Taking Lungs for Granted

We had a busy weekend but for once had time together to enjoy. This was made all the more poignant by Himself going to have a lung checkup this morning for his condition called Pulmonary Fibrosis.

He dropped me in Truro as I had several meetings there, and he went on to Treliske, not knowing how long it would take – last time he was there all morning. I couldn’t ring him till nearly 1o’clock and he sounded cheery as he answered the phone, so I knew things couldn’t be that bad.

“I had an X ray and breathing tests, and apparently my lungs aren’t likely to improve but it’s no worse,” he said. He paused and I knew there was more to come. “He said that most people are dead within three years of getting pulmonary fibrosis,” he added, in a matter of fact sort of way. “So I’m very lucky.”

It is now three years since he was diagnosed with the disease. I went hot and cold and shook. If there is such a thing as a ghost walking over my grave, this was it. A brush with death. Or a near brush. I’m still trembling just thinking about it.

“In fact, he says it might just be scar tissue, not pulmonary fibrosis after all,” he added.

My first thought was Thank God for that. Then I thought – hang on. Why didn’t they get the diagnosis right in the first place?

But the important thing is that he’s doing fine. He’s playing the cornet well – the Big Gig is in a month’s time – and his lungs have to benefit from that.

The bad news is that we didn’t win the lottery this weekend. But I’d rather know that his lungs are OK. Because you can’t buy new lungs for love nor money.

P.S. Off to Ways with Words in Devon on wednesday to listen to a talk by Celia Robertson about her grandmother. Apparently "by the 1970s, Sophie, the grandmother was destitute and mad. She washed her hair in margarine and cut up presents in case they had a listening device in the lining. In another life she wrote for the BBC; her poetry was published by Leonard and Virgina Woolf; she was reviewed in the national papers and had tea with Vita Sackville West. Celia Robertson asks: Who was Sophie?"

I can't wait to find out....

Girls Night and Dodgy Lungs

Last night we had a belated birthday girls get together. Six of us gathered in a café in town that opens a few nights a week and caught up, drank and ate. I’ve never been one to have a circle of friends, so most of these women didn’t know each other. I sat in the middle and directed proceedings, like a verbal traffic warden.

One, who didn’t know anyone apart from me, was quiet but livened up with the (very good) red wine. I don’t know her well so it was good to see her relax and enjoy my other friends.

One swept in late, stressed out by her day. The car had failed its MOT, needed new tyres, but most of all she is extremely worried about her husband. She wouldn’t go into details in front of the others, but she is wound up like a spring, and not being a drinker, didn’t have the relaxing benefits of wine to calm her down.

Another is terrified because she’s having her hip recoated (rather than replaced) next week. She went along to the hospital for an assessment and the doctor said, “I warn you, this is going to hurt like hell.” NOT what poor Deb wanted to hear. So since then she’s been in a terrible state.

We did what we could to calm her fears. Talked her through it all, promised to be there for her when she needs us. And as the wine went down and the food and the company, she too relaxed a bit. Those fears were still there but had shrunk to a rather more manageable size.

It was a lovely evening, being surrounded by friends, having a good natter and helping each other. Laughing and sharing. What good friends are all about. And despite not sleeping much, today I am filled with that warm glow that comes from good mates.

So when Himself admitted that his lungs have been painful for the last two weeks, I didn’t shout and scream as I usually do, but said, “darling. You have pulmonary fibrosis. You have dodgy lungs. You can’t afford to take risks.”

I then rang the doctor’s surgery while we walked the dog on the beach. I waited until another friend joined us, and did it then. That way Himself couldn’t wriggle out of it.

It had to be done. If I hear, “it’s all right Pop. I’m monitoring the situation,” again I really will scream.