THERAPY

I must make more of an effort to listen to the advice of the Head Cancer Wizard.  I’m not really sure which bits of our last conversation I missed, but it seems he must have suggested I do some pretty weird stuff to prepare for the next chemo.

Due to the non arrival of his passport last week (long story- Germans saving money on DHL), Pancho, my father, found himself in the position of having a new motorhome arriving at Ostende docks (Belgium) last Thursday, on a transporter, with nobody to take delivery of it. The obvious answer was, at 30 minutes notice, for me to follow my medical advice and get seriously involved.

My brother Cal would drive Kim and myself (I’m not allowed on lunatic escapades without my conscience and carer) to Dover – ferry to France – drive to Ostende by early evening – nice meal – meet motorhome next morning – lunchtime ferry to Ramsgate – drive home by 9pm. Mice and Men.

By the time we left home, time was looking short so a pretty fast drive south was called for.  Traffic then stopped a few miles from the only available bridge crossing the Thames because conveniently it was closed due to an accident. The phrase “I’ve got a bad feeling about this” came into common usage as we sat for 2 hours looking at pretty trucks and smelling their nice diesel fumes. Eventually we crawled over the bridge and now a very fast drive was called for.  I think I’m right in thinking that my disabled badge means that speed limits don’t apply if I’m really in a hurry but it doesn’t matter anyway because the police don’t have cars that fast.

Calais to Ostende was an equally zippy trip – I think I saw a cow and a field and a windmill but it was all a bit blurry, plus by now I was 4 hours after my normal, ‘need to sleep’ time.  At least finding the hotel would be easy with the satnav in Cal’s car. Or it would have been if they hadn’t dug up every other street in the town and the satnav lady hadn’t been comprehensively drunk when she visited Belgium. We followed her instructions to turn left, left and left many times only to conclude that she believed that we were staying in a hotel which was actually located inside the exhaust pipe of my brothers car. Eventually (Cal still had to get back for a midnight ferry from Calais) we decided to jump ship and walk. A few minutes later we were in the lovely Royal Astor Hotel (they all seem to have English names), threw down our bags and just managed to walk to the only restaurant in Belgium which hadn’t closed.  After a superb meal I hobbled with Kim’s help, back to the hotel to slip into a 7 hour coma.  Apparently, I snore when in a coma so Kim slept for 3 minutes 28 seconds.

Next morning we were due to meet the transporter at 11am so there was time for a nice breakfast and leisurely cab drive to the docks. The “I’ve got a bad feeling about this” feeling still hadn’t worn off but we had been laughing so much we didn’t notice.  Once we were sat on a bench outside on a windy dockside the feeling got stronger and began to verge on mania when we received a phone call to tell us the delivery would be 3 hours late.  Nowhere to go, we would miss the ferry and so have to wait on the docks for 7 hours until the next one. Knock on effect, we wouldn’t be in the UK until about 10pm, so I would be too shattered to drive home, so we would have to sleep in the motorhome with no bedding or heating.  Excellent. This is therapy at its best.

Kim found a little bar in a portacabin where we spent a few very humorous and warm hours. The motorhome duly arrived and I realized that the German frugality which had caused the problem in the first place, had left us with about a wine glass full of fuel so we needed to refill immediately we reached England as we were not insured to drive on Belgian roads. I was getting very, very tired.

Excellent boat and trip and meal on board so we hit England with me feeling refreshed and considering driving at least part (Kim knows me better) of the way home. Straight into the first fuel station to fill up with diesel and the rest would be plain sailing. I blame the Head Cancer Wizard for the events which followed, because he didn’t tell me how incredibly dumb I would become when fatigue sets in. 

It must be something of a record, for a brand new vehicle with only 11 miles on the tachometer, to have £48.53 worth of unleaded petrol pumped into its diesel (and clearly marked ‘Diesel’ at that) tank.  I managed it. My brother Cal had done the same thing a few weeks ago and my other brother Sean has 2 previous convictions.  Maybe its genetic. Fortunately I caught myself red handed, 47 pence before I was to finish filling and consequently didn’t start the engine. Really catastrophic disaster was averted but the short term was justifying every single “I’ve got a bad feeling about this” uttered since the journey began.  

After some negotiation, my rescue service decided to send a tow truck to collect us and then empty the tank.  My brain was telling me a couple of hours wasted but it wasn’t working very well. Eventually we were towed to the depot of the towing company.  I expected a garage with grease and stuff but what greeted us just about severed the connections between my few remaining synapses.  In a village in the middle of nowhere we entered a twilight zone which was a cross between fort Knox and Calvin Klein’s headquarters. Beautifully manicured lawns and gardens lead to sliding steal security gates beyond which were immaculate, regimented rows of tow vehicles.  We were sent to reception, which was marble floored with two magnificent dragon statues.  Where the hell did they keep the dirt?

Due the highly advanced anti theft mechanism on the fuel tank it took eons to empty the tank so we eventually left weird world at 4am.  I had to sleep. 1 hour and 20 minutes was enough for me, by which stage hypothermia was setting into Kim and the birds and traffic were getting noisy.  Just a 3 hour drive and we were home – too hyper to sleep immediately and 2 days later still recovering. Damn this treatment.

tags: cancer treatment  alternative medicine  terminal illness  terminal  cancer humour  nhs  laughter  prostate  cancer humor  scanner  cancer  politics