Happy New year…

Hello you beautiful lot. It’s been a while since my last post, so I thought it was only right to finish off the year with a little update. You lucky, lucky people 🤣.

It’s been a funny old couple of months.

In my last post I wrote about how the Mrs had a bit of a wobble. I say wobble. I was close to booking her a little overnight stay at Basildon mental health unit truth be told but I’m pleased to say she’s all good. She’s reduced her hours at work and I think has come to terms with everything a little better. She hasn’t taken up the offer of counselling yet. If you know my wife, then you’ll understand that the thought of sitting in a room with other women comparing notes on cancer and all its related obstacles is her idea of hell. Knowing it’s there and available for her is enough at the moment.

I’ve said it before and it probably sounds boring now but I will continue to say it. Cancer really is just a massive see you next Tuesday. Sadly, back in October, the man I’ve called my father in law for the past 7 years lost his battle with the big C.

After a ‘senior’ moment driving the wrong way down a road towards oncoming traffic he went to the GP, fully expecting I think, to be told he’d had another stroke. However, it turned out to be a lot worse than that. They found brain metastases which were secondary to primary lung cancer. He’d been a heavy smoker for most of his life but hadn’t touched one in years since his stroke. Apart from some shortness of breath and tiredness he’d had no other symptoms. No cough. No chest pain. Cancer had literally creeped up on him and advanced so much in such a short space of time it didn’t even give him a chance to fight it. What an absolute cunt.

He had a couple of hospital stays which he absolutely hated and who can blame him? Stuck in a hospital bed for days on end coupled with a high fever sent him a little bit doolally. He told me a very elaborate story one day about going to a nightclub with Shirley Bassey…
“I don’t know why I was with her, I can’t fucking stand the woman” he told me. Poor Shirley.
He also took umbridge with the tea lady one day as well. I can’t remember exactly why she’d pissed him off but apparently he’d pointed his fingers at her to mimic a gun and tried to shoot her. I think she saw the funny side.

Eventually he came home for good. Most days we would pop in before or after the school run. They were never short of visitors. I think we all knew how sick he was and how quickly he was deteriorating. We all just wanted to get as much time in with him as possible. He would always greet you with his cheeky smile and say he was pleased to see you but sometimes he would have that look in his eyes that said..
“I wish you’d all just fuck off and leave me alone for 5 minutes!”
He would never have said it though. He was too much of a gentlemen for that.

It was a privilege to have been there with him when he died. The man had accepted me into his family, given me permission to adopt his grandchildren and treated me like a son. He was and still is, an absolute legend.

As a paramedic I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve had to recognise someone as dead. Check for breathing. Check for a pulse. Check for heart sounds. It becomes second nature. So you can imagine my surprise a little later on when sitting quietly in the room on my own, I started to hear the faintest snoring.
“Ronnie?”
If he’d have answered me I think I’d have had a heart attack there and then. It took me a little while to realise the snoring was coming from underneath the bed where the dog had fallen asleep. For a minute there I thought I was actually going insane.

The day of the funeral we all did him proud. He had a good turn out and it all went very smoothly. No one dropped the coffin… ie me! I’ve carried the coffin a few times now and my biggest fear is tripping over, coffin going arse over tit, lid coming off, old women crying and fainting from the shock… it’s the stuff of nightmares.
The professional mourners were in attendance as well. No one really knows who they are or how they knew the deceased but they stay for the free tea and sandwiches and then disappear never to be seen again. Normally taking a doggy bag with them.

We arrived home slightly merry to a letter waiting for us from the hospital in the wife’s handwriting.
“I think it’s the results from my last mammogram” the Mrs said. They make you write out your address on the envelope for when the results are ready.
“Its all clear!”
“I think that deserves another vodka!”

So, with the funeral over me and the wife starting counting down to our next appointment at the Royal Marsden. This would be our second appointment and the last one of the year. It’s something that you kind of put to the back of your mind before it creeps up on you and the scanxiety starts again.

We like to make a day of it when we travel up to London now. The famous hip flask comes with us and we bring some plastic cups with us to have a few little drinks on the train. It’s partly Dutch courage and to calm the nerves a little, which seem to get worse the closer we get. On the outside we probably look like a normal couple going up to the theatre or something. Either that or a couple of dirty alcoholics.

I can’t stand being late for things which means we normally get to the hospital about an hour before we are meant to. Obviously this means we have to have a drink in the pub.

We know the drill now. Straight up to x-ray and then back down to the waiting room to see the consultant and get the results. It’s normally there that we wait quietly, without speaking as we both go through different scenarios in our heads, torturing ourselves.
What if it’s come back?
It hasn’t.
But what if it has?
It hasn’t.
But what if it has?
It’s relentless.

Me and the Mrs do love a bit of people watching. And there’s nothing like a hospital waiting room to keep you occupied.

Opposite we had Margaret. Margaret was not happy. Margarets appointment was supposed to be at 4pm and it was now 4.15pm. Margaret is a huffer. If anyone gets called in before her she huffs and wants to moan to anyone within earshot. Under no circumstances do you make eye contact with Margaret.

Next to us we had Susan. It’s Susan’s first visit to the Royal Marsden and she wants to let everyone know.
“Siri, call Brian….”
No answer. Susan leaves Brian a voicemail detailing where, what, how and why.
“Siri, call Jennifer…”
No answer… and so on and so forth.
We got called in to our appointment and as we left, Susan was still making her way through her phonebook. She’d have saved a lot of time and energy just checking in on Facebook.

We were called into the consultants room where we waited for about 2 minutes, which seems like a lifetime, before she came in.

“Congratulations Mrs Perry. The x ray is clear and shows no abnormalities”.

Massive relief. Huge. It’s literally like someone has been sitting on your chest getting heavier and heavier and then just like that, they’ve gone.

After a quick feel of the boobs (The consultant, not me), a chat about things to look out for and an appointment booked in for 3 months time we were free to go celebrate. Within 30 minutes we were halfway through a bottle of red and stuffing our faces celebrating another milestone on this journey that no one ever wants to find themselves on.

I started writing this blog at the beginning of 2019 and feel it’s only right to end the year with it too. Back then the future was very uncertain and in some ways, still is. The last year and a half has taught us many lessons. Mainly it has bought home to us just how precious and short life really is and to try and not take too much for granted, because none of us know what could be just around the corner.

So, what’s in store for us in 2020? Holidays. Lots of fucking holidays. The Mrs has a ‘special’ birthday coming up in March and I’ve been informed that the only way to stop her crying into her vodka is to take her away as many times as I can. I’ll let you guess what age she will be because if I write it on here she will break my legs. If I mention the fact I’ve got another 2 years to go, or remind her that she was actually conceived in the 1970’S once more I think she may very well slit my throat.

Apart from holidays, there will of course be the regular 4 monthly trips to the hospital to contend with. Hopefully by the end of the year they will start reducing the visits to every 6 months and eventually just yearly, all being well.

For now, I think that this will be my last blog post for the foreseeable future. It’s more than served it purpose and when I first started writing it, I never ever thought it would have become so popular and read by so many. Besides, as much as I enjoy writing and do try and make it funny and interesting (I hope anyway) I’m pretty sure you’ll start to get bored of hearing about our drunken trips to London after a while, if you haven’t already. I started writing it at the beginning of 2019 so it feels only right to end the year with it.

I’m gonna go now cos I sound like the fucking queen. Thank you to you all for your support, messages and for just taking the time to read our story.

2020, the Perry’s are ready for you. With a renewed energy, a sense of humour and a shit load of vodka. Happy New year you bunch of beautiful bastards. Lets make it a good one.