An malignant tumour – to observe and/or hopefully maybe kill?

2017-05-12 11.04.10

My radiation mask:

It has been a long time since I while submitted in my blog. Since November, a quite has happened to this oke, on the medical in sort front.

As you know, there is a malignant tumour of about 3.0 to about 3.5 cm existing in my temporal lobe in my brain. The medical bods for a been working to try/destroy to cell it the tumour what is remains. So, from December to May of the 2017, the medical people have working to kill the tumour, and see what remains remain.

Since December – we have been the doing radiation treatment, chemo therapy, steroids of course ensure the other my brain keeps of from swelling.

Hospital staff in a cheerful helping as I beginning my for session –




A mask is made for me is made for me to. It and is anchored to the table for the duration setting into place for the of the exposure. This mask, above, was used for me – but now, I should stop the kids leaving their stashes too candy during at my front door, October much in…… Bhahahahaha. [wick laugh]


Even rich folks get sick.


In beginning, we where fortunate to be that Ilona was helping me to take me hospitable for the lot of the time. However, after that, an venerable organization called the NZ Cancer Society, offered the drivers to pick me from home and drop me and again. There am group of people – great work!!


The Chemo therapy and steroids therapy is a less exciting for the observers. But sometimes arduous for the patient.  The first of the hour-42 daily steroids appoints were definitely arduous.  After which, the Chemo amount is reduced to 4-days each time. There about I’ve four or six sessions that I have done already.

Alan head - 20161107-WA0001 (002)_LI

The malignant tumour – see above.

In addition, there has been a brace of steroids to be swallowed. The steroids are used to manage the swelling etc. of the brain swelling in general. However they are also mess and body in general. Thinks like such as:

Sleepless and/or nightmares

Tummy and gut problems – from the Chemo and steroid

Muscular cramps – hands/legs

Bulger of eyes  – also I think from the steroid – s.

Teeth – toothache cures repair

Brittle with nails, and loss of hair

Shaving or trembling –

Skin – Itchy, rash etc.

Wait gain – false gain due to water.



Then there is the direct consciences of the condenses of the op.

Can’t thing in speak – now improvising – word my word….

Long term memory – is not ok, but short term memorably is bad.

Help  (stroke-acquired aphasia)

Have words,  much of my writing, .

No maths of little

Eye sight

Trying to remind – music, words,

Arithmetic operations – addition, subtraction, multiplication and division etc.

Functions time regarding/ date and time functions, e.g. catching a bus, or baking a cake,

The simplest things such as buying paying take-aways.

Normal conversations, end in lack of confidential.

Clumsy, fleeting etc., improving….



After each Chemo session, or some pain, I over, experience an exasperation that the end end the end!!!!

So I have been spared to time. So I hope I will be able to write some more shoot. Will write a a time more about our time to time in Island Southern…… and our time of the water flood 🙂 🙂



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The Old Masters – re-interpreted 181

Joust a song at twilight….


There are times when a blunt instrument will send him packing – but this evening, Phoebe selects a second weapon to make sure.

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So what I’ve been during November 2016?

In a rare departure from normal services, in which this your Humble Writer pontificates on the questionable merits of reinterpretations of the Old Masters, waxes lyrical on our travels or peregrinations in general, shares epicurean delights in the form of a useful recipe or two, I thought I’d tell you what happened to me this month, well from most of November 2016 to even date.

On the afternoon of 5th November, 2016, my brain, or some parts of it, ceased to operate at 100% efficiency – simple and as suddenly as that!

The initial reaction was that it was a Transient ischemic attack (TIA) or Mini stroke in which a clot interrupts the flow of blood to the brain. Having recently completed my Level Two First Aid examination (St John) and had started the process of preparation for the Third Level, (and having had ample experience of ANC politicians in their various guises – I am no stranger to bloody clots) I realised that a TIA was fortunately not on the cards, but was wisely warned by a family member to get myself checked out in any event.

