What to Tell?

 An email pops into my inbox from someone who used to holiday here as a child in the seventies.  Her offer of photos from that time sets me off on a nostalgic trip through my blogs from the early days when we restored and renovated the cottage and the house.

Those blogs hold my memories. Things about our life here that I have forgotten and I am grateful for the reminders. And that brings me back to right now and how I have left these recent weeks unrecorded - but what to tell and how?

Early in the year a colonoscopy confirmed what I had suspected - I had colon cancer.  That set me off on a journey of discovery as to how best to deal with it.  The cancer itself has never held fears for me. It is merely part of myself, my cells, reacting to some stimulus: food? stress? anger? environment? who knows?  

My greater concern has been my treatment and what that might entail. As a friend said: "I went into hospital a well man and came out sick".

Not least, my journey led me to discover just how many of my friends and acquaintances have been through the same experience, some many years ago.  It's not one of the cancers we talk about - mild embarrassment about that part of our bodies maybe - yet it's one of the most treatable, if caught early and so merits being discussed.

I'm hoping mine has been caught early.  A scan, pre-op, showed nothing suspicious anywhere else.

So a discussion with my surgeon reassures. He will be doing keyhole surgery, using a robot (said with a touch of pride). The cancer and a portion of my colon will be removed (there is spare) and the remainder will be reattached.  And thus it proved to be.

The hardest part was awaking in the intensive care unit, to too much noise, wires everywhere so I could barely move and constant flashing lights. The four days and nights were interminable, made bearable by the kindest of staff (except when I wanted to stay in bed and burst into tears - "no she must get up, to get things moving again" - they were right of course).  

Two of the nurses asked how old I was - 78 - and I immediately turned into my mother (who used to ask people to guess her age in her 80s) as I lapped up the flattery - "no you can't be"  "how young you look" And (of course) I immediately felt better.

They finally took pity on me and sent me to general nursing where I found tranquillity, a good night's sleep, and a private bathroom where I managed to shower myself and feel half human again. And then I got cramp in my left calf.  And yes, as I feared, a deep vein thrombosis, and the prospect of being kept in. But it's small and I'm back on full dose blood thinners and wearing an elegant (not) compression stocking. So I came home.

But that is only half the story.  We should have said no and waited 'til the autumn, for Tod's sake, given all he was coping with. 

In the weeks before my op, Rona began to limp on her left leg. We took her to the excellent vet who did Bertie's cruciate ligament.  X-rays showed she has a puppy disease - elbow dysplasia - he kept her in, operated on both elbows there and then, removing damaged bone and we were given instructions she needed "repos strict" for 10 weeks. Short walks in the garden, on the lead, to do her business and then back indoors, restricted to one room (the kitchen).  

This, imposed on a teenage Airedale whose greatest joy is haring across our field playing hide and seek and standing on her hind legs to investigate what we are preparing for supper on the kitchen worktop. All this while I'm in hospital and Tod is wanting to visit, an hour's drive away.  His life not helped by Rona's reluctance to do anything whilst on the lead.

I came home to find the modus vivendi was an open kitchen door and Rona able to come and go at will in the garden (no lead) and she is now limping on her right leg.  I try and impose the strict regime on them both, but too late.

And I have sympathy with Rona's belief she is better. I too feel the same. But tiny keyhole scars are misleading as to the healing that needs to take place inside.

Both of us are going back to see our respective surgeons in a couple of weeks.  I hope they are not too cross with us.

And in the meantime, our latest gite guests have arrived, who think Rona is adorable. 

 

She's a "holy terror" ...

... as my mother would say.

"Viliane" has become "Rona" (short for Verona).  Pedigree dogs born in the same year all have the same initial for their name - being an indication of the year they were born.  So pedigree dogs born in 2024, all have names begin with "V".  Viliane is hard to remember and starting "Vi" almost always morphs into Vita. She needs her own name. So Rona she is, and we remember most of the time

She came to us at 9 months and now she's 10.  She is a handful and still very much a puppy.  Friends ask why was she 9 months and still at the breeders. We don't know, but can well imagine more than one set of prospective owners brought her back!

Her preferred stance is front paws on our chest so she can converse more easily with us. On the ground is too far away. And if front paws are not on us, then on the kitchen worktop, so she can see what we are preparing for supper.

Plastic is irresistible, making a satisfying cracking noise between her teeth. The clasps on one of Tod's sandals have been chewed - fortunately he has another pair.  Hose connectors are a fair target, as are the plastic containers for young plants (which are scattered round the lawn while she runs off with the tray). More alarmingly, she likes plastic wiring (my phone charger lead is no more). She's taken a fancy to the telephone wire on the ground that goes down to the cottage (not good for internet connection) and we fear she may go for electric cables - we are hastily "puppy proofing" how we live.

She has found her voice, which is a banshee wail (no doubt much to the horror of distant neighbours). Often, we have no idea what she is yelling at - bird song, dogs barking on the TV, to let us know it's morning, to warn us we might have visitors (not that we have many - her bark/howl is enough to deter anyone - she could audition for the hound of the Baskervilles).

We're hoping that her tendency to wee in the dining room is gradually being resolved - by a crack of dawn walk with Tod before any "accidents" can happen. Having lived outside at the breeders she's never been house trained and the tiles in the dining room look much like the tiles on the terrace where she lived. 

She also comes when called (even when in the middle of "greeting" Jehovah's Witnesses), knows "sit" and "down" and (unlike Vita and Bertie) actually does it. Our field with its long grasses is a joy, into which she bounds, disappears and then re-emerges with a grin on her face, zooms past us and disappears again - Airedale version of hide and seek.

