*
When young, Niall and his four step-brothers, Brian, Fiachra, Ailill and Fergus were given weapons by a smith and sent out hunting to prove their arms.
After losing their way in a forest, the five youths lit a fire to cook the game they had killed, and Fergus went in search of drinking water.
He came to a well guarded by a monstrous Black-Hag who would grant him the use of the well only on condition he gave her a kiss.
Fergus fled screaming…
*
Continue reading at France and Vincent
Dear Santa,
We may have a bt of a problem. It’s my two-legs… she is up and dpwn all night like a yo=to most of the time at the moment. And when she does manage to sleep,she is as likely to be on the sofa as in the bedroom. How are you going to sneak in?
I mean, our place is tiny anyway… not much of a place to hide a large man in red, not at the best of times…but with her awake and pottering, there will be nowhere for you to hide.
She says that you will manage, even if you have to twist your continuum, whatever that means… It sounds painful to me, and I’d rather you didn’t do yourself any injuries. Lots of people need you, especially this year.
Continue reading at The Small Dog’s Blog
“… you have an appointment at ten for chemo…”
“Yeahs…” I view such calls with deep suspicion.
“We’ve been checking you blood test results…” Were they going to cancel my appointment? Reschedule? Bearing in mind I was already on the brink of braving the morning traffic to get to the hospital on time… “Your cortisol levels are low…” Again? I wouldn’t mind if someone would explain why it matters. I know what cortisol is and does… but asking why the levels matter during chemo is generally net with a blank expression. “We need you to come in immediately. So we can get a morning test done…”
“That was a morning test.”
“…the readings are naturally different between eight and ten…”
“Half past nine in the morning…”
“so… if you could come in straight away…” I gave in and assured her I would leave immediately. And omitted to point out that I would probably not be much earlier than I would have ben had I left when I was ready.
I arrive, just a tad early. They draw blood and tell me I’ll have to wait for the results. They may need to give me steroids. They may need to postpone the treatment. How long before I would know? Maybe half an hour. That’s not so bad.
Two hours later and I’ve had my pre-meds but no word… The uncertainty is worse than unpleasant. Meanwhile, no-one has the slightest idea why I am still swelling up like a balloon or when anyone is likely to attempt to find out. They did weigh me though. I’ve put yet another kilo on… oh joy. So much for weight loss in cancer and chemo…
Eventually, the overstretched nurses managed to get hold of someone in haematology who could give them some answers. My bloods were fine and the first of my three day cycle of chemo and immunotherapy could go ahead.
I watched morning turn to noon and finally watched the light outside turn to the dull grey of evening before I was done. Meanwhile, the bags of extra medications, sharps bin and self-inflictable syringes pile up in my handbag and my cancer treatment book is whisked away to be updated.
It comes back with the next two appointments. One, mid-afternoon on New Year’s Eve to see my oncologist. I didn’t have any other plans… and would not feel comfortable complaining anyway when she and the nurses are working. The following appointment is for Twelfth Night… the next round of treatment.
“Just immunotherapy? This is the last cycle of chemo?” I prepare to dance an indecorous jig whilst still attached to the drip stand and oxygen.
“Ah. Well.” I stop and wait… not liking the sound of that. “As it is working so well…”
“Yeahs…”
“The doctor might decide to carry on with another two cycles. They usually do if it is working…” Which it does seem to be… yay!
“Okaay…”
“…and the immunotherapy will be for another eighteen months, I’m afraid….”
If I last that long…
So, I may have reached the end of chemo. Or not. I might have to have immunotherapy for another year and a half. Or not. I may eventually be investigated, or treated, for my Bibendum impersonation. Or not.
If I wasn’t already bald, I’d be tearing my hair out…
(Insert fingers in ears while I scream….)
…And if anyone wants to take up Mary’s suggestion to investigate the effects of uncertainty on cancer patients… I think the two of us between us could provide a decent start to the study….
