This is it. On Monday I see my oncologist to check on the progress of my cancer and choose one of the lousy treatment options.
And maybe I'll get my parole answer. Rarely have I felt so much pressure. And rarely has the future course of my life - and its length - come down to two decisions in such a short space of time.
Showing posts with label cancer; prison life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cancer; prison life. Show all posts
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Pain
My arm and back are on fire after manual work on the Gardens Party. Avoiding such pain is probably why the Doctor ordered I do not do manual labour months ago.
Still, the staff on the Labour Board seem to know what is best for me and I daresay between them they must have seen a few episodes of Casualty....so they must know best.
Surely...
Sunday, August 7, 2011
The Perils of Reading
Do all people with cancer read up on their condition and treatments? I've found it a quite meagre experience, never supplying the hoped for Golden Bullet of peace of mind.
This isn't to say that there aren't surprises to be found. One is the sensitivity of the prostate to hormones. As a desperate measure, there are hormonal treatments to obliterate testosterone. Alas, this involves also growing breasts and having one's goolies removed!
And what the books never say is what happens to the separated objects. Are they handed over in a glass jar to be kept on the mantelpiece?
I will be giving these options a miss, my curiosity isn't that strong. And walking the landings with boobs? All that can be said for that scenario is that I'd never go short of tobacco!!
This isn't to say that there aren't surprises to be found. One is the sensitivity of the prostate to hormones. As a desperate measure, there are hormonal treatments to obliterate testosterone. Alas, this involves also growing breasts and having one's goolies removed!
And what the books never say is what happens to the separated objects. Are they handed over in a glass jar to be kept on the mantelpiece?
I will be giving these options a miss, my curiosity isn't that strong. And walking the landings with boobs? All that can be said for that scenario is that I'd never go short of tobacco!!
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Cancerist!
God forbid this becomes a "cancer blog" but the response to my dual-news of the parole board answer and cancer has been illuminating.
Lots of people have been congratulating me on my news. Most are referring to the Open prison thing, but I suspect that a couple were happier that I had cancer.
I've suggested starting a cancer sufferers club here, given its prevalence, mockingly called The Immortals. People were even less keen when I insisted on being President on the basis that I will outlive everyone else!
And when I asked the original Cancer Boy how he manages to generate the sympathy, he mocked me for the feeble nature of my cancer. "I've had bigger tumours thrown in the bin..."
Prison humour. It's tough!
Lots of people have been congratulating me on my news. Most are referring to the Open prison thing, but I suspect that a couple were happier that I had cancer.
I've suggested starting a cancer sufferers club here, given its prevalence, mockingly called The Immortals. People were even less keen when I insisted on being President on the basis that I will outlive everyone else!
And when I asked the original Cancer Boy how he manages to generate the sympathy, he mocked me for the feeble nature of my cancer. "I've had bigger tumours thrown in the bin..."
Prison humour. It's tough!
Sunday, November 21, 2010
A Grand Day Out
Some of us enjoy a day out from the nick as a break in the routine. For others, it is a disruption. I've always been slightly ambivalent. Of course it is pleasant to have a change of scenery, but when you’re handcuffed to a screw and there's three of you squashed in the back seat of a car it tends to detract a touch from the experience.
These occasions are one of the very few times that we are stuck in close proximity to screws, and they with us. Whereas on the wing our encounters are distant and fleeting, each sticking firmly to our roles, when you’re stuck with someone in a confined space for a few hours then that distance tends to narrow.
Some screws sit in silence, never speaking. Others talk to each other, ignoring the prisoner who sits in between them. Those more comfortable with themselves are able to include the prisoner in the conversation, breaking away from prison gossip and the mutual disdain for management and ranging into current affairs, TV programmes and general waffle.
In fairness to my escorts of late, the staff have ranged from being pleasantly quiet to quite chatty. They have not made the experiences worse by being, well, screws!
Being the prison service, I was handcuffed. Obviously, you may think! But no. Each 'escort’ should be risk assessed. I have had a wander around the local town, been to hospital twice recently, and all the staff recommended I could be trusted to go to Open prison at the parole hearing. And yet, there I was, wedged between two screws and in cuffs. Honestly, what were the chances of my doing a runner, hoofing it down the road barefooted with my arse hanging out the back of a hospital gown? The mind of my keepers is too murky to discern at times. Actually, most of the time...