She rolls on her back in the long grass by the entrance post and then slides and summersaults backwards into the ditch alongside. It looks alarming but she climbs back out and comes racing across the drive to tell us "what fun".

She is adorable and she makes us laugh. We are so lucky we found her.

A house is too quiet ...

 ... without a dog.

We were not going to have another one - we are too old, we want to go travelling and it's complicated with a dog.  That idea lasted a month.

Tod was lying in bed with flu. I was sitting in the lounge alone watching late night TV, imagining this is how my final years would be. We both needed joy back in our lives.

So, last weekend we set off 600kms, beyond Aix-en-Provence, to bring home Viliane, a nine month old Airedale teenager.  She is adorable.

The Best of Dogs

We said goodbye to Bertie Thursday afternoon.  He went easily and happily, off on his next big adventure. 

I am bereft.

A Small Triumph

We live surrounded by farmland.  We follow the seasons of ploughing, harrowing, planting, watering, harvesting. We talk to Monsieur F about what crop he's growing this coming year and learn how French agriculture slowly, slowly is changing, adapting, expanding.  What used to be the monotony of maize, rape and winter wheat now also embraces sunflowers, beetroot (for the seeds) and new this winter "trèfle" which we suspect is a type of clover.  He tells us the field will be a mass of purple flowers in June, and (we hope) a mass of contented bees.

His land envelopes us and stretches across two fields to a boundary with what used to be the terrain of a chateau, sadly dismantled to make way for a cluster of sheds and buildings holding pigs.

Between the two fields is a narrow country lane that ascends steeply from the bridge over the stream at the bottom of the valley to the road along the brow of the hill up behind us.  Rarely used, we did not even know the lane was there until after we had bought our house. Standing in the garden and looking across what we thought was a continuous field of maize we were somewhat startled to see the roof of a car heading up through the middle.

This lane is even quieter these days, used only by the most hardy. The potholes are deep and frequent and require skilful manoeuvring up onto the verges. But for us it is a useful shortcut on the way to Agen.

It also is part of our morning walk with Bertie: down through our field to the stream, along the bottom of Monsieur F's field, said stream beside us, today bubbling and gurgling from all of Sunday morning's rain, to the small bridge, missing part of one side (never repaired) which the pig farmer's young daughter managed to clip with the huge tractor she was driving during Covid, then turn back up the steep country lane to the road at the top, along the road to the bungalow with all the dogs, who greet us enthusiastically and with not a little envy as they are never let out.  With the dogs, who quickly lose interest, behind us we head back down "our" farm track to our house below.  All the changing contours make a good morning workout for all of us.

Sometime towards the end of last year I suddenly found I could not walk up the steep pot-holed country lane without stopping to get my breath back. I thought it was my pacemaker malfunctioning, or maybe just needing retuning, so made an appointment with my cardiologist (there's a phrase I never expected to have in my life).  Appointments take time and so for several weeks I continued to puff my way up the hill, sometimes having to stop twice to recover.

In preparation for the cardiologist's appointment I take a blood test and all is revealed - not my pacemaker after all, but severe anaemia.  The GP's surgery swings into action and, with much tutting and fussing, I have a blood transfusion within a couple of days.  I feel better, but continue to puff going up the hill.  Another blood test (the French are thorough) reveals the anaemia is better but not by much.  So an "iron infusion" is arranged.  The authoritarian office manager looks up from her desk and gives me a reassuring smile (a rare occurrence) telling me I will feel "much better" after it.  Google tells me it will take two weeks. 

This morning, it's ten days since I had the iron and for the first time in many weeks I walk up the hill without stopping. It is a small and very satisfying triumph.  

I think I'll be alright ...

 ... if I just sit at my computer for the next two weeks watching Graham Norton videos.

If I move, if I talk, or if I laugh, I cough.  Maybe Graham isn't such a good idea, after all.

A friend told me it takes a month to get over this cough - that's what his pharmacist said.  And there is a fierce poster in our doctor's surgery telling us that antibiotics do not get rid of bronchitis.  So I rely on hot lemon, ginger and honey (some recommend whisky as well) and lashings of Vicks on my chest at night and try not to sound like I'm smoking 50 a day.

We're into week three. So hopefully not much longer.

This could not have come at a worse time - but then when did a cold or flu come at a good time?

Knowing we would be into a round of doctors' appointments and check-ups, I thought how nice to take a week away and return refreshed, relaxed and fortified.  So off we set to see friends in Trujillo in the middle of nowhere, in Spain.  We set forth in the car, unfortunately already a moving petri dish, Bertie in the back and Tod keeping quiet about his newly started sore throat.   As a result, our trip was subdued and we feared for infecting our friends and refused their welcoming supper, much to our mutual disappointment. 

We have smugly avoided all the germs going round since Covid - we have friends who regularly get vaccinated and still have managed to get the lurgy four times - "ah, but we haven't had it badly", they crow.  "We haven't had it at all, or flu, or a cold" we congratulate ourselves.

So now, we've both have had the cold to end all colds and a cough that refuses to go. 

It's strange. I sit in our doctor's waiting room, being good and wearing a mask, for the sake of him and his other patients and I don't cough at all.  I can watch an hour of Rogue Heroes and not cough at all.  I can watch YouTube videos and not cough at all - except when I laugh at Graham Norton's guests.

We promise we will go back to see our friends when all of this is over.  Their front door opens to a cosy cavern of a kitchen, stone walls, no windows, filled with shelves of gleaming pans, pots and jars of intriguing foodstuffs and glittering fairy lights and ornaments.  Cool in the ferocious Spanish summer, and warm in a chilly winter, it will be a place of welcome, comfort and healing.