Inspiration flows
An influx of clarity
Life’s affirmation
*
Reblogged from MarySmith’sPlace:
I thought I’d provide some random snapshots from my second tour of the clinics in Afghanistan, in particular some of the problems we faced while travelling. We left on May 01, 1990 in two vehicles. I was in the Mobile Team vehicle along with Dr Epco, a doctor from Holland who was going to spend several months in the clinic in Lal, Jon and Jawad, the driver from Hussain’s clinic. In the other vehicle, Moosa from the field hospital in Jaghoray was returning after finding an organisation willing to sponsor the hospital.
We’d only reached the border town of Badani when we had to hire a replacement jeep and driver because without four wheel drive, the journey would be impossible. Delays waiting for a new driver – who came highly recommended because as a former highway robbery he could guarantee our safety – coupled with a series of punctures and a leaking water tank meant it took almost four days to reach the Mazar Bibi clinic. The hole in the water tank was temporarily but effectively fixed by melting a plastic water jug to use as a sealer. When darkness fell the first night we discovered the second driver had no lights on his vehicle. In the bazaar of Shahjoi, there was no room in any of the hotels – the driver went home, Moosa slept in one jeep, Jawad and I in the other and the rest of the group under a tree. Around 2 am I was awakened by a persistent tapping on the window – two armed mujahideen were demanding car park fees. Jawad paid them and we went back to sleep.
Continue reading at MarySmith’sPlace
Where do ladybirds go for winter? I can tell you that… they go to Aspatria. The carvings on the gateposts were full of them. I had recognised the name immediately because it is so unusual. I couldn’t quite remember why I recognised it particularly… but the fact that I had probably meant the church would be worth a quick visit. I was pretty certain I should know why I remembered it too… I knew it was something to do with St Patrick, who keeps cropping up lately and vague ghosts of memory flitted around my mind, half-seen shadows desperate to be noticed.
The church is dedicated to St Kentigern… also known as St Mungo. It is told that he passed through Apspatria and preached by the Holy Well on his way into exile in Wales. Kentigern’s mother was a princess, raped by Owain mab Urien. Her father, furious, had the pregnant princess thrown from a cliff. She survived and was then put to sea in a coracle. She drifted to land at Culross where her son was born.
Many old folk tales are bound up with Kentigern’s story, including the one about the fish that is found elsewhere. King Riderch accused his wife, Queen Languoreth, of being unfaithful. He threw her ring into the river secretly and demanded that she show it to him, accusing her of having given it to her paramour. Distraught the queen sought Kentigern’s help; he commanded that a fish be pulled from the river… and when it was gutted the ring was found in its belly.
Continue reading at France & Vincent
*
“Who are you to say these things to me?” said Judas Thomas.
Joshua said,
“You do not know who I am from what I say to you?
Then you have disregarded the living one who is in your presence.
You are like a fruit picker who loves the fruit but hates the tree.
Continue reading at France and Vincent
*
… The king immediately ordered a tower be built on a densely wooded isle off the coast of his lands and had his daughter put in the tower away from all danger.
Nine home-steads about the foot of the tower and nine hand-maids, one for each home-stead, to ensure that none but the king himself could enter the tower and see the princess.
Once completely satisfied that such a defence could not be breached, without his knowledge, the king set about planning the procurement of the magic halter.
After much deliberation he transformed himself into a red-haired boy and set off for the abode by the sea that housed the three brothers.
Continue reading at The Silent Eye
Mist
Veiling
Unveiling
Unravelling
Chimera conjured
Memories awoken
Visions of a past revealed
Domain of fractured images
Dreams bedevil rationality
Logic dismisses imagination
Dreamers enchanted by arcane shadows
Freed from the tether of gravity
Wander otherworldly pathways
Embracing experience
Minds open to wonder
Encounter dragons
Bathe in their breath
Know themselves
Unveiled
Mist
Childhood’s snow dreaming
Mysteries and fairytales
Coloured by magic
*
Sue Vincent's Daily Echo 