Seventeen Years of Blessed Time

A Diagnosis and a Diary

I have just read through the blog I wrote 17 years ago today, and I can only be amused at the humour that infused those pages: an admission to hospital that lasted 18 days, a cancer diagnosis, and the possibility that I had only five weeks to live. That earlier writing found the light amid it all, and reading it back now, I am struck by the tone I managed to keep.

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That was how serious things were. I was in unbearable pain that medication did not seem to manage, and could barely tolerate. As long as I was lying flat, I was fine; the moment I put my left foot down, I was in agony.

The Path to Referral

I still remember the conversations that led to this, beginning on the Wednesday before. From the moment I saw my doctor, who took one look at the sole of my foot and immediately said, "This looks serious, I need to refer you," things moved quickly. She was soon on the telephone, urging the hospital to register me for the next available appointment as a matter of urgency.

She bandaged my foot, sent me home with painkillers, and secured an appointment for the Friday. When I attended the hospital that day, the staff decided I had to see the internist, who was not available until the Tuesday. No further palliatives were on offer, yet I somehow survived the weekend without the need for an emergency evacuation.

Admission Day

On the Tuesday morning I was chaperoned to the hospital. I took only a change of underwear, for I had no idea what to expect. For the first time in my life, I sat in a wheelchair, exhausted by the pain, when the internist, after the briefest of introductions, did not hesitate to say, "You're not going home; we have a bed for you upstairs."

I was registered, prepped, and soon wheeled on a gurney to the ward, where my vitals were taken and the process of medical triage and diagnosis began. They first ruled out diabetes by taking my blood pressure at my extremities, at my lower arms and below my calves. Then I was cannulated and given an intravenous infusion of saline solution with antibiotics. Thus began my first day in hospital. The very next day, my netbook was delivered to me, and with it the chance to write from my bed.

A Note on the Bread

With the netbook at hand, I set about recording the daily indignities, and here is the sort of thing that occupied me at the time.

"I ended up with the gluten-free bread meant for the patient in the next bed – tasteless, YuK! Yuk! I was, however, bothered because the bread was clearly labelled for the lady; I do not remember undergoing a gender reassignment overnight."

That, more or less, was my state of mind: frightened, in pain, yet still affronted by a bad slice of bread and a case of mistaken identity.

A Prognosis of Weeks

From a medical perspective, I am not expected to still be here. At prognosis, I was told my condition was treatable, but only if I could tolerate the treatment. The internist, who was also an MD, said, "If you cannot tolerate the treatment, you probably have only five weeks." Beyond that, studies at the time suggested that people presenting with my symptoms did not last a decade.

As it turned out, I could tolerate the chemotherapy, and it worked. For me to be here today, 17 years on, is a miracle of mercy and grace, blessed time rather than borrowed. I am thankful for each day. I have even survived another episode of cancer, and it is almost two years since I completed radiotherapy for that. That day is etched in my memory, and I am grateful to God, to my doctors, the nurses, my friends, my neighbours, colleagues, and the many well-wishers. You are all part of this amazing story.

Between the Pain and the Healing

I shall borrow an excerpt from the blog I wrote about my admission then, the closing paragraph, and whilst recollections might vary, through the pain and the ordeal I also saw beyond it. "Even in all this, one has many things to be thankful for; health is wealth, any day, any time. For all that suffer, I wish them a speedy recovery – yes, I got my netbook delivered to the hospital – there is much to talk about, between the pain, the sheets and the healing." (Yes, I used em-dashes in 2009.)

Thank you.

Blog - In hospital to kill the pain (September 2009)

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Twelve Years a Resident, Fourteen Years Away

Memory and the Reason for Writing

Fourteen years begin to tell you how dull the memory really is. I suppose that is why we write things down, and probably why this blog exists as a journal of stories and experiences.

My visit to Amsterdam, both impromptu and incognito, was for the single purpose of maintaining the status of a loyalty scheme; one that gives benefits and privileges money might buy, but at a higher cost.

My preference was Paris, but Brian adamantly withstood me, fully expressing his concern for my safety, and only he could know why.

