Archives: Day-to-day

I can’t even begin to describe the emotional impact of the last week, especially the last few days.

After an enforced media blackout over the weekend, I was hoping to be blogging from Tuesday about my adventures down South, where I’d gone to take my Direct Access motorcycle training course, which was full of adventures, bumps and bruises (although luckily nothing worse than that).  Life got in the way, however, with the effort of keeping a bike on its wheels becoming too much for my recovering body and leaving me mostly too shattered to even think afterwards, let alone form coherent sentences.

But of course last week wasn’t really about the motorbike course, it was all about the run up to the Tresco Marathon and the event itself.

I’d love to go back and give you a day-by-day,  blow-by-blow account and maybe at some point I will, but right now, having got back from our travels at 4.30 this afternoon after an epic 27 hour journey (with a stop in London), it’s WAY more important that you guys know where your sponsorship money went.

That, people, was towards helping me push myself through the hell that was the last mile of the Tresco marathon, which I not only achieved, but in record time, too.

The marathon on Tresco is simply one of the most amazing experiences it’s possible to legally have in the world, without a doubt.  Author (and personal favourite of my Uncle) Bill Bryson was invited along one year and now he refuses to miss it even when, as with this year, the birth of a new grandchild is imminent, such is the level of warmth, friendliness, inspiration and all-round beauty, both human and natural.

It’s fair to say that the troup of 10 Marines from M Company, 42 Commando Royal Marines made quite a stir.  Standing out on the course (which runners have to complete a draining 7.5 laps of to achieve the full 26.2 mile distance), you could feel the excitement in the air every time they came into view, moving at pace, all in time, wearing 30lb back-packs and full kit.  Everyone there to cheer people on spent the day looking out first of all for their loved one, but then for the next time the Marines were coming round.

My brother, when he first put himself and the gang forward for the challenge, told the organisers they’d do it in 7 hours.  Chatting on the ferry on the way over to the island, he confided that he was hoping they’d get in under that.  Speaking to their Sergeant, he was determined they were going to break 6 hours.

As they rounded their last lap and past their well-manned rolling pitstop point for the last time, I started my walk back up the course and up the hill to meet them at the 25 mile marker on their next way round, glancing at my watch the check the time.  As I stood on top of the hill watching the turn for them to emerge, my stomach flipped and I realised just what it was I was undertaking.

The course organisers came flying round the corner on one of the islands ubiquitous golf karts, stopping in front of me to check who I was before announcing that I was runner number 140 and leaping out to pin my number on me – news to me as I didn’t realise I was to be a registered entrant in the event.  As he pinned me front and back, I stole a glance at my watch and realised something horrible: they were on course – at their pace – to break the 5.5 hour mark. 5hours 30minutes with 30lbs and jungle boots.  These guys were on another level (“machines” as the marathon’s instigator called them after trying to keep pace) the only thing standing in the way of them achieving a truly remarkable time was me.

This morning I was rudely awoken by one of my old CF nurses (not that she’s an old nurse, but old as in don’t-really-see-them-any-more – sorry Cass) arriving to flush my port – a quick and simple injection-type thing to keep the permanent IV line in my shoulder patent should it need to be used again, which – touch wood – it won’t.

It’s been over a month since I last saw any of my CF team, which is a bizarre thought and feeling given how much of my life was taken up by visiting, calling and staying in touch with them over the last few years, increasingly so in the year leading up to my op.  Since I last bumped into them (which, actually, was the first time since the Tx) three of the team have run the Reading half-marathon to raise money for my old unit, which they managed to do to the tune of nearly £3,500 – impressive, to say the least.

Cass is now fully addicted to running and is well up for Reading again next year.  After my trip to Durham and Stephen’s rampant encouragement to join them in a half-marathon and then the full distance, I can already hear my brain ticking over the possibility of joining the team to run it with them next year.  It’d be an amazing story, I reckon: ex-patient (well, technically not “ex”, but not really massively dependent on them any longer) joins former clinical team to run half a really long way (which is still a really long way, interestingly) to raise money for the unit and the patients still being treated by them.  Not that I’m always looking for the PR angle, of course…

Anyway, it was great to see Cass and catch up on the goss from the unit and what everyone’s up to – particularly all those who’d had the audacity to shoot off and drop sprogs before my op.  I’m happy to say that they’re all doing really well, even the ones who aren’t sleeping due to badly trained offspring.

Following my port flush (and I must apologise to Cass again, as she didn’t really wake me up and she did bring breakfast with her…) I pottered around the house, flicked through the new copy of GQ which had dropped through the letter box this morning, then woke K for a quick trio to the hospital to return a pain machine which she’d had on trial.  It did absolutely nothing for her, so it was quite a quick appointment, following which we headed straight home.

