Well done Kate

It is tough talking about cancer. When I was a child people never used the word, as if the very mention of it might bring on the dreaded disease. I assumed anyone unfortunate enough to have that diagnosis, would inevitably die in the near future. Talking about it the other day with a friend, I recalled my aunt, who apparently - though I doubt I knew at the time because I was a young teenager and they didn't tell me things like that - had breast cancer in her fifties.  She had a mastectomy, and lived on to her later eighties, accumulating many prostheses and a new husband too.  It was my job to remove them, the prostheses that is, (one in every drawer it seemed) when I cleared out her cottage upon her demise. 

Everyone now knows someone with cancer or who has had cancer. What they probably don't know are the people who have had cancer about which no-one knows; or everyone but their close relatives had forgotten had cancer. I often think we should have a "living with cancer/I've had cancer" day when we all identify ourselves.  It's all around us - a veritable epidemic. 

So well done Kate for telling us your story and well done Your Majesty for starting the ball rolling by admitting to yours. I'm rooting for you and I know millions of people will be praying for you both to recover and to lead a long a happy life. When I was on my journey, I'm not sure if it was the knowledge that people were praying for me, sending me positive vibes, just wishing for my wellbeing, or what, but I did feel as if I was being carried along on a tide of good wishes. So for both of you, I wish you that feeling and the reality of total healing too. 

19th July 2023

I knew there was something familiar about 19 July, yet when I looked in my diary today there was nothing scheduled.  Then onto my Facebook page came a memory from last year, when I'd posted a post-surgery x-ray image of my lungs. Ah - it's that anniversary again. The x-ray is on this blog somewhere, showing how my thorax had rearranged itself with everything below the diaphragm vying for additional space. I can't recall if I told you last year, but I have the distinct impression that my oesophagus is now slightly angled towards the right, which would make sense if my stomach has wangled itself a bit more room.

As far as I know, and how do we ever know, I am cancer free. Life in those intervening 12 years has been eventful with the loss of my second parent and a couple of years ago a house move to nearer our family and all that comes with that.  Yes, it was stressful and I strongly recommend nobody over 70 years moves house. You're just not physically and mentally quite so adjustable at that age as you were in your 30s. 

It is lovely here, seeing grandchildren every day - we now have 9 in total. Looking back I see we were in the grip of a heatwave this time last year but I do recall just how hot it was in July 2011 when Vladimir gave me my life back. Not only had I survived the grim reaper I was several stone lighter. I only wish I could find it easy to return to the austere diet that gave me a size 14 bottom that summer. I was stupid to let weight pile on again and maybe, just maybe, when I update you again next July (or maybe sooner) I'll have achieved that size 14 bottom once more. 

In the meantime, dear reader, thanks for getting this far through my ramble here. I metaphorically and maybe actually this evening, raise my glass to my wonderful consultant and surgeon and all those other folk who cared for me during my treatment in a toast of gratitude. Here's to you all you fabulous NHS people!

Another year and another big thank you to Vladimir who removed the remaining cancer and two of my lung lobes eleven years ago to the day.  What an auspicious day too. The day that temperature records were broken - in the days since records have been kept of course. Commentators keep forgetting to make that distinction and I do wonder about the Romans and why they would have bothered to hang around if the weather hadn't been suitable for growing vines.

It was a fraction under 40 degrees in the shade here (pretty well the centre of the country) this afternoon and I thought it might be good to record for posterity what it was like living under that plume of hot air which has shot up from Africa. Of course things have changed since the 1970s when measurement was in Fahrenheit and I have done some conversions in the last few hours, just to get my head around what we were talking about to compare with the 70s.

The heat seemed bad yesterday and I have to admit to being sceptical about the doomsayers' proclamations for today, but the forecasters were entirely right. The heat built from early morning and thank goodness I put my pot plants into the shade a couple of days ago. Some leaves on other shrubs have literally been fried today.

So how did we manage? We are lucky to have blinds in this house so we shut those against the sun, and closed curtains over them in one case, and lived in semi darkness not doing much for the day. Windows all remained closed because it was far cooler inside; just opening the front door you met a wall of heat. 

Psychologically the whole thing was unnerving especially when we watched lunchtime TV and saw the terrible sights of fields on fire with flames running with the wind into housing. People clearly were losing their homes. London emergency services have been having a terrible time, as has pretty well every other region.