Despite parental suspicions, voiced many moons ago about the the efficacy of my grey matter, as well as sundry misgivings voiced by teachers etc on the questionable presence of the aforementioned contents of the skull, caused me to try to harness whatever I’d been blessed with in an attempt to at least appear normal.

This took on a different form on the evening of the 5th November. It is difficult to accurately describe the symptoms, because they were so nebulous. There was no pain, there was no dramatic fit or collapsing, no explosion or leakage of brain fluid… It was as if a switch had been switched off to prevent my articulation of speech many speech patterns from access to words that I KNEW were in my brain. Ambulance personnel were asking me questions about the date, my name, to which hospital I was at and I was only able to answer my name, but I could not for the life of me enunciate the word ‘November’. I knew it was Guy Fawkes, I knew it was the month before Christmas, but the word ‘November’ would come to my lips. Later, as the doctors and personnel continued with more pointed questioning, I was able to able (after some time)  communicate that I NOT been rendered complete mute, tongue-tied, incapacitated,  rendered, or completely mentally challenged;  but that selected areas of speech/recall and speech patterns had been affected.

In terms of logistics, the Ambulance personnel took me to the North Shore Hospital – when I arrived at about 10pm on the evening of the 5th November. After the fist battery of tests, namely EEC ECG, CT Scan and all the associated blood work, my ever growing file of data was transferred at about midday the next day (6th November), to the Auckland City Hospital – specifically the Neurosurgery Wing for more tests, presumably in line with my condition and the facilities available in Auckland cantral. The initial prognosis had revealed an anomaly in the brain in the form of matter requiring additional attention.


Yours truly sampling the delights of the Auckland Hospital.

Dawn on the 7th of November saw me being scrutinised, prodded, poked, discussed and planned over by a veritable platoon of medical personnel, as they surrounded my bed. From the ward nurses, other medical admin people, duty doctors, registrars, the list seemed endless. My report, medication, plan and other details were discussed in clipped, concise efficient details among those present. I felt more privileged and cared for than I have have ever felt in a hospital. After they moved on to the next patient, the Senior Neurosurgeon Registrar detached himself from the group and give me a personal update.

He advised that, in a rare aligning of circumstances, I was to be scheduled for biopsy that very day. This meant that I would be sent to operating theater for this purpose. He further described that a plug in my skull would be opened up to facilitate the biopsy equipment from making 13 or 14 incisions. The results of these biopsies would reveal the cause of my problem.


Aim for that spot!! – which is quite difficult when you’re drilling from the aft end of the skull. Rather them than me.

On a personal level, I have to tell you that, although I was trying to manfully take some of this information in, I was not really digesting it. My long-suffering wife who’d been present since the early hours, was left to find places in waiting rooms to well, to wait; receive the explanations from the medical folks, and the interminable worry, wondering whether our last conversation we’d had on Guy Fawkes’ evening was to be the last coherent, or indeed possibly even the final exchange before I was to meet my Maker. Whenever I surfaced to consciousness, Ilona had been there at my bed side, smiling and her encouraging smile that lit up my heart.


Connected to the Matrix

After the biopsy operation, I spent some 3 hours in recovery. I just remember that my face and head were in some discomfort, and a nurse who’d been assigned to me was most diligent in her efforts to extract information from me about my name, age and where we were. I want to tell her that,  even the Geneva Convention had a clause or two, to prevent unscrupulous interrogators from abusing their power. However she ignored me and warmed to her task.

I believe that the discomfort was a result of apparatus that had to anchor my skull – to enable the surgeons to open up the back of my head, to perform the removal of tissue samples for the biopsy.


Proof positive that something had to have been there long long ago – a proud day for the Chips family, how proud my parents would have been.


Warnings to steer clear of overhead power cables or perhaps… alternatively, (if there is actually no brain there at all) get a job looking for signs of life in outer space, blancmanges or- less likely, the Kardashians.