Mama K was in the area with a friend, so they swung by for a cuppa and, in the spirit of the day, brought cake with them, too.  We sat and chatted and caught up (it’s been too long since we saw her) and K used the opportunity to show off her new smoothie-making toy.  It’s become a bit of an obsession this smoothie-making lark, ever since we picked up the Braun blender-on-a-stick thingy at the raffle in Durham.  They’re not really my cup of tea, but it’s a quick and easy 2 or 3 of K’s 5-a-day, so who’s complaining?

After they left, I sat down to the computer for the first time in anger in over a week and started to plough through my emails and catch up on a whole host of stuff I’d fallen way behind on, followed by having a blitz of the various piles of post that were laying around the study and clearing the backlog in a not-unimpressive way.

When she finished work it was my mum’s turn to swing by for a cuppa and a catch up as we’ve not seen her for ages either.  I saw my Dad on Monday when I popped home for the washing, which has left my dear mother feeling somewhat left out.

When she left, after a decent catch up and news-swapping, I jumped back in the study to carry on clearing until another friend turned up to pay up his holiday money for May, which K and I have organised.  We chilled and had another cuppa (starting to sound like Right Said Fred, this), then K cooked and I ate dinner, followed by washing up and a little more chillage on the sofa.

I’m off now to catch Episode 2 of the Apprentice, which always manages to hook me, not matter how dense and useless the candidates appear to be.  Or perhaps precisely because they’re so dense and useless.  Either way, my body is screaming for an early night and for once, I’m not going to argue.

After swearing, promising, pledging and committing to being more regular with blog updates from now on I have spectacularly failed, having not switched on my computer in over a week.

It’s impossible for me to re-blog without making some kind of excuse for the extreme tardiness of updates and pathetic attempt at renewed regularity so here goes:

Most of last week was actually spent away from home in Ipswich visiting my Godfather and his family at their palatial residence in the quaintly names Little Bealings, following which I immediately undertook my CBT (motorcyle Compulsory Basic Training) as rearranged from the Monday before.  The CBT fairly knocked me for six, landing me up with a weekend of protesting muscles and a small graze on my calf.  The weekend itself passed in a photographic blur, and yesterday was mostly spent at my ‘rents doing a week’s worth of washing while we wait in anticipation of a new machine this week or soonish.

It is fully my intention to go and back-fill the blog with the week’s events, dull as some of them may be (I’ll try for the highlights), but given my recent track record on the blog front, I wouldn’t hold your breath.  Still, it’ll make interesting reading, not to mention a pleasant surprise, if and when I do manage to catch-up.

Today, for the record, I woke up indecently early after not enough sleep, took K to an exam, came home and powered up my Mac for the first time since last Tuesday, picked K up, slept, went to Northampton for a meeting/chat/catch up with Suze, came home, cooked – and totally messed up – dinner, washed up and sat down to update the blog.  And today’s been a quiet day.  Put like that, I suppose wondering why I’m feeling so tired at the moment is a bit of a pointless question…

Around September/October last year we – as a family – decided that we’d grace my Godfather and his family in Ipswich with our presence at Christmas. They did invite us, it must be pointed out, we didn’t just decide we were going to descend on them and then inform them of their newly arranged festive plans. We were all looking forward to it – Mum because it meant she didn’t have to cook, me because getting away anywhere was a bit of a treat at the time, epic as it was to shift all my kit from place to place, K was positively brimming at the prospect of swimming on Christmas day.

We all know how that turned out, of course (or if you’re that much in the dark, check out the blog entry for Tuesday 20 November to get abreast of my detour), much to everyone’s consternation, not least Mum’s as it meant she not only had to cook, but subsequently take me to hospital while hurling my insides up on Boxing Day, lucky lady.

I jest, of course, being as we were all delighted to have the world’s greatest Christmas present thanks to the generosity of one family and their amazing loved one who took the time to sign the ODR. That being said, my lovely “Auntie” Norma has not stopped chiding me since my op for abandoning them over Christmas.

As wonderful a Godson as I am and as much as they berated me, it’s taken me until the end of March to find the time to take out and go to see them all. Mostly, that’s down to the hospital visits being way too regular to get over to Ipswich and back across to Harefield and enjoy anything of a stay there. In the end, once the docs decided they were sick of the sight of me and told me to go away, I managed to phone Norma and let her know we would be imposing ourselves for the week this week.

Best laid plans and all that, the week turned into 3 days after I planned a CBT on the Monday, which was (as you may have read) snowed off and switched to Friday, meaning we’d need to return from the East on Thursday night for me to make the 8.30am start.

Still, 3 days is better than nothing at all and it was a wonderful opportunity not only to see them all for the first time post-op, but also to get some good gym work done in their fantastically appointed gym and swimming pool, which has recently been complimented with a gob-smacking spa complex to boot.