I know when I've got three jumpers on and am complaining that the house just isn't warm enough in the middle of the winter to come, it will be difficult to recall today again. It was hotter than anything I've ever encountered before - even when camping during the summer of 1976. The big question now is, if that is going to become the norm, do we order the external shutters and paint the house white now, or do we wait for the next time to see if the prophesies are correct?

The spring has certainly sprung here in the UK and as I look out of the window of what I still consider to be our "new" house - although we've been here a year - I'm looking at a tree burdened by white blossom. It's wonderful too that it's been unseasonally warm and we've had wall-to-wall blue skies on several days and just a few fluffy clouds on others. The plan to gather vitamin D post-winter is going well.

To the best of my ability I believe I am still well although I am aware that Easter and chocolate have taken some toll. I really do need to avoid sugar completely for a few months to regain my post-surgery sylph-like figure. I wonder if that will happen? Hm.

Anyway, I'm just writing this to tell you that all is well.

So that was 2021

I can't quite believe that it was well over a year since I last posted and the only reason that I am doing so today is that I know that some will stumble on my tale and wonder what happened to me and probably make wrong assumptions.

I'm still here and I'm still hale and hearty. We moved to be nearer the children - so that we could walk to them and they to us, in March of this year. The stress of so doing was incredible; I cannot begin to tell you what it's like leaving a community in which you've been heavily involved for 50 years and a house that you've lived in for 46. But we did it and we're now more or less sorted. The re-assembling your life after a move doesn't stop when you unpack the last box. No, there are all the firsts to navigate: the first summer and the first Christmas. There are all sorts of traditions and habits that you had down to a fine art which require re-designing. The anniversary of the move comes in the spring.

Being minus two lung lobes made me reluctant to make the acquaintance of the virus but it's now very near us and we believe we have been exposed so it's lateral flow each morning. I'm not as worried now and I'm learning to live with the whole thing but it's been hard, harder I think than facing my illness. Yes, that's over ten years ago now and I'm still here. 

So to whomsoever is reading this, my apologies for not updating sooner, but I'm alive and well as far as I'm aware and looking forward to the sun shining a lot more in 2022, both literally and metaphorically. May you be blessed with happiness, contentment and peace in the new year.

Thank you Vladimir!

Well, it's nine years ago today since Vladimir successfully extracted my two lower lung lobes and once again I salute his expertise. On such an auspicious day I thought it appropriate that I should once again write a post.

We three are effectively still in lockdown and likely to remain so. I experienced a slight psychological wobble after carrying out an online study - I seem to be doing a lot of these questionnaires at the moment - about my mental health.  It was only when trying to answer honestly I realised that I wasn't really OK.  But it seems to have been a mere wobble, lasting just a few days,  and now the sun's out and everything seems so much happier.

We haven't touched our children or our children's children since the middle of March. The lack of cuddles and close proximity is hard; having a large family means that we can't bubble with one to the exclusion of others. When the children go back to school in September, the risk will increase so distancing will be the norm for a long time I fear.

I am about to toast Vladimir, and I think I must once again write to him to tell him I'm OK and so very very grateful. No amount of thanks ever seems enough. :)

Life's settling down

It's very strange this new life. For me, it has changed very little. I was quite house-centric in the first place. I have never been one of those people who has to go out and about all the time. I like my firm and solid base.

Today is the first day that I've thought "what shall I do today?" because so far I've had a never-ending list of things that had various degrees of urgency attached to them. Those tasks have been interspersed with Zoom (it's a communication platform where you can talk to several people at once) meetings, song circles, virtual ceilidhs, chats with the children and grandchildren. I've put down the job I've been doing every time the sun has comes out; Vitamin D is so important to protect against bronchial viral and bacterial infections I gather. Here's an interesting video on the topic.

Those people who are super vulnerable have received letters from their GPs and I can only presume that I'm not, as I haven't had that letter. Despite that, I'm keeping clear of anyone and everyone who doesn't live with me.

For those who are reading this and not resident in the UK, we have a regime here which has basically locked-down all but essential workers. We're advised to take exercise once a day, but unnecessary journeys are discouraged. Put it this way, if you drive up to the Peak District to have a nice day out and a picnic, you're likely to be asked to account for your actions by the local police force. There is legislation available should the authorities need to take enforcement action, and it's being used in extreme cases. For instance, one chap decided to walk into and around a hospital for no good reason. Her Majesty has very generously made him her guest for a period. Very sensibly in my opinion.

