Black Holes and Bright Lights

Our plans to move closer to family have fallen flat, along with the market. Despite what feels like an endless round of cleaning, tidying and leaving the place in showroom condition every time we go away, there are no takers for our lovely house looking out across Cardigan Bay. We’ll have to be patient.

Ma’s needed a lengthy round of radiotherapy for a treatable skin cancer. My sister and her family take care of her for the first half and Tom and I takeover for the remainder. The Royal Marsden Hospital holds difficult memories for all of us; Tom was successfully treated there, but it was already too late for Dad when his pancreatic cancer was discovered. But it’s the unlikeliest of sights which brings sudden tears to my eyes when, as we walk past the hospital shop, I remember buying papers and small treats there for Dad when he was having his chemotherapy.

Ma, however, whilst trepidatious about her treatment, puts on a brave face for the entire week; she looks fab, either matching her earrings to her top, or the colour of her shoes to the pattern on her trousers. People gravitate towards her. In the waiting room - a club no one wants to belong to - Ma receives an offer of marriage from one of her gaggle of admirers. When her name is called and it’s her turn to see the radiotherapists, gales of laughter and peals of warm conversation ring out down the corridor from the room. It’s Ma at her best; funny, vivacious, as if she was walking into a party rather than having cancer treatment. I feel so proud of her.

Back home, Tom and I try not to let the house gloom dominate our thoughts. I wouldn’t even need the fingers of one hand to count how many times we’ve been to the cinema, as Tom’s not a fan, but he reluctantly agrees to see Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny - which we both thoroughly enjoy - and, less reluctantly, to see Oppenheimer which, we both agree, is a tad too long. On both occasions our cinema experience is a little marred by the earsplitting volume of the soundtrack, and quite a lot spoilt by other people - yes you, the man who brazenly farted long and loud at us as we left the venue, and you, the elderly couple who scoffed sweets for the the entire three hours of Oppenheimer, rattling your bags of goodies and holding the contents up to the light for closer inspection.

In happier news, after a spell in the doldrums, I’ve rediscovered my running mojo and I’m really enjoying Parkrun again. The bonkers Poppit Sands race series is back (last week I managed to clock up a time faster than two of the times I set at my first series seventeen years ago - despite falling down a hole in the sand and rolling around on the beach) ...

...and I’m currently training for the Cardiff Half Marathon which marks its twentieth anniversary this year. I wasn’t planning to run this event for charity, having raised a considerable sum for Pancreatic Cancer UK in the past, because I feel as if I’m always dipping from the same well of generous friends, but sitting waiting for Ma at The Royal Marsden changed my mind. I’d like to give a bit back to the hospital which has done so much for my immediate family. Closer to the event, I’ll be setting up my Just Giving page and rattling my collection tin again, but for now it’s on with the training.