So after a mad morning of rushing around trying to get a prescription done last-minute (because I’m a womble and I forgot), we set off and headed down/across/up/whichever way Ipswich is and found our way there after only going wrong once (quite an achievement considering the tiny, twisty, back-country lane they live down) – and that was on the main road, too.

After chilling out a little, it wasn’t long before my Godfather, ex-Army man that he is, had me bashing the treadmill to show him what my new lungs could do. They held up admirably to the strain, I have to say, Graeme working me harder than I’ve ever worked on these lungs and although I felt like I was just about to be flung full-force backwards across the gym by a treadmill turning way too fast for my ever-weakening legs, there was actually an amazing sense of accomplishment afterwards.

It wouldn’t have been a visit to G&N’s without a quick dip and K had me in the pool no sooner had we finished in the gym, K proudly sporting her new swimming leggings and imploring me to teach her how to swim, completely over-looking the fact that the last time I’d been in a pool was quite possible over half a decade ago and the last time I’d had anything approaching a lesson I’d still been shy of single digits.

We swam all the same, and took advantage of the gorgeously relaxing rainfall shower in the spa before drying off and heading in for dinner.

Best part of the day, though: hands down the after-dinner retirement to the top floor cinema room, with drop down screen and Blu-Ray projector with U-shaped super-comfy sofa on which we settled with tea, cake and biscuits to watch Atonement, an amazing flick which is one of the few adaptations I’ve seen in recent time to do their literary counterpart justice. James McAvoy is remarkable and Keira Knightley very good, but it’s director Joe Wright’s grasp of the subtlety of emotion and deft handling of the varied viewpoints and tricky time-lapses which give he film its weight. Some of the choices on dialogue delivery weren’t my cup of tea, but I could acknowledge them as a strong stylistic choice and as such not something to do the man down for, nor was it anything which would spoil the film as a whole.

Suitably buoyed up by the happy-go-lucky flick* we all stumbled off the sofa in the direction of our beds, with another day of activity – not least another gym session – ahead of us.

*not an accurate reflection of the film. It’s more down-beat that something incredibly down-beat with strong undertones of “somber” and a slight edge of “depressing”. But still very good. And surprisingly warm.

Today was supposed to be spent with my legsa astride a throbbing machine, but sadly they don’t let you learn to ride motorbikes in the snow.

I woke up bright and early (and surprisingly alert) at 7am, cooked myself a nice, filiing fuelling breakfast of scrambled eggs on toast, then – having glanced outside and taken stock of the conditions (light snow, which wasn’t settling, and cold, dark skies) I stuck on a multitude of layers of clothing including nice warm thermals and set off for the CBT (Compulsory Basic Training) centre on the other side of town.

15 minutes later I pulled up to find the instructor warming the bikes up while sheltering in a large shipping container from the elements.  Seeing the bikes out gave me hope that he might have decided it was OK, but when I approached him it was fairly obvious that he’d already made up his mind about it all.  We had a quick chit chat and went over the weather situation and even though it wasn’t supposed to persist, he pointed out that any sort of snow technically disqualifies him from teaching, which means if the DSA were to turn up for a random inspection (a not-unlikely possibility), he’d have been in the doo-doo.

Sufficiently disappointed, I toddled myself back home and made with the productivity.  Knowing that I had a good 3 hours before her ladyship was likely to be roused, I set about ploughing through a whole stack of work that had been slowly piling up over the last couple of weeks, waiting for my attention when I finally stopped running around the country like a lunatic for half a day.

Satisfied with my morning’s work and with a finally awake K, we were joined by Dazz, who popped up to use our ‘net for some bits and bobs he wanted to do (mostly to do with adding photos to Facebook, I think).  After lunch had settled, K and I decided to be good little Easter bunnies and take ourselves off down the gym for an hour, me completing another mile on the treadmill, K doing circuit set of cardio and weights.

We got back and chilled for a bit before having to head over to my ‘rents to get our weeks’ washing done – having a kaput washing machine is starting to get ever so slightly annoying, now.  Luckily, this weeks’ laundry duty happened to coincide with my ‘rents getting back form their skiing holiday in Italy, which meant we had chance to catch up with them, peep out their photos from the week  and hear all their stories about the Fawlty Towers hotel they stayed in.

In the grand scheme of things it may not seem like much, but this holiday for my mum and dad marks almost as big a landmark as anything I’ve been up to of late.  For the last two-and-a-half years my parents have been as UK-bound as I have, having to remain accessible just in case that call finally came.  For two-and-a-half years they’ve had to put their usual holiday plans on hold and stop their preferred overseas holidays so that they can be around for me.  Last weeks’ trip to the Italian Alps, just by the Mont Blanc tunnel, is the first time they’ve been able to book, take and enjoy a holiday abroad for any extended period since I was listed back in 2005.