A neighbour here has been shopping for us but I really don't want her to be taking risks so I stayed up late and managed to book a delivery slot with one of the online retailers last night. With deliveries of things beside milk from the milkman, we should soon be self-reliant, which I would prefer.

The worst thing for me about all this is the constant and unremitting media coverage and the biased stories and uninformed comment. I keep myself pretty well up-to-date with news direct from the news source and really resent re-hashed and  inaccurate stories from the major players. You would think wouldn't you, that in the circumstances, they would be more responsible - but no.

One thing that has surprised me is that I'm sleeping so soundly. I had a few bad nights at the start, before we were locked down, but since the imposition of rules I've found sleep easy to come by. Strange but true.

The Virus - Day 7

It's been a while now hasn't it? Don't go looking for a post The Virus Day 1 because there isn't one. This is my first comment on the subject.

Well, here I am, day 7 of our self-imposed isolation.  Actually cannot recall much about the past week, except that the news has become more and more gloomy and the choices more and more difficult.

Living, as I do, with 3/5 of my lungs, and two other vulnerable people, we've decided to batten down the hatches and live with the support of the younger folk who have mobilised marvellously in just a few days. It seems strange not to be at the centre of things, doing the organising.

There's part of me that think "just let's get this over with" and wanting to contract the virus so that I can either die or survive, at which point I guess I'd be immune.  But that is clearly a daft thought, though I'd wager that tens of thousands have thought the same thing. 

The daughter of a friend of ours had already had it and we've heard a description. She got very frightened, but then she's probably never been faced with something that she feared might kill her before. It is undoubtedly the fear that is the worst; the fear of the unknown I guess.

So what am I doing? Well actually I've been incredibly busy in the last week - not, before you ask,  stocking up with toilet rolls. We already buy those in bulk, as I do hand wash. No, I've been setting up various accounts to enable me to take place in virtual meetings. There's also been work to do with organisations that I'm involved with making decisions on whether or not to hold various meetings or continue with plans for things in the summer.

This week will be a consolidation of actions that I need to take, much sitting in the sun as it looks as if it's going to shine in order boost my Vitamin D and perhaps some much needed excercise, again with a view to fending of The Virus. 

So for those reading this in years to come, where are we now? Well the past seven days have seen various actions on the part of the government: closure of schools, closure of all leisure venues, arrangements for the care of key workers' children, guarantees of salarly payments and today, takeover of the railways which it is reported have had a 70% downturn in use. Unnecessary travel frowned upon. Lack of social distancing condemned, but so far no draconian measures.  Pubs were full on the last night of their opening on Friday and that tells you something about the stupidity of some people.

The sun is out again today, it's warm. Yesterday two of us played some music in the garden to entertain the neighbours. So far so good. 

Merry Christmas one and all!

As we roll on into Christmas I am always reminded of the start of my chemotherapy, which I chose to begin on 19th December. That year I sat cuddled in blankets on the day itself, feeling a bit queasy, and dozing in front of the TV.

It seems ages ago now, and here I am still hale and hearty as far as I can discern, and ready for Christmas tomorrow and then in a few days to greet a new year.  For that I am most thankful and grateful to all those lovely chemo nurses, my naturopathic nutritionist, my Journey therapist, numerous friends who provided contacts and advice, all those who prayed for my survival, my amazing family,  my consultant, my reiki therapist, my oncologist and my brilliant surgeon, plus the numerous staff at the three hospitals who did tests, took blood, arranged x-rays. Thank you all for my life.  Here's to 2020!

Eight years and counting

I almost missed the anniversary of my surgery. Well, actually I did. It was two days ago.  Eight years previously on this day I was in hospital with chest drains and an epidural recovering from the removal of the lower two lobes of my right lung.

Today I'm hale and hearty, a little overweight and very glad to be here. I and my best beloved have six grandchildren, the oldest about to finish an apprenticeship, the youngest just one year old. We see them all often. Life is good and we'll celebrate our golden wedding later this year.