The experience reminded me of an aspect of life that I'm going to have to get used to on release - travelling. Life in prison is compact, everything is close by. Out there, travelling more than a few hundred metres to get to, say, work, is the norm. And I dislike travel. The idea of driving for an hour is not enticing, it's dead and unproductive time. Perhaps I'm a natural candidate for tele-working?
We lurked in the hospital waiting room for an age. Nothing changes! Others people there cast sly glances at the handcuffs and I can see the urge to ask a question form on at least one set of lips. But no one says anything out loud. As I stand to follow the Doctor, dragging a screw along, I have to resist the temptation to ask, "could you remove this ugly growth I have attached to my right arm...??"
Being given a diagnosis can be difficult enough. When it's cancer, and here's a lot of information to absorb, doubly so. But being wedged in the consulting room with two screws, still handcuffed to them, it becomes something more degrading.
On my return, I obviously wanted to let those close to me know the diagnosis. The Editor was sitting by her phone, sweating and stressed. With no money on my phone account, I had to ask for an 'official' phone call, that is the use of an office landline. Two minutes was all I wanted, just to pass the news along. The man in charge of the nick that evening, the Orderly Officer, refused.
Still, it was a day out.
These occasions are one of the very few times that we are stuck in close proximity to screws, and they with us. Whereas on the wing our encounters are distant and fleeting, each sticking firmly to our roles, when you’re stuck with someone in a confined space for a few hours then that distance tends to narrow.
Some screws sit in silence, never speaking. Others talk to each other, ignoring the prisoner who sits in between them. Those more comfortable with themselves are able to include the prisoner in the conversation, breaking away from prison gossip and the mutual disdain for management and ranging into current affairs, TV programmes and general waffle.
In fairness to my escorts of late, the staff have ranged from being pleasantly quiet to quite chatty. They have not made the experiences worse by being, well, screws!
Being the prison service, I was handcuffed. Obviously, you may think! But no. Each 'escort’ should be risk assessed. I have had a wander around the local town, been to hospital twice recently, and all the staff recommended I could be trusted to go to Open prison at the parole hearing. And yet, there I was, wedged between two screws and in cuffs. Honestly, what were the chances of my doing a runner, hoofing it down the road barefooted with my arse hanging out the back of a hospital gown? The mind of my keepers is too murky to discern at times. Actually, most of the time...
The experience reminded me of an aspect of life that I'm going to have to get used to on release - travelling. Life in prison is compact, everything is close by. Out there, travelling more than a few hundred metres to get to, say, work, is the norm. And I dislike travel. The idea of driving for an hour is not enticing, it's dead and unproductive time. Perhaps I'm a natural candidate for tele-working?
We lurked in the hospital waiting room for an age. Nothing changes! Others people there cast sly glances at the handcuffs and I can see the urge to ask a question form on at least one set of lips. But no one says anything out loud. As I stand to follow the Doctor, dragging a screw along, I have to resist the temptation to ask, "could you remove this ugly growth I have attached to my right arm...??"
Being given a diagnosis can be difficult enough. When it's cancer, and here's a lot of information to absorb, doubly so. But being wedged in the consulting room with two screws, still handcuffed to them, it becomes something more degrading.
On my return, I obviously wanted to let those close to me know the diagnosis. The Editor was sitting by her phone, sweating and stressed. With no money on my phone account, I had to ask for an 'official' phone call, that is the use of an office landline. Two minutes was all I wanted, just to pass the news along. The man in charge of the nick that evening, the Orderly Officer, refused.
Still, it was a day out.
Friday, May 28, 2010
The Cancer Boy Story
It continues...
Despite the undisputed fact that tumours are devouring his liver, the Ministry of Justice insists he enrols on a course with the title of "Life in the Future" before they even consider compassionate release.
For a man with only a very short life and little by way of a future, this is stunningly ironic.
Honestly, I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.
PS. He doesn't mind my sharing these vignettes with you.
Despite the undisputed fact that tumours are devouring his liver, the Ministry of Justice insists he enrols on a course with the title of "Life in the Future" before they even consider compassionate release.
For a man with only a very short life and little by way of a future, this is stunningly ironic.
Honestly, I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.
PS. He doesn't mind my sharing these vignettes with you.
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