So it was great to hear of their adventures and even though it sounds like they got what they paid for in their bargain-basement last-minute hotel-and-flight deal, they really enjoyed themselves.  I can’t describe how happy it makes me to see my mum and dad finally able to do the things they want to do and to enjoy themselves without having to worry about me or what sort of state I’d be in when they got home.  I only spoke to them once while they were away, whereas in the past it would have required almost daily updates of how I was doing.  Transplant affects so many more lives than just mine and it feel amazing to be able to enjoy it from a whole new perspective.

After we’d got through all of our washing and I’d stolent the left-overs from the ‘rents roast lamb, we headed back home to find Dazz stranded in boredom at the flat.  Turns out when we left him, telling him to feel free to use the ‘net and that the keys were on the side in the kitchen for him to use to lock up then post through the lettter box, he’d not heard the latter part of the sentence, so had been sat in waiting for us to come back for close on 2 hours.  In the meantime he’d been joined by Cliff, who came to occupy him with a game of Simpsons Operation.  I’m not sure how interesting it is, though, because they both looked pretty bored when we got there.  Mind you, they had a whole WALL of DVDs to choose from, so I’ don’t have that much sympathy.

We sat down to cups of tea and K threw on Curse of the Were-Rabbit, while I jumped on my computer to write/update my CV in the vague thought that I might apply for a job I’d seen in the paper today.  I’d forgotten how long and dull CV writing is, getting through most of the film before I’d done with that and also caught up with the various bits of charity stuff which needed my attention before I ran away for a few days tomorrow.

By 11 I was finished and so was the flick, Dazz and Cliff had departed and K was in bed.  I hastily rushed through my ablutions before hitting the sack and vanishing into the world of sleep within minutes.  It’s been a long time since I’ve been up at 7am, done a full day’s work including a gym session and not had a nap.  Feels good, though.

Being exhaustedly tired didn’t seem to do much – if anything – for my ability to sleep as I once again lay awake until gone 3am.  Annoyingly, it was the kind of lack of sleep where you are so nicely chilled and relaxed that getting up is pretty out of the question, but somehow you can’t complete the transition from awake to asleep.  At least it was 3am tonight, not 7am like last night.

As promised, apart from waking for Tac at 10, I did manage to sleep myself through till midday, which was a lovely battery-recharger.

Many moons ago, soon after Emily got home from her transplant last year, she offered to pass on to me her smaller, more portable oxygen concentrator, which gave me the freedom to visit other people’s houses without worrying about when my O2 was going to run out – all I had to do was plug Claire in and I’d be sitting pretty for as long as I liked.  Since I’m now blessedly no longer in need of it, Em and I put our heads together and came up with a friend of ours who would benefit from Claire’s friendship and emailed her to see if she wanted her.

Since the initial email about 2 months has passed and I have forgotten no less than 3 times when I’ve seen Em to pass Claire on to her as Sam only lives about 15 minutes from her.  After my final act of stupidity last week when I was in London seeing Em and only about 15 minutes from Sam’s house myself, I decided that I couldn’t beat about the bush any longer or try to wait for or engineer meetings to hand stuff over and just bite the bullet and drive to South London (Sutton) and drop Claire off.

As it happens, there was almost no traffic at all on the roads yesterday, everyone travelling for Easter clearly having done so the day before or that morning.  So while everyone else in the country was playing happy or not-so-happy families, we trundled our way down the M1 and round the M25 through some of the craziest, mosy bizarre but brilliant weather I’ve ever seen.

We would go from bright sunshine to torrential rain through sleet, snow and hail all within the space of a few miles.  There was one amazing moment on the M25 when we were driving along in brilliant sun and ahead of us we could see what looked, totally honestly, like a piece of cloud had broken off and fallen down onto the road.  There was just a sheet of grey mist falling sideways across the carriageway and dumping itself onto the road in front of us.

Surprisingly, there were no crashes and no major hold-ups and the journey took precisely as long as the AA website told me it would, which I had thought pretty generous considering quite how far round the London-loop we were going.

On the way round, K spotted a signpost for Southampton, where my Dad’s family are from and near where his dad and sister still reside.  Once K had pointed it out and mentioned (in jest) that we could go, I got to thinking that I’d not seen any of my Aunt’s family since my op, apart from my eldest cousin who stopped in to the hospital the week after her mum had.  And from South London, it’s really not that far to their house.

So, once we’d dropped Claire safely at Sam’s to start a new life of independence-making (hopefully), we set off down towards the South coast to drop in and surprise my Aunt and her clan.

We eventually arrived (after a slightly longer journey than we anticipated…) around 6ish and everyone was duly surprised, luckily in a pleasant “great to see you” kind of way, not the usual “oh no, not them again” kind of way.