If you're reading this because you've been following my story you'll have heard about the damage that chemo did to nerves in my feet and to a certain extent in my fingers.  Well, I was thinking the other day that I can't be sure that some recovery hasn't taken place. Put it this way, my feet feel normal now. Maybe I've just got used to it.  Apart from that (it's called peripheral neuropathy by the way), I think I'm much as I was before the whole adventure started. I still get a bit short of breath walking uphill, but then at my age (approaching 70 fast now) that's hardly surprising and it's no different to how I was before my brush with cancer.

I posted here some years ago ago an x-ray image of my chest, at my last check-up I think it was, My right remaining lung lobe did its best to fill the void, and my diaphragm was moving up. I suspect it moved even further, because these days I can't help feeling that my oesophagus is probably veering slightly to my right (because it can!)  So I looked the image out the other day and it rather confirms the feeling I have when I eat.. Fascinating isn't it? 

Isn't science just wonderful!  The fact that my surgeon could reach inside and cut away the bad bit, stitch me up, and here I am eight years later.  

And talking of eight, a good friend of mine, introducing me to someone the other day and telling of my little excursion into the realms of lung cancer, recounted how I'd only had an 8% chance of survival.  That was news to me, but my friend was a nurse, so she obviously knew what she was talking about.  I was gobsmacked.  I knew my chances were small but at least I thought it was 10%!  It's unbelievable that I'm still here and I'm so grateful that I am.  

A simple bread ingredient

Well, that's what they'd have you believe - but look it up and you'll find that calcium proprionate is a fungicide ingredient of some bread and other manufactured foods.  It stops them going mouldy.

I stated to investigate what caused my IBS after consuming a couple - or was it three? - hot cross buns last year, days - maybe even weeks after they should have grown legs and walked out of the bread bin.  I stuck them in the oven for a couple of minutes, lavished butter on them and consumed them eagerly and gratefully. 

The sense of them passing along the lower reaches of my alimentary canal was intense and I was able to track them most of the way or so it felt.  I was only free of discomfort when they had left me entirely.

The penny didn't drop until some weeks later when a fruit loaf was presented to me.  It was only after eating that and having a similar experience that I looked at the label.  And so began my practice of avoiding calcium proprionate. I can tell you that I'm convinced that when it comes to the chemical being "well-tolerated", that it isn't by me!

Some bread contains it, some biscuits, some other manufactured foodstuffs.  A lot of bread doesn't include it (so why is it necessary at all?!) and as a general rule (useful when presented with a buffet) French sticks are a safe bet. 

Of course it makes sense. You have a gut full of lovely bacteria and into that you put a fungicide. Is it any surprise there are resulting problems? 

Hair cut bonus

I decided that my hair had become far too long.  Because of that chemo curl - remember that? - the slightly tendency to bend which the end of my hair exhibited for a while I'd let it grow longer and longer. I'd been wearing it in a bun a great deal especially during the hot summer.

So yesterday I went to a fabulous local salon where my grandson's girlfriend is training, and offered her the opportunity to chop it off.  She immediately told me that the length that it was would make the excess suitable for the Little Princess Trust  which uses cut hair to make wigs for children and young people who have lost theirs through illness. I gather that I'm in good company as the Duchess of Cambridge has also sent some of hers.

So here 's what will get sent; the plaits.

And here's the finished result.

So not only did I get a free haircut, but hopefully someone will be wearing some strands of my hair in the future and loving their new look too.

Wishing you and yours a very happy Christmas

I didn't expect to be here with you now and further into 2019 - and it's just amazing that I am.  So to all my local followers and to those who stumble on this blog, I wish you a very happy time this season of LED lights and excessive eating.

Seven years and counting ......

Tonight I will raise a glass of red wine and drink to the health and long life of the main who ultimately saved my life by embarking on the surgery to remove two lobes of my lungs. 

For all his study, his skill, his devotion to a career that few would wish for, his experience and his undoubted expertise, I give grateful thanks to Good (and that's not a typo).

"Here's to you and our time together ...."

Cheers!

Not only, but also

I've just read on Facebook a post from someone I know who was told her cancer would kill her and in the not too distant future - in other words to use the phrase that is bandied about far to freely these days: terminal cancer.

Refusing to accept the terminal bit, she begged the oncologists to give her as much treatment as her body could stand. She's had countless rounds of chemo, three occasions of surgery, some radiotherapy; other treatments too numerous to mention and is about to start imunotherapy to be sure to be sure.  Today she posted that her onologist has told her that she is cured unless proved otherwise!

