the hamlet that this ridiculous piece of civil engineering serves.

Impossibly cute, stone built houses grow from the grassy slopes; surrounded by granite posted vineyards and gardens. Here and there, old machinery and winches hint at a more industrial past.

A spring, trickles from a pipe, sprouting from a granite column and splatters into the trough below.

Topo in hand, I search out the famous lines.

A desperate hunt, through shin deep leaves on steep slippery ground and I am dreaming of...

Dream time...

The Dagger...

As the light fades, I reluctantly head down.


In the car park, the van is occupied.


Greg, is living in the van.

He has been for over a year now.

Introductions, small talk and a plan is hatched.



Ah... What the Mice and Men don't know...



The lights of the tunnel flash by again...

The sun still shines and the churches and castles are still fighting to be noticed; between the dominating peaks.

I'm surprisingly nervous...

I haven't climbed on or held a real, living rock; for almost a year.

I think I have kept the strength, the fitness...


"But Plastic isn't Granite." says the voice, " Mr Granite will not be at home to excuses."


There were two vans in the car park.

The Welsh had arrived.

Olly, Alex and Jo; join the fun.



I climb like a drunk, spastic, tortoise.

Feet skittering, fingers slipping, skin eroding...

The realisation, after detouring to fill my bottle at the spring; that my bottle was in fact still on the back seat of the car. (A discovery that prompted me, at midday, to make the hike back down to the village and... Back up, in the afternoon heat)!!

I rejoined the guys and threw my self straight into the 7C+ roof they were playing on.

But soon I was spent, legs and forearms cramping, fingers sore and bleeding.

Hopelessly outclassed.

With every drop onto the mat, I felt how far I'd fallen from a year ago...



I have to cry off early.

I have to make the drive back to Como.

I have to make myself presentable, for dinner at my friends house; when I return the car he leant me.



I drive into the sunset.

Pausing for a moment.

I press Genre.

Select "Classical".

Hit Shuffle.

Tap play.


Barbers' Adagio.


"That fits" says the voice.



It was a good day.

A day full of failure.

Of disappointment and shame.

In a beautiful place, with good people.

Vanessa played the Prelude and I smiled.



Today, I sit in an airport cafe.

Waiting for the orange plane, to take me home.

I should be happy.

Part of me is.

But...

The home I go to...




Is not the home I dream of.

[Oldmanmatt]

She went in...            12 March 2012

She could hardly speak.

Hardly walk.

Hardly think.


The Hospice nurse insisted...



I'd missed my flight, on Friday night.
I had to spend another night in Amsterdam, rise at four am (three in the UK, with the time difference).
The Trams don't run that early on Saturday mornings.
I squinted into the dark sky.
It seemed the rain had passed.
Birds began to sing.

I might as well walk to the station...



The pain has overwhelmed her.
Beyond the reach of even the massive dose of Morphiates she already consumes.

Restless.

Agitated.

Helpless.

We wait for the nurse to arrive.



The birds fell silent.
The waking streets suddenly quiet.

The sky opened and the water fell.

I struggled on, dripping into the station.

Sitting, gently steaming, as the train pulled away.

Passport checks and bag scans.

Waiting...

Waiting...

Thinking...



She can't think.
She can't articulate the nature of the pain.
A vague hand, indicates the offending zone.

She drifts to silence mid sentence, fading through mumble to mutter...

To moan.


"Welcome home"  says the voice...




She went in.

She went into the Hospice.

"Just until we sort out the pain" says the nurse.

Says the Doctor.

The Hospice...


"Will she come out?" asks the voice.




That night, at home, alone...

The birds fell silent.

The sky opened.

The water fell.

[Oldmanmatt]

How is the pain, today...                  16 April 2012.


The first question.

Every time.

From everyone.

Doctors, Nurses, Friends, Family.



Helpless...



The "couple" of days, in the hospice; turned into fourteen.