We stopped and stayed for a cuppa (or two) and my Uncle introduced me proudly to Jeeves, his pride-and-joy in the garage.  It’s an old… car that’s really very pretty and cool and as my cousin pointed out, means they can now play gangsters up and down their road properly, as they have the wheels to hang off with their Tommy guns and three-piece-suits with Trilbys.  Being that they live right out in the contryside not far from Winchester, there’s not a whole lot of people to gangster at, but I suppose they could always go rough up some sheep.

After persuading them that we really didn’t intend to impose ourselves on them for dinner and that they didn’t have to make it stretch (which they probably couldn’t have anyway, what with my appetite and three near six-foot teenager boys in the house), we headed off just before 8pm and rolled back up the A34 through Newbury and Oxford to MK, rocking up at home just before 9.30pm.

Having not been to the flicks for over a week, I couldn’t pass up the offer of catching The Cottage with Steve at 9.50, so I pretty much headed straight back out again, leaving K behind cooking fairy cakes as Easter presents for our little nieces and nephews tomorrow.

The Cottage is an absolutely hilarious horror-comedy with the always fantastic Andy Serkis (who made his name by not actually appearing on screen at all as the motion-capture performer for both Gollum in Lord of the Rings and Kong in King Kong – although he also played Lumpy the Cook in the latter) and Reece Shearsmith of League of Gentlemen Fame (not a show I’m a fan of, but he’s great in this).  Jennifer Ellison plays the kidnapee in what starts out as a fairly straight-forward ransom-thriller with deft comic touches, the quickly changes pace mid-way through and turns into the most hilarious stalk-and-slash horror movie I’ve seen in a long time.

As a Brit-flick, this was always destined to be compared to Shaun of the Dead, another comedy-horror which took the world by storm back in 2004, and it’s to its enormous credit that it actually stands up to the comparison.  It’s a very different film, not just in genre of horror, but in the way that while it manages to include pretty much all of the stalk-and-slash horror staples, it never directly references any specific film, whereas Shaun of the Dead was full of nods, quips and homages to the very best in Zombie horror.

There are some brilliantly nasty death scenes in The Cottage, but never have I laughed so hard at so many people’s unfortunate ends.  Makes you feel terrible at the time, but the sheer inventiveness with which they knock off one of the main characters is near-legendary.

It doesn’t pull its punches and it’s a pretty full-on gore fest at times, but if you like horror movies, especially the good, old-fashioned slasher pics with an iconic bad-guy, you’ll get a kick out of this.

I got home from it around midnight in time to catch the end of Devil Wears Prada, which K had settled into on the sofa – a slightly difference flick to my night’s other watching.  By the end, my eyes were closing and I dragged myself off to bed, where I get through a few pages of my book before conking out.

Without doubt this has been one of my best days post-transplant.  When I woke up, it felt like a real chore to be getting into the car and schlepping all the way down to Town and back, but when I took a second to realise how cool it was that I could actually even consider jumping in the car and heading South, it cheered me up.  Coupled with being able to exploit a random whim and scoot off to see a family with whom I share so many of my happiest memories and still having energy enough to go and catch a great film afterwards, I can’t imagine a better way of showing the fantastic difference a transplant makes to anyone’s life.

Last night turned out pretty exciting as I ended up on a late-night rescue mission after Dazz and Tinks managed to drain the battery of his car and strand themselves at a nearby lake.

I was busy introducing K to Ghost, a flick I love but haven’t seen in years and which she ended up kind of liking, I think, when Dazz buzzed me to see if I have any jump leads.  I don’t but managed to grill him enough to find out why he needed them, at which point I decided to go get them.  Dazz tried his hardest (ish) to protest, but when I pointed out he was sat in a car park in the cold at 10.30pm with a 7-month pregnant young lady he relented.

I swung by his parents’ house to grab some jump leads (which turned out to be his anyway) and then found them sat in a secluded car park (where they’d ended up after trying to push-start the car), in the pitch black, with heavily-steamed windows.  Too many jokes presented themselves for my brain to unscramble them all quick enough, so I ended up only managing “Hello” which kind of disappointed me.

Being the mechanic I am, I bravely stood and watched Dazz as he did all the things you need to do to jump start a car, which mostly involved a tangle of wires, untangled, connected to various pieces of his engine and mine.  I started my car, he tried his, but it didn’t work.  At this point we had spent about half-an-hour WAY past the level of my expertise with cars (push peddle, make go), so we relented and got on the blower to the AA.

Telling us they’d be up to an hour and given the obscurity of our location, the helpful call-centre man told us it’d be better if we went and waited in the nearby pub so he could find us easier.  We reluctantly agreed and set our stall out in the welcoming arms of the Something-Or-Other Pub on the lakeshore and got the drinks in.