We must never say "terminal" - it's a ridiculous word given that we are all "terminal" from the moment we're born.  In my experience there are two types of people: those who when told their cancer is terminal surrender themselves to the arms of the oncologists without questioning, without querying, without learning, without taking responsibility; basically without hope.  Then there are the others, like this friend of mine, who regard the news as a personal challenge, a mountain to be climbed, a project to be carried out, an education to be acquired and a life to be regained.  No prizes for guessing who survives.

So, would it just not be sensible, instead of focusing on a worst case, to deluge newly diagnosed patients with tales of all those who have successfully conquered their afflictions and lived to tell the tale?  Methinks outcome statistics could be greatly improved by just that culture change.

It looks like an epidemic

When I was a child my mother could barely bring herself to say the word "cancer". Instead, adults would whisper about it - or talk about the "big C". I suppose it was because such a diagnosis was then almost invariably a death sentence. My family should have known better, as my aunt survived for at least twenty five years after her mastectomy.

Now we say the word right out loud and almost every week someone I know gets in touch with me wanting to know what it was that I did to help my outcome. It is either for them or for a member of their family, or perhaps a close friends. I always suggest they check out the CancerActive web site where Chris Woollams reviews all the latest research.  And I tell them about Journey Therapy and changing my diet radically.

What amazes me is the frequency with which these requests occur.  It seems to me that cancer is now an epidemic, yet officialdom does not seem to be curious about the reasons why.  Maybe it's because deep down we all know the reasons: the toxic mix of stress, nutrition-less products that pass for food, our obsession with sugar, and the background of pollution which we compound by smearing on ourselves a whole concoction of chemical products.  When you add to that the dozens of radio and other electro-magnetic frequencies which invade every space we occupy, is it any surprise that our bodies are going wrong?

And of course it's big business - cancer - that is.  Big chemical and pharmaceutical industries are dependent upon the non-stop consumption of vast quantities of their products and chemotherapy for cancer is a big money spinner. One could be forgiven for asking whether they actually want to cure cancer.  Or do they want to continue to make mega-profits from treating it?  It is an unpalatable proposition I'll admit. 

I will leave you with that thought. Just think about it the next time you're contemplating taking part in some stunt  or other, supposedly to support a major cancer charity.  Are you really helping the cause or are you just paying for more research into how to make more money out of cancer?

Six years since, dogfish and polystyrene

I was reminded by Facebook (thanks Facebook) of the date of some surprise news. I couldn't be sure exactly what the news was, so I had to go back through this blog to find out. It was the date of the appointment at which my consultant told me that I was being offered surgery. That was six years ago. The time has flown by since and it all seems a very distant memory now.

It was that reminder, dear reader, and also some conversations I've been having lately, which have caused me to put fingers to keyboard in a rare update of this blog.

The conversations were about soap and smells and memory. This got me thinking about the soap they had in the washrooms at my grammar school which in turn led me to recall the dissection of dogfish. I studied Biology at O Level - and in fact I got it twice because they awarded me an O for my failed A level two years later. Part of the course was dissection and we pulled apart frogs' brains and also dogfish. I hated the dogfish in particular because of the smell of the fish mixed with the formaldehyde. Formaldehyde is a preservative and it's what our dogfish were kept in. Without gloves we had to take up scapels and dissect these smelly fish.

It is only now that I realise there are significant health indications about formaldehyde. Thanks Wikipedia for: "In view of its widespread use, toxicity, and volatility, formaldehyde poses a significant danger to human health."
After this horrible experience, we washed out hands in very cheap soap, which obviously the school bought wholesale.  Such was my hatred of the smell of the formaldehyde and the dead dogfish that in time I began to hate the smell of that soap just as much. Imagine my horror a year later when I realised that all soap in my best beloved's parents' house was the same stuff. Every time I went to see my in-laws, I found my hands smelling of that horrible soap and hence pictures of disintegrating dogfish entered my thoughts.

Formaldehyde wasn't the only toxic substance to which my grammar school exposed me.  There was also danger in the art room where we took polystyrene tiles and, using a hot-wire contraption, we were encouraged to create sculptures. "Research has shown that when styrofoam is burnt it releases toxic chemicals and smoke that can damage the nervous system and lungs."

I'm not about to sue the education authority responsible for both the formaldehyde and the burning polystyrene but I just thought it worth recording these two exposures to toxic chemicals which occurred earlier in my life, just in case anyone researching such things ever stumbles on these ramblings.