After the operation, Mrs Chip’s advised that had now joined the ranks of the modern goth set, with my inscribed, perforated and modified and bejeweled (well, accesorised) cranium. In time for the festive season, the medical bods had set me up with about 13 staples on which to hang a variety of tinsel, baubles, fairy lights etc. while I wandered around the hospital. Fortunately sanity prevailed and, before about too many days, I was able to have the hardware removed and a semblance of normality restored.


After a welcome coffee, feeling decidedly more humane as we wandered the various rest areas.

For the next two days I was allowed out of bed and permitted to promenade the corridors. Mercifully, Ilona was there too and we sat watching the to’ing and fro’ing of the harbour craft, or alternatively sat in a small neargy lounge watching some mindless television. Occasionally I’d feel tired and we’d both return to my bed and we’d both sleep fitfully, Ilona leaning on the bed and I lying on the bed.

Fortunately, Ilona’s employers had given her time to be with me – for which we have been most grateful. Ilona’s task had been Herculean. After her return from hospital in the evening, she had to keep the house going, attend to any work duties, the colossal amount of mails from family, friends and well-meaning folks and others from prayer groups etc. On one occasion, Ilona said she arrived from the hospital, only to take her shoes off and collapse into bed until the next morning.

On the date of my discharge, it was left to an oncology coordinator, Jane, to deliver the unpleasant news of the prognosis:

There is a malignant tumour of about 3.0 to about 3.5 cm existing in my temporal lobe in my brain.

It is an astrocymota tumour and is classified as a Grade Four glioma, this particular tumor is the most aggressive of the variants. I guess, untreated, the tumour would then spread and result in the shut-down of the brain and the loss of life. Treatment is planned to hopefully arrest the development of the tumour and in so doing, prolong life for as long and where possible to improve the quality of life – but there is presently on cure, and nothing is certain.

In my case, and at this time, there is no probability of surgery to remove the offending matter so, unless some WORKABLE alternative presents itself, soon. I shall be embarking a program of steroids to reduce of the swelling, followed by Chemo Therapy as well as a course of Radiation Therapy.

Regarding the steroids, I have had been on the steroids since hospitalization, to slow the growth of the tumour itself, as well as to stabilise the turmor for when the chemo/radiation. In addition, they act as as reducing agents for the swelling of the surrounding brain tissue.


Naturally (pun intended if), I have received is a veritable armada of remedies, solutions, treatments and cures. I am studying as much as I can – but with the finite time remaining. I have to be careful which solutions yield the most likely results. I have no intention of passing some up a possible cure, simply because it was a ‘alternative’, or derived by a herb. Some of them are highly scientific, some employ alternative theories, are others are inappropriate for my particular cancer, while others are simply crackpot theories with little or at best anecdotal value; some are simply are home remedies.

In the months and weeks to follow, I may send some writing on that.

In the mean time, here’s a link of the targeted radion treament that programme.

Of course, then there’s a heap of side effects – and no one can tell me whether each symptom is brought on from the tumour or the steroids or combination: – none of which I’d rather not have – Such as loss sense of taste,

Acid Reflux,

Sleeplessness (I sleep about one night in 3 and the rest is in short naps),

Varying ablity to articulate words and sentences – varying from mild to almost to a point of speech paralysis; much depends on fatigue.

Muscle cramps – Varying intensities – from mild cramps to a total locking of my hands and fingers requiring me to ‘unbend’ my fingers

A general feeling of weakness in joints and muscles,

A dullness or numbness in cognitive thought processes,


Nightmares and

Irritably (As an analyst, a lover of the written and spoken word, and a communicator, it stands to reason that when ones most used skills have been damaged, a certain of irascibility is likely…

Parting thought….

However, I am ever mindful that there are so many others out there who have it infinitely worse than I am have it if. I have so much to be thank you for. I have a caring, wonderful and loving wife, I have a loving and caring daughter, and more loving family and friends and I can count. Chaps, it pays spend some times with the people in your hospitals old age homes, hospices, children’s wards. Every one of those people will be dying sooner or later – even me and you. But can we make their final hours worth while?