In fact, Mr AA managed to turn up almost immediately, so we did what all good friends should and sent Dazz off to deal with it while we finished our drinks.  Once we were done, we piled in my car (which was still nice and warm from having had the heater on almost-full-blast to re-warm Tinks – and me once I’d been out in the cold) and headed back to the flat, where we met Dazz, who’d had his car fixed and put back on the road and been for a drive to charge the battery and got to the flat quicker than we had got through our drinks.  Oops.

Tea was ordered, and provided, and we spent a good hour talking through the relative merits of the various Flanimals, plus whether Keighley is too far away to drive to MK every night to read Baby Ebn Apple Pear Orange Bear or if Dazz should record it as a book-on-tape.  We eventually sacked out after they’d left around 2am.

I lay in bed and didn’t sleep for, well, the whole night really.  I think they last time I checked the clock was 6.30am before my Tac-alarm woke me at 10, just long enough to down my various morning pills before zonking out again.  Next thing I know, K’s waking me up and I’m moaning at her telling her I’ve set my alarm to wake me at 11am and she’s telling me it is 11am.

Reluctantly, I rouse myself and stand under a shower for long enough for my brain to realise it’s really not going to be allowed to go back to bed, then throw on some clothes and we head out the door for our lunch date with my Godson Little R and family.

After ever the warmest of welcomes, we are fed the most amazing roast of slow-cooked beef and trimmings, which does much to brighten my day.  Stomach happy, Oli happy, everyone else happy(er) that I’m no longer grumpy.

We spend some time with R looking through his life-story book he was given by the family workers when he was adopted and we chat for a while with his ‘rents about adoption and such.  He’s got such a healthy attitude towards and such a detailed knowledge of it it’s so far away from the classic ideas you get of kids being brought up thinking they’re “natural” children then suddenly finding out when they’re 30 that they were adopted.  The way R sees it, his Mum is his Mum, but because she was poorly he couldn’t come from her tummy, so he came from the other lady’s instead.

After a couple of great fun board games (neither of which used a board, come to think of it…) R headed off to play with a friend – which he’d been dying to do all day – and we sat and chatted with D&H for a while before my tiredness finally got the better of me and we headed back home where I immediately hit the sack and slept for an hour, waking up a whole lot more grouchy than I had been before I went to bed.

To keep the grouch away, we settled on the sofa to watch another of the pile of chick-flicks K’s been lent my a friend at work, opting this time for Mean Girls – a film I’ve seen before and don’t totally hate – followed almost immediately (after a tea-visit from S&S) by Three To Tango, a movie I was almost embarrassed to find myself enjoying.  It’s no Citizen Kane, but it manages to be both totally predictable while at the same time surprising and fun.

When that’s done my eyes have had enough of being open for the day and order me to bed where I can hopefully get a good night’s rest.  With nothing much to do tomorrow, at least I can sleep till noon if I need to (minus the 5 minute wake-up call for Tac at 10).

We wake pretty late – around 10, when my Tac-alarm goes off – and slowly grind to a start.  I didn’t sleep at all well, waking up pretty much every hour, so I’m feeling decidedly sluggish, although a quick shower kick starts me very nicely.

We head across to the house to see what we can help with.  K has been there ahead of me and is knee-deep in cakes, arranging a display of confectionery to make the least-sweet toothed person fancy a nibble.  All will be on sale throughout the after noon and, come 4 o’clock, all will have been sold and many eaten.  Not least by K.

I am put to work on various bits and pieces to do with the silent auction and raffle, both of which will be running throughout.  A silent auction, for the uninitiated, is an auction in the traditional sense, but instead of having an auctioneer at the front of the room reeling off the prices and bids, each lot is given a piece of paper on which you write your bid and then keep checking to see if anyone has out bid you.  The best thing about silent auctions is that they can run a lot longer than regular auctions without really winding people up – especially the people who aren’t interested in bidding, for whom a traditional auction is the worst kind of dull.

After almost an hour of beavering away on whatever I’m set-to by the awesomely organised and surpringsly-not-in-the-least-bossy Lucinda, CF-mum and helper-in-chief to Suzanne, the lady-of-the-house who appears to currently be engaged in doing absolutely everything all at once, I have to scurry off to make myself look presentable for the incoming hoards.  I feel somewhat ashamed that the elite team of ladies have been working away since goodness-knows-when (certainly before I was awake) and my little contribution adds up to little over an hour’s stuffing things in envelopes and putting things on tables.

Still, take myself away I do and smarten myself up.  I find K knee deep in hair-product getting her new ‘Do to behave (which it does, and beautifully), slip into my posh frock (wait a sec…) and head back over to the house to be there when the throng arrives.