Into rushed scans.

Into sad smiles and awkward pauses.

Clasped hands and inspected nails.

The treatment did not work.

The tumour grew.

The Lymph nodes grew.



The Oncologists' smile is so brittle.

Her words so forced and un-natural.

Empathic pain, clear in her eyes.

"We have to stop, it's not helping and...

mm...

You are deteriorating".



Numb...


Finally, she comes home.

We try to carry on.

For a few days.

Unable to make the required acknowledgements.

The necessary mental steps.

To talk about the way ahead.


Numb...


The day before Good Friday, we sit in the Oncologists office.

She (both of them) is not prepared to quit.

They, will keep fighting.

There will be another round of Cysplatin, the only Chemo that seemed to hold it stable.

There are copies made of all the notes and scans, dispatched to anywhere and everywhere; someone may have something.

Maybe the Marsden?


Maybe...



Dichotomy.

Sleepless nights of pain and discomfort.

Sunny days of friends and happy children.

Waiting rooms and needles.

Smiling, chocolate covered faces; chasing Easter bunnies.

Fitful, drugged, sleep and moaning dreams.

A little girl singing to herself, to the smiles of those around; as she climbs the stunning limestone cliff.

Tablets passed, injection made.

I join the children splashing in the sea.

From misery to "Whizzies" in a heart beat.



Helpless... 

[Oldmanmatt]

A few of her pictures, through the years...


creatures (147) by oldmanmatt, on Flickr


creatures (135) by oldmanmatt, on Flickr

matts cam  (6) by oldmanmatt, on Flickr


romania1 (20) by oldmanmatt, on Flickr


apr08 (29) by oldmanmatt, on Flickr


creatures (146) by oldmanmatt, on Flickr


creatures (34) by oldmanmatt, on Flickr


architecture,urban,industrial (99) by oldmanmatt, on Flickr

Abstact and texture (61) by oldmanmatt, on Flickr


creatures (63) by oldmanmatt, on Flickr

Before...


2010-12-15-18-08-36_00000000-0000-0000-0000-0000000033FC by oldmanmatt, on Flickr

[Oldmanmatt]

62.  Around and around...            07 May 2012


Around and around...

Where next to go?

Where will it stop?

I'm afraid, I know...




Waiting again...


Watching again...


On Friday, she came home from another weeklong stint in the Hospice.

She had looked so weak, unable to eat; I began to prepare myself for the worst.



And suddenly, I was the object of scorn and derision; suddenly I was the enemy...

Accused of giving up, of not doing enough to find a cure, of neglecting my duties to protect my family.

Because, it is just too hard to accept.

Because a healthy young woman cannot have an incurable disease.

Because...

Because there must be something...

Somewhere...


"There will be a hospital in Germany" (because of course, those clever Germans, cured cancer years ago and are keeping it secret).

"There is a conspiracy against the alternative therapies, the drug companies don't want us to know! It's a cure only available for the rich! You must find money to get to the secret clinic!" (After all, these things cured Steve Jobs... Oh... Hang on... They didn't did they).




She came home on Friday...

She could eat again.

She was so much brighter.

She smiled a little...



By Saturday evening, she didn't feel so good.




"Bowl!!"

One word.

Six am, Sunday morning.

One word.

It sent me from deep slumber, to a dash for the bathroom.

To a hastily grabbed bowl, kept there "just incase".

It sent me, us, into another spinning, gut twisting, whirl; of indecision and painful choices.



It is Monday.

It is midday.

There have been Nurses...

Doctors...

Injections, pills...

Rushed trips to Pharmacies.

Children packed off to Grandma and Grandad.

To give them a rest.



Most of all...

There has been waiting.

Waiting to see if the last pill worked, if the latest injection could stop the sickness.


Now we wait.

Again.

Wait for the District Nurse to bring a Syringe Driver...

One last try, one last pitch, to regain control.


Or?



Around and around...