Once the home for 2012's photo a day project, now the place I put stuff that won't fit on Twitter (@fennerpearson). My daily blog is at http://www.blipfoto.com/fennerpearson
Book 1 of 2019: ‘The Quantum Astrologer’s Handbook’ by Michael Brooks. Although it’s taken me ages to finish, I did really enjoy this. Brooks wittily combines a biography of the serial rises and falls of Jerome Cardano - discoverer of the mathematics behind quantum physics - with a readable summation of where that science currently stands. The complex nature of the subject matter does make it a book that I only read a few pages at a time, though.
PS Bless bookshops (and, specifically, @ebbandflobookshop). I found this when browsing the shelves. I can’t imagine how I might have stumbled across it online. https://www.instagram.com/p/BsxVMZVhGIh/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=qckx8o3lsoz0
Book 15. ‘The Underground Railroad’ by Colson Whitehead. This is an astounding read for many reasons. The writing is excellent (if I hadn’t been so busy, I’d have devoured it in a couple of days), and the story of a 19th century slave girl fleeing the plantation is riveting. She moves from state to state via the surreal device of an actual underground railway but everything else is based on historical fact. And the history is shameful. This should be required reading in schools.
Next: ‘The Janissary Tree’ by Jason Goodwin. (at Kirkby Lonsdale)
I’ve had quite a time of it, as many of you know. I’ve been in hospital for pretty much the entire first five months of the year. I didn’t mean to do that, really. It was all a bit of an accident. Well, a series of accidents.
I’m home now. And it’s a huge relief to be here. After long weeks and months of feeling that I would never leave the hospital, it’s great to be back with my girlfriend and my cat. Of course, the cat never visited me but said she sent a card. Something about postal strikes, I dunno.
Yes, being facetious about the situation is one of the only real defences I have. Because, not to put too fine a point on it, I very nearly died. At least twice.
During many of the bleak times, my mind would always go to the same place. A yearning for my “small, ordinary life’ as I called it. Whenever the medical wizards were pulling out all the stops, all I had was a desperate hope to get back to a simple normality.
I told people the same thing. I said “I don’t have massive ambitions right now. My ambition at the moment is to be at home, pain-free, having a cup of tea and stroking my cat.” You see, so many times, it seemed so far away, that mundane and mediocre hope, as I was stuck – imprisoned almost – in one of those stupidly flexible but mysteriously uncomfortable beds.
(I used to look at this ‘call bell’ in my bed for ages, trying to work out what the symbol meant. A syringe? Then I turned it upside down. Sexist.)
Back in January, I had gone in for an extraordinary operation. One that I wrote about here. In short, the surgeon, Tom Cecil, opened me up, cut out all of the visible cancer in my body (and there was quite a lot of it) and cut out some other bits that I previously thought I needed. One of my kidneys and a good chunk of my pancreas had to go, apparently. Some of my stomach and colon also went - and so did a bit of my diaphragm. Quite the mixed grill got yanked out of me. Then, just to complete the fun, I had chemotherapy medicine - sorry, HOT chemotherapy medicine - swilled into the holes in my body.
The operation went “well”. In the sense that it has left me, currently, cancer-free. That is worth pausing for. Because, quite bluntly, if I had not the operation when I did, then I would be dead by now.
Yep. It will almost certainly come back, but the cancer - for now - has left the building. That’s quite a thing.
Unfortunately, about a week after the operation, I got very unwell again. I was bleeding internally. So, in the first of an unnerving series of emergency incidents and intensive care visits, I was taken into the serious rooms, fixed up, and looked after magnificently by the surgical, nursing and physiotherapy staff.
And I would need those amazing staff again and again. Particularly for another couple of really serious times. I had respiratory problems. And we found out I now have an unwanted hole in my stomach. That hole leaks fluid sometimes into my body when I eat or drink. That fluid has also found a way to get into my lungs. So, it’s bloody dangerous. And it isn’t going away at the moment.
For almost a month from the middle of March, I was in intensive care. This was the most dangerous time. My visitors were all given a very bleak picture. I was hanging on.
I was on a ventilator. I was not breathing for myself but through a hole in my throat. I had a huge array of machines attached to me and, worst of all, my hair was getting ridiculously long. I kind of looked like a cross between Doc out of Back to the Future and an elderly orang-utan.
But things slowly got better. A couple of the nurses had a crack at cutting my hair, and the rest of my body started to shape up a bit too. I managed to breathe for myself and was eventually allowed back on the ‘normal’ ward.
For the past few weeks in that ward, I concentrated on putting on weight. I walked into the hospital weighing 83kg. At times when I was seriously ill, I had dropped to 58kg. It’s not a diet plan I would recommend.
And, despite having a scan that showed the hole in my stomach is still there, it was sufficiently healed to allow me home. I have a bag attached to my chest. Like a colostomy bag, but it collects the stuff that comes errantly out of my stomach and lungs. It’s not pretty but without it, I’d be in big trouble. Again.
I’m home. We’re waiting for the hole in my stomach to heal, if it ever does. I am weak and in pain. But I’m home.
And as for that ambition I had when stricken in intensive care - well, I can have a cup of tea. I’m stroking my cat but I’m not pain free. Two out of three ain’t bad, I suppose.
PS: For almost my entire medical misery journey, I have been looked after by the NHS. However, this extended trip was under private health insurance. By a combination of luck, coincidence and geography, I was being treated in a private hospital. However, many of the staff - including the entire surgical team - also work for the NHS. I am forever grateful to those who helped me but I also need to say I still love the NHS.
PPS: During the five months, I was never alone. I am incredibly lucky. There was never a day I didn’t have loved ones or friends visit me. I am so grateful to them for their love and support.
Book 9. This was nearly a 1 (‘didn’t finish’) after 30 pages but then I saw it won the Man Booker last year, so I stuck with it. It’s very clever but not gripping. I resolved to finish it, yesterday, and read the last 120 pages, which I really enjoyed. In the end, then, a 3.5: finished, enjoyed, might give as a gift to the right person.
Next: Grayson Perry’ ‘The Descent Of Man’. (at Haweswater Hotel)
Book 8. This was a solid 2: finished it but didn’t enjoy it. I stuck with it because I wanted to know the stories but the writing was pretty leaden. It has meant I’ve read very little over the last fortnight. Hopefully I’ll enjoy this a bit more: George Saunders’ Lincoln In The Bardo’. (at Kirkby Lonsdale)
Book 7 finished. I can’t tell you how much I loved this; beautiful story and subtly wonderful writing. A very top end 5. Thanks for sharing it with me, @smuffie.
Next book will be David Clayton’s ‘Manchester Stories’ but I need to sleep on this one first. Know what I mean? (at Kirkby Lonsdale)
Book 6 finished. I really enjoyed reading this, which I was sent by Big Green Books as part of their subscription thing. A definite 5; it’d make a great gift. Next up, is ‘Tin Man’ by Sarah Winman, courtesy of @smuffie.
We went to see @collectingmalcolmgarrett’s exhibition at Manchester Met. I loved it! I was disproportionately excited by the *actual* shoes from the cover of The Human League’s ‘Reproduction’. (at Manchester, United Kingdom)
Book 4 finished. It’s a 4.5: would recommend and would give (to the right person) as a present. Next book is ‘Set The Boy Free’ by Johnny Marr. (at Kirkby Lonsdale)