To my immense surprise, said throng is almost perfectly on time.  I had this crowd pegged as the fashionably-late  sort, but not a bit of it.  On the dot the majority of them came steaming in through the gates (yes, they have gates…!) and parked up in the courtyard (which you’ll remember from yesterday), unloaded themselves, their friends and – occasionally – their babies, and headed up into the house.

Once they’d all settle into the food service (aha – captive audience…), Stephen kicked things off my introducing himself, the idea behind the marathon and the reasons he and the rest of the team were involved.  Then he introduced me (and I’ll forgive him the “brave” comment purely because it’s the only foot he put wrong the whole time I was there…) and I was left to fend for myself in front of 2 rooms full of 100+ ladies (I didn’t count because then I’d just have got all wound up about it).

When I speak in public, I tend to talk without notes.  I usually know how I’ll start and I like to plan something punchy to end on (although Stephen stole the “downhill” joke from me in his intro, so that was that scuppered), but the rest of it is left up to the mood of the room and the feel of the day.  What that mostly means is that I often talk for 10-15 minutes and finish off having absolutely no idea what I’ve just said.  You’ll have to talk to someone else who was there to find out if I was a) interesting or b) any good, but I was happy enough I hadn’t droned on for hours nor been too deathly dull, although one can never tell.

Managing to get myself some lunch afterwards, I got a few appreciative nods and comments from people, which was good, and the silent auction seemed to start to rattle along a bit after in-speech plugs from Stephen and I.  Unwinding from the talk and chatting to the guests, it was good to hear a number of people being educated for the first time about CF – although it’s hard to imagine that there’s anyone out there who’s not heard of it, the truth is it’s rarer than a lot of conditions.  The advantage of introducing it to people for the first time – especially at a fundraiser – is that they often want to do something immediately to help out.  When you combined the charitable urge with the enormous efforts the marathon team are putting in, I was hopeful we’d give the team a decent boost to their sponsorship coffers.

I can’t express my admiration for these guys enough.  Not only have they completed other marathons together, they are now working as a team to meet the challenge of the world’s highest marathon – a feet so insane and counter-intuitive that I simply can’t contemplate it.  And they’re doing it all – off their own backs – to raise money for the  CF Trust and help them pursue their gene-therapy trials in the search for effective treatment and – one day, maybe – a cure for this horrible disease that takes too many lives.

I’m one of the lucky ones who’s been given a second chance at life – a second crack of the whip.  There are still too many children and young adults who only get the briefest, quietest crack and who we lose every week.

Please, please, if you are as inspired by their efforts and their self-lessness as I am, if you are even remotely touched by their attitude and sense of adventure, if you have any concept just how hard a marathon is, let along one at the base of the world’s highest mountain, go to their Just Giving page and leave a donation – it doesn’t matter how small, every tiny bit counts.  And if you know any benevolent marathon runners, pass on the link, let them see how insane it is for themsevles and get them to leave a donation , too – www.justgiving.com/THCF

At the end of the afternoons activities, having drawn the raffle (and walked away with a food mixer and Christmas hamper!), closed the silent auction and totted up cash donations through tickets, raffle and cake sales to inexcess of £2,300, plus cheques totalling more than £1800 and over £3000 in auction lots, I was well and truly shattered.  Surpsingly so, in fact, but I think the combination of a bad night’s sleep, adrenaline and nerves from the talk and being on my feet for almost 5 hours straight had taken their toll and I needed a kip.

Excusing ourselves in the middle of clear up (here comes the guilt again…), K and I headed up to our room and laid ourselves out for an hour to recharge.  When I woke, I plodded back over to the house and met up with the rest of the marathon team who had joined remains of the day (with the exception of Jodie, who couldn’t come for cross-infection reasons with me).  Both Guy and Barry are exceptionally nice blokes and seeing the hilarity as they tried on some of their cold-weather mountain gear and their thermal sleeping backs and blow-up matresses almost made me wish I was going with them.  then I remembered they were running a marathon on Everest and the urge miraculously disappeared.

In the evening, K and I took ourselves off into the centre of Durham (thanks to Alex’s wonderfully kind taxi service) for a nice meal between the two of us, followed by a walk up to the Cathedral to wave at Castle.

When we got back we sat and chilled with Family Cronin for a while, catching up on the day’s gossip and chatting about all sorts of various disparate subjects from the Mac vs. PC debate to modern horror films and shooting stage plays.

By the time I’d got to the bottom of my beer it was pushing 11 and I was acutely aware that everyone had things to do tomorrow, not least the two of us to make our way all the way back down South.  We were already imposing on the family a day longer than we’d expected to (after I realised the inherent foolishness off trying to drive home from the party in the afternoon as tired as I was), so I wanted to inconvenience them as little more as we could manage.

We headed back to the room, brewed a cuppa, sloped into bed and I don’t know about K but I was asleep within minutes of hitting the pillow.