New year, new life

These days I have joined the reflective brigade when it comes to Christmas.  I suppose, because I have now experienced 67 of them, I have many to remember. But it's strange that the predominant thought that comes into my head just before Christmas is "this is the time I started chemo". Don't get me wrong, I'm not morbid about it; not in the least. Without the chemo I wouldn't be writing this now. It's just a thought I have and it tends to predominate in the days before the festivities.

With those thoughts this year comes a new one and that is that this is the first Christmas and new year I've had since the consultant said I was cured.  So in a way I am approaching the new year with a new envigorated feeling. True I was sure I'd beaten it some years ago; but hearing the specialist say the word made it official. And officially I'm now just like the rest of you again - living my life with a peculiar derrangement of logic which makes me feel immortal.

So what I shall I do in this new year? Well, I will sort out more of the contents of this house.  I will renew my vow of buying as much as I possibly can from charity shops or at least secondhand. I will continue to help and serve those of my friends and family who need me. Is there any big project that I want to undertake? Is there anywhere I want to go? Is there any experience I want to have? No, I am quite content. Life is good just as it is.  It's so nice to be able to say that.

Here's to your new year too and I sincerely hope you can be peaceful, fulfilled and content too.

Cured of lung cancer

So today was the day, following one final CT scan, that my consultant said he regarded me as cured.

If anyone has found this blog by chance and wants to know the story, then please read the posts from early on to see what happened to me and what I did to aid my chances. 

But, just to summarise: I had a diagnosis of inoperable lung cancer back in November 2010. I was put on palliative chemo. After four doses I was given the option, or not, for another two. That all went so well  that I was offered surgery after all.  Minus two lung lobes with no residual cancer in my lymph nodes, I have been on a regular check up routine which ended today.  I have now survived over the five years which are used in cancer stats.

My gratitude to my thoracic consultant, my oncologist, my surgeon and the very many hospital and medical staff I encountered is profound. I must also thank my Journey Therapist, the hundreds of people who either prayed or aimed their positive thoughts in my direction, my friends and family for their support, my Reiki practitioner, my naturopathic nutritionist and particularly one special friend who pointed me in the right direction for research into diet and lifestyle. 

My case seemed hopeless at the start but I didn't feel hopeless. It was difficult at times but I managed to stay positive all the way through and now, almost unbelievably, I can look forward to a long life. Oh happy day!

Where we are now

Well, as no doubt I told you, originally I expected a check up every six months for three years and then one each year for the next two and then I would be signed off.  I've realised - due to the enthusiasm by my consultant and his side-kick to see me every six months - that of course when they made this prediction they didn't think I'd be around to attend any appointments. So they keep seeing me.

A couple of months ago, after prolonged spell of holding my year-old grandchild on my right shoulder, with his knees drawn up because he had colic, I developed a twinge at the top of my chest on the left. It came and went and sometimes I'd get an odd twinge in my back on the left of my back. (I had my cancer in my right lung lobes) That reminded me of the only physical manifestation of my original cancer; a slight discomfort somewhere below my right shoulder.

So I duly ran along to the doctor about the twinge in my chest.  He said if it doesn't go away come back and see him. Well, around this time I was greatly stressed by several things and, although I began to realise that it was probably a pulled muscle at the front, and nothing more than a subconscious tightening of all the muscles in my left shoulder, I duly returned to the GP. He wrote "chest pain" on the notes and suggested I had the net x-ray early as it was scheduled for the next checkup in a month or so.

When I went to see my normal cheery thoracic consultant a couple of weeks ago he confirmed the x-ray was fine.  But he'd seen the "chest pain" on the notes and made up his mind I should have a CT scan. It is true that I haven't had one since 2012.  I told him the NHS had spent quite enough on me alraedy but he wouldn't be dissuaded so I'm not waiting for the results of the CT.  I see him again next week and I expect to be signed off for ever this time. Part of his motivation I think is that he's moving to work elsewhere and won't see me again.  I think he wants to be sure to be sure that when he leaves me I'm totally in the clear.

In one way it should be really reassuring; in another way, it's another one of those waits, another one of those check-ups where I hyperventilate and my blood pressure goes shooting up. But there we go - that's the system.  I anticipate it will be sunny news again and I will try to remember to up date you, dear reader.