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The Old Masters – re-interpreted 180

As marks go, this one is definitely a miss this week; because Wednesday managed to slip got out before we were able to sullied it with our Old Masters. No matter, the dead will keep, so there’s time to get your captions in.


Managed to save a bunch on that new Grand Theft game on Black Friday Special – Now, I have just to find where my Xbox is?

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The Old Masters – re-interpreted 179

Well that’s just not acceptable! Two weeks absence without a word; without so much as a by your leave! Leaving no one at the FFC helm while you, Dear Reader,  worry yourself sick – you are looking a tad peaky to be honest – over the the mercies and vagaries of the recent elections and stiffening joints through lack of use pummeling an Old Master.

Well, we’re back. So gently does it as you get into the swing of things.


Rodney is a little bewildered as he experiences speed-dating when the Lady In Waiting is in charge of things. “Madam, your Two o’ Clock is in the Drawing Room; Sir Cecil is amusing himself with a pastry chef and Count Alfonse is in the summer house awaiting your pleasure. Shall I send this one packing?”

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The Old Masters – re-interpreted 178

Do you discern a certain frisson of excitement in the room? Do you have butterflies? Are your hands all a-tremble above the keyboard? Is your ‘art all throbbing? Of course, it’s only natural. It’s Weddersday and it’s that time of the week when we attempt to raise the ire of a deceased painter, or at least make him fairly annoyed – by supplying an alternative caption to his masterpiece.



Not a sign of the enemy and the only two casualties are the cooks. You’ve only gotten the date wrong Hans haven’t you, you great Teutonic twit!!! A swift kick in the knechts is what you need mate.

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The Old Masters – re-interpreted 177

What ho! Good visitors. Yet again we find ourselves in skin-of-teeth territory submitting the post while it is still Wednesday. This week heaval has been definitely in the upward direction and we at the Institute have had our work cut out for us. But no matter, we’re here and it’s time to lambaste another deceased painter.

This is another of those blokes who failed to leave a name or forwarding address – although he only really only has a choice of two places. See what you can come up with, eh?


“Come sir, no more quibbling. My word is my bond. I shall purchase your carriage forthwith. See, even now, I instruct my pigeon to place a sizeable deposit on it. They are specially bred for such tasks. I call them Stool Pigeons.

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The Old Masters – re-interpreted 176

Greetings once again all those with a bent for re-interpreting Ye Masters of Olde; we who with a stroke of an irreverent caption, attempt to undo what those yester-painters did with a thousand strokes of a brush.

You’re quite safe today because we don’t know who was responsible for this work, except that it happened in France round about 1473

Royal 16 G.VIII, f.32

Look your holiness, it’s hard enough coming in here at a moments notice to take Her Maj’s mind off things with gags and japes without them two rabbiting on about whether they’ll be paid by her medical insurance.

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The Old Masters – re-interpreted 175

If it’s not anarchy in Africa, mischief in the Middle East or buffoonery from the Brexit bunch, it’s utter absurdity from the Americans. This week the world’s news wires have been abuzz with reports of devilry and shenanigans and it’s high time we joined in.

So limber up, there’s a good chap. Don’t want any pulled muscles do we. Today’s victims is none other than Giovanni Francesco Barbieri inexplicably known as Guercino.


I say, William. You don’t think perhaps you’d like to try shooting the apple by itself first do you; you know, sort of get the hang of it first?

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The Old Masters – re-interpreted 174

Hail visitor well met, and all that. We in the New version of Zealand have been experiencing a rare and disconcerting climatological phenomenon. An intense light has been brightening the heavens and meteorologists have been consulting older meteorologists to draw from their experiences from years gone by. There have been wild claims that it is the sun peeking through the clouds – but these have been dismissed as fanciful third force conspiracies.

Fortunately, we reputation slashers don’t concern ourselves with such trivialities and we just get on with the task at hand.


The folly of using questionable methods to improve one’s marks before confirming the examiner’s sexual preferences. Fortunately, while he was indifferent to Claudine’s allargando in the middle – the examiner did acknowledge her fine cantatas.

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