… I was flat on my back in intensive care having just had my rubbish old blowers swapped out for a pair of shiney new ones.  And what a corking pair they’ve turned out to be, too.  Already I’m off galavanting around the country meeting new people, doing new things, catching up on the life I missed out on for most of the last 12 months and more before my op.

I’m reminded today of how special a gift my new lungs are – and just how lucky I am – by the simple horrible day a dear friend of mine has had.  A CF-sufferer like me, she’s been on the Tx list quite a while now (rather embarrassingly I don’t know how long), but last night she got the call she’d been waiting for.  After the usual battery of tests, they sent her down to theatre and put her under.  They even got as far as beginning the surgery.  And then something – no one knows quite what – happened with the new lungs and the whole thing was called off.

Now, I had my fair share of false alarms in my time on the list, but this goes WAY beyond anything I evere had to deal with.  There’s disappointment and then there’s this – it’s so far beyond anything I can imagine I can’t even find the right word to describe it.  I feel devastated and it’s not even me it’s happened to.  So for those of you who are so inclined, Scotland could do with some of your happy thoughts right now.

As for me, well I seem to be generating my own happy thoughts for the time being.  So busy have I been in generating the happy thoughts, I’m now being berated on all sides for the lack of updates on the blog.  I have to admit, rather sheepishly, that I hadn’t even realised it had been a full week since my last update.

So I’m now going to diligently recount the last few days for all those curious people out there – keep your eyes on the earlier dates for the week (yes, I can back-date my entries – a fact which appears to have eluded some of my fair readers over the last couple of weeks…) to see what I was getting up to, which will form some sort of very lame defence of my lack of bloggage.

Thoughts and prayers to Scotland, please – Heaven knows she needs them.

With tremendous excitement, K and I load up the car and head back Northwards to Durham for the second time in a month. Bizarrely, as we arrive off the A1(M) and head into town under the Castle and Cathedral, artistically lit and welcoming, it feels like coming home. Odd that you can get that feeling on just your second trip, but there you go. If it weren’t for K and uni, I get the feeling we’d already be house-hunting.

The day started on a more mundane level, with K heading off to work, me getting through a chunk of email stuff from the weekend which was demanding my attention and then managing to scoot off to the gym, know it’s pretty unlikely I’ll see it again till Thursday.

I come home and rest up after my work-out, getting in an hour’s nap before grabbing some lunch, tidying the flat a little, then heading off to pick up K from work and start the journey upwards.

We get on surprisingly well on the trip, managing it door-to-door in about 4-and-a-half hours, which includes a stop on the motorway and minor detour through Durham, plus un petit hiccup finding our final destination.

Said destination was the house of Dr Stephen Cronin, a – frankly – complete madman who’s taking on the Everest Marathon at the end of May along with a team of friends including a runner who suffers from CF.

The house – and family – are both gorgeous and delightful, even if the former is somewhat overrun with preparations for tomorrow’s lunch for the ladies of Durham at which I am to talk and try to increase the sponsorship coffers of the Tenzing-Hilary Marathon team.

The Tenzing-Hilary Marathon is bonkers. Also known as the Everest Marathon it does exactly what it says on the tin – you walk/hike/trek for 12 days to Everest Base Camp and then – because clearly there’s nothing better to do – you run 26.2miles back down the slopes you’ve just come at an altitude which roughly halves the amount of oxygen in the atmosphere. You’d have to be crazy to even think about attempting it, let alone fill in the application form, so I’m bowled over by the fact that Stephen appears – at least at first sight – to be completely sane, a minor penchant for running silly distances not withstanding.

It says something for the family, though, that their eldest son, Alex, has accompanied his dad on all of his 4 marathons so far and is gutted – yes, really, honest-to-God disappointed – not to be able to do this one too, wrapped up as he will be in exams.

Still training doesn’t appear to be so hardcore at the moment that Stephen can’t kick back a little bit and we were treated to a lovely Chinese take-away not long after our arrival, which is always a sure-fire way to win me over.

Shattered from the journey and mindful of the big day ahead tomorrow, we retire early to our accommodation on-site at their Coach House guest house across the courtyard. (Yes, their house is big enough for a courtyard…). For anyone even thinking about visiting Durham, this is undoubtedly the place to stay. I have no second-thoughts about a large and blatant plug for the place here, as it is one of the nicest places I’ve ever stayed in and so wonderfully close to the centre of Durham by car, too. Click here to check it out.

We’re hugely lucky to be given our bed, bathroom, kitchen and sofa gratis and even get a lovely little welcome pack of breakfast bits-and-bobs to see us through. The attention to detail is amazing and K and I spend at least 15 minutes exchanging “oooh, look”s at each other as we find something new and cool.

The place fully explored and long, hot, travel-cleansing shower taken, we hit the sack and attempt to get in a good night’s rest before tomorrow’s event.