A short tale about Mice, Men and Sheds

 A few weeks ago, I went to visit the folks.

It was a long weekend (again - we had 3 in a row - you start to expect it.)

I had most carefully curated my world that I felt I could safely travel to the countryside and see Mum and Dad.

Dad and I got to share a little project.

Their cat, as a mouser, is all class.  Currently he is spoiled for choice - the area is having a mouse plague.  Luckily, there are none to be found in their house - but I think it is because the cat is running a racket.

You see, they stay off his turf and he only shows signs of one or two a day, and he does it rather brashly and unabashedly.  My mother has always had a ritualistic cat.  This one is just like the rest, but with it turned up to 11.

Dad and I cleared the challenges in his shed back down to slightly more organised challenges in his shed.

While doing so, well hidden signs - and the witnessing of many of the scurrying rodents - I surmised that this was where the cat kept his compliant colony.

I saw video of such rodential activity in a near-to-them town's shop during the week.  One does not appreciate the magnitude of the word "plague" until one sees it first hand.

I suppose that is a bit like a pandemic.  Much nicer in the books than in real life, really.

But the shed is amazing now.  We know where the important photos are (still in boxes, but we can locate them), where the not so important documents from 30-50 years ago are and where the "start working our way through the ones at this end" boxes are.  We even know what shelves he would like to be looking at should he ever have a decent rainy day to look at shelves and sort stuff out.

I remember as a kid - the rare occasions when there was no chance of going out to work, your Dad would go down to the shed and be sorting.

Buckets of this and barrows holding that would start to accumulate outside the door - but under the edge of the roof and so out of the rain - and you would be sent down from the house at regular intervals to advise of food opportunities or to "help" for a bit (and looking back, to give Mum a moment to herself, which was otherwise impossible on such rain days).

Down there, you would be given stories of how this gizmo came into being or the bloke who once gave him some good advice or what that could be used for if and if he just chucked it away, guaranteed the next day he would need it.  Guaranteed.

Anyway, so we had fun.

When young, we would discover new pathways and buckets of treasure that were worth saving from the dump.  we found snake-skins.  We found new toys.

We got filthy dirty.  We had fun.

Rivulets of rainwater would flow from the inadequately plumbed gutters and open sides and we would become engineers and create elaborate civilisations along their paths.

 It rained on the day that I helped Dad too.

Only it wasn't like that.  It was a scud to keep us on our toes.  Instead of building dams and glades, I was building brickwork of boxes and blowing away the debris.

We found some corker photos.  Boxes with history and mystery and incredulity and "What?"

We had fun.

Did any one else grow up with shed rituals?

Now, where was I?

 Yes, I know.

Shocking of me, really.

Give you the "by the way, here's the news, more on that next week" and then...

•  a pithy post about repugnant petfood, and then...
•  well, nothing really.

Crickets in here.

Occasional breeze across the chintz (what is chintz?  It sounds nice but it could be plaid, for all I know.  I would say "broderie anglais" (I actually know what that is, having a childhood in the 70s and a teenhood in the '80s) but its more arty than poetic, and I was aiming for poetic).

And yes, that is an elephant in the room.  Funny that you should mention it.

***

In real life, I do mention it.  I am normalising it to my family and workmates.

Its not a big deal.  I mean, statistically with my diagnosis and my options, I have only a slight hill to surmount.  I am not up against the cliffs with jagged rocks and pounding surf.  I am a minnow, an irritating mote with NO FUCKING IDEA of what dragons look like.

I think I am doing that really well.

***

Statistically, however, your chances of getting to the bumpier bits of the ocean increase quite significantly if you actually have a diagnosis.

But - 

•  pre-surgery came and went - it was a strange time.  Surgery occurred - the only glitches were minor and non-surgical, which is a fantastic outcome.
•  post-surgery came and went - with the best possible result of "good margins and clear lymph nodes" given.

My surgeon is a pretty fantastic lady, actually.  Does yoga and runs a charity for rural women to have access to the same options as her metropolitan counterparts.  As you do.  There is even a page

• there is a whole lot not written about work-related stuff - great people, great reason however - as I said, unwritten.
• and so we get to now. 

***

This week, I had two appointments.

On Monday - the first - as the text reminder called it, my MEDONC.

There, I got to discuss stats and options and side-effects and possible outcomes and it boils down to:

• A pill that I take every day at the same time for a slight chance of the bits of my body attractive to things within my body that will eventually kill it coming into contact with things within my body that will eventually kill it - however, it can kill you in these statistically small ways that you never imagined.  

Or

• A needle (one imagines for some reason one of those 1800s weapons with plungers with curlicues, I do not know why) that will crash-land the menopause (that has to land sometime soon anyway) and then a pill every day for the slight chance of the above - however it can kill you in these statically other small ways (and some even the same with changes in the percents) including one that you have heard of and it sounds truly horrid.

And that is for a little % better outcome than not.  But given I got two in different spots (and with slightly different gobbledygook in the pathology report) with the same rapaciousness, that little number might be only a number at the end of the day.

The good news is no chemo necessary.  The statistic for that was a little bit less than the above suggested treatment, but cons outweigh the pros and hey, its handy to have that one in your box of tricks should it ever really (avert) be required.  The MEDONC didn't put it into those words, of course.

The best bit is that I don't NEED to make any decisions now.  And they may well become moot if I get a genetic result that doesn't compile favourable.  Or other stuff happens.  It seems to happen in this world of late.

***

Today was the RADONC.

The good news is that I am a fit enough (the bar must be low) just over 50 woman to get the two-for-one offer!

I get measured up next Monday for kick-off on the 8th or 13th.

10 minutes a day.  Every day Monday through Friday for 3 weeks - so should be done around the start of the new financial year.

Side effects - a bit like the radiation of a small sun but very close and as specific as possible, so hot boobs and possibly skin reaction.  Oh, and that possibility of roasting your bones.  And that maybe your lungs thing, but if you hold your breath...

Then there is that whole feel like you have been hit by a bus.  Everyone gets that one.

Daily double-zap.  First week is generally a breeze but then double-zap and zzzzs for the rest of it and up to a couple of weeks after.

***

There is very good reason not to get Covid or Flu this year.

(There was probably a good reason not to get Cancer this year too.  Oops.)