Returning After Many Years

I was tempted to let people I knew through my Holland odyssey, which began in May 2000 and ran for the twelve years I called the Netherlands home, in on the visit. To think I found a hotel in Hoofddorp, where I started my first job with AUCS Infonet 26 years ago, is quite something. I was charged city tax; Hoofddorp is over 10 miles as the crow flies from Amsterdam.

Back then, I lived in Amsterdam and commuted out to Hoofddorp by train each morning; now, all these years later, I was sleeping in the very town I once travelled out to. So much has changed, and yet other things remain the same.

Arriving in Amsterdam yesterday, I made for the public library that opened on the 7th of July 2007, intending to have a meal at Vapiano, not knowing they had closed their business in the Netherlands the year before.

Then I thought to walk up to my old apartment block in the Oostelijke Havengebied, the eastern docklands. The flat, which I bought in November 2001 and sold on the 1st of May 2012 when I handed the keys over to the new owner, was on the 7th floor and overlooked two stretches of water: IJhaven and Eersthaven.

These harbours separated my building from Java-eiland and KNSM-eiland, the two long, narrow islands that, together with my side, make up the regenerated docklands.

The Lessons Wasted on Youth

The funny thing is, for all the ten and a half years I lived there, I never once walked from the city centre. I took the tram, the bus, or rode my bicycle. If only I had known the benefits of walking back then, but this kind of knowledge is wasted on youth.

I did not have a flood of memories when I got there, but soon enough, a resident from way back then wheeled out from the garage. We both had a moment of recognition and greeted each other.

That was enough; my plan to attend my old church on Sunday was now under review, as I wondered whether I could handle the emotional overload of so many reunions. I honestly was not prepared for that.

A City Subtly Changed

Tram numbers had changed. What was once Tram 10, which had not yet been built when I first moved there, is now Tram 1. Tram 25 to IJburg is now Tram 26, with the terminus moved to the back of the central station, on the IJ River side.

Then another face I recognised, still looking good, not weathered by time and deserving of a compliment, which I gave liberally. The things you think you remember, only to realise that your memory is a bit jaded.

Even so, all these encounters encourage the recollections of people, events, and ideas that made those times significant in their different ways. For instance, I sent a message to an old friend whom I had once helped pick out gilets and outfits for his wedding, drawing on my familiarity with the outfitters around Amsterdam and my comfort with formal wear.

We had gone shopping together on Nieuwendijk, one of the city's oldest shopping streets, running north from Dam Square towards the Central Station.

Walking the Singel

Today, I went looking for a restaurant on the Singel, thinking it was further down the canal. I had walked all the way in the opposite direction before retracing my steps, only to find it was nearer the central station after all, and that I needn't have taken the tram in the first place.

After my breakfast, which had Danish bacon as it should be, but hash browns as something else entirely, I set out on a small adventure into the past. My first residence had been in the Jordaan, where I rented from June 2000 until November 2001, when I moved to the apartment I had bought in the eastern docklands.

The Jordaan place was a large garage converted into a one-bedroom apartment with two separate toilets, on Palmstraat. It was all unrecognisable now; even the old had been seriously gentrified.

The Indignities of Travel

You could easily be housebound in Amsterdam, as I saw no disabled toilets. The public toilets at the central station charged a hefty €1.10, which is just unforgivable, and there were no staff on hand to help out with failed automation. But that was yesterday.

There was a time when wearing glasses was considered a grave disability, so much so that once laser surgery for corrective eyesight became widespread, the Dutch were beating a path to every practitioner offering the service.

On toilet anxiety, today was worse, as I was far from any known facilities, and the accident happened. By the time I eventually found a toilet, my underwear had to be binned. We suffer in silence, hiding the shame that cannot be avoided because of nature or affliction. Yet we must live life as best we can, for that is the better story.

The Living Existence of a Life Story

I can boldly say Amsterdam is not about the lost, but the living existence of a life story; visited by adversity and failure, but blessed by the gift of life, the promise of a bright future, and undying hope that makes every travail transient.

Beyond my expectations, there was even an ocean liner at the passenger terminal. So much for reducing seafaring tourism; the reality bites harder than ideas in a council meeting with harebrained resolutions.

The old lady of green politics in the Netherlands of the days of yore is the mayor of Amsterdam. Femke Halsema, I doff my hat. Respect!

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