Moio sudno na vozdušnoy poduške polno ugrey

Sorry about that, I’m learning Russian at the moment.

Anyway, leading on from the last entry… the next few days are lifted straight out of a David Cronenberg film festival. Nightmares on a scale I could never have imagined.
As I’m being wheeled down from recovery I’m hallucinating like crazy. As I stare up at the passing ceiling tiles, I see their corners lift and swarms of crawling insects pour through the gaps. I close my eyes to escape the horror and vivid excerpts of the last few hours flash through my mind. I see everything compartmentalised, my personality, my memories, my thoughts and feelings, all neatly arranged in DFS like displays. It’s hard to explain, but I’m looking in on my mind and how it’s arranged from a third person perspective. Surreal yet terrifying!

I drift in and out of consciousness punctuated by fits of uncontrollable nausea. My wife holds my head while I vomit, tears of despair roll down her soft cheeks.

I wake to find myself sharing a room with another recent post-operative patient. I attempt the most basic of conversations in an effort to establish some form of normality. Big mistake. ‘Great, they’ve stuck me in with a lunatic from Tooting’, if this was on the ‘outside’ I’d be clamping his wrists in quick-cuffs and carting him off to the nearest psych-ward. Where’s my Asp when I need it? I drift off again.

My sleep is interspersed with visits from nurses taking temperatures, blood pressures and urging me to drink and pee. As one of them leaves at around 2am I strain my eyes in the semi-dark, and stare across the room to my manically depressed roommate. I’m startled by the presence of a small fiery demon hovering over his bed. I squint my eyes, still there. Well he is from Tooting after all. Am I seeing things, or have structural changes taken place within my brain that enables me to tune in on a different wavelength?

The medical staff are not happy with my recovery and decide to move me into the main ward for closer observation. It’s been at least 10 hours since I pissed last, and I’m constantly being coaxed to pass urine. However, I can’t pee into a paper bottle lying on my side, I need to be vertical. I attempt to raise myself, but the movement of the mattress and my left side paralysis make it impossible. By now the pain in my bladder is becoming unbearable, so grabbing my left leg with my right hand I pull my self over to the right hand side of the bed. With one deft movement I swing my legs over the side, touch the floor, heave my self-upright with the ‘good’ leg, and grab the paper bottle. Great plan, except I haven’t factored in the ineffectual left arm that won’t be able to hold me steady while the right hand is holding the piss bottle. I collapse in a heap, flailing in the dark in an impromptu bath of my own piss and shattered pride.
Before I know it I’m surrounded by scowling Philippino nurses. In about as much time as it takes to say, ‘are you taking the piss?’ I’ve got a catheter strapped to the side of my bed. I never thought I’d be so pleased as to have a pipe with a kink passed through my urethra. Wonders never cease.

So many cats, so few recipes.

Okay, the title's got your attention. First of all, sorry dear patient reader, I've been pretty remiss with my blog entries of late. I promise to put things right. So here goes...

Seven days pass quickly, and I’m soon being wheeled back down to the operating theatre. For some reason to do with expedience, I have been informed by the anaesthetist that I’ll be wide-awake for absolutely everything this time around. This includes the stitches from the last op being pried out and my scalp being ripped back. If I’m ‘lucky’ I’ll even hear the ‘schlock’ noise as my skull is popped back open. These people must think I’m some sort of unfeeling cyborg for me to take this much battering without batting an eyelid. Personally, I feel like a cross between Ray Liotta’s character in the closing scenes of Hannibal and a Terminator unit.

One of my surgeons prior to scrubbing up

I was beginning to think that I wished I never had found out about the bloody tumour in the first place. Ah well, If ignorance is bliss, why aren't more people happy?
Despite being in theatre for four or five hours, I remember very little of the procedure. It’s strange how the human psyche blocks out memories that are too distressing. Indeed, repressed memory is one of the most controversial subjects in the history of psychology and psychiatry. A repressed memory, according to some, is a memory (often traumatic) of an event, which is stored by the unconscious mind but outside the awareness of the conscious mind. Some theorize that these memories may be recovered (that is, integrated into consciousness) years or decades after the event, often via therapy or in dreams. I hope to God that this isn’t the case.
Another hypothesis is that cortisol, a chemical released during trauma, may induce forgetting. Cortisol appears to have the ability to erase details and possibly induce amnesia.
On the other hand, I may have experienced a form of organic amnesia, whereby damage to the medial or anterior temporal regions caused by either the surgery, or the incidental stroke I suffered, brought about a loss of cognitive processing while I was under the knife.
Alternatively, it could be the case that I was so dosed up on Rohypnol its surprising that I even remembered waking up that morning.
Whatever the case, one thing is for certain; you didn’t tune in for a clinicalneuropsychology lecture! Well you can take the boy out of academia, but you can’t take academia out of the boy!
What I do remember is lying on my left side, propped up at a 50 degree angle, the anaesthetist standing in front of me. Every couple of minutes she asks me to wiggle the fingers of my left hand as if I’m playing the piano. Happy with my performance, she asks me to do the same with the toes on my left foot. I see no one else, as they’re probably all behind me ‘scooping’ away. I feel no pain.
Next thing I know is I’m awake in the Recovery Unit again. I’m thirsty, I’m prodded, I’m poked, I’m used to it. After a while some doctors come to see me. They go through the Glasgow Coma Scale, and are sorely disappointed with the performance of my left hand side. Not as much as I am though.
“Hemiparesis”, they call it. ‘FUCKING PARALYSED DOWN ONE FUCKING SIDE’, I call it!
Yeah, The trouble with life is there's no background music. At that moment in time I could have really done with some!

As you can see, my hospital bed was rather hard. I didn't like pyjamas.

Well, ya gotta have a hobby!

IT'S ALIVE!

Mercifully, I’m unconscious for the sawing of the head. I’m only brought round when they’re digging about inside my temporal lobe. Again, when they start to put everything back together and insert the staples, I’m put back under.
I wake up vomiting as usual. There’s something about surgery and me that doesn’t agree gastrically. Once the nausea has passed I quickly conduct a self-assessment. Arms, legs, third leg, eyes, yes, everything seems to be working fine. A nurse points a very bright pencil torch into my eyes. “What date is it? Where are you? Who is the prime minister?” I reply, “2136, an orbiting medical facility 2500 miles above the Earth, not ‘who’ more ‘what’ is the prime minister.” The nurse is confused and turns to a colleague for advice. I smile, still got my sense of humour, self-assessment complete!
An hour later I’m on the Critical Care Unit (CCU) surrounded by friends and family. I’m starving and I’ve missed dinner. Not a bad thing considering what had been on the menu. TQ steps forward and suggests a Big Mac and fries. Not usually a 'Maca D' fan I amaze myself by accepting the offer. Thirty minutes later he returns with a Burger King instead. Result!
The nurse returns with the eye torch, "Where are you? Who are you? Who is the prime minister?" "Well, if this is CTU I must be Jack Bauer, as for the last question... dont remind me".

My neurosurgeon and his entourage visit me later in the evening. Mr Marsh is honest and straight to the point when he tells me that he estimates that he has only managed to remove 30% of the tumour. He adds that because of my good reaction to the surgery he is confident that he can go back in next week to remove the remainder. I agree immediately, in for a penny in for a pound, who dares wins, nothing ventured nothing gained, blah! Blah! Blah!

I'm not afraid to die. I just don't want to be there when it happens (Woody Allen).

All too soon we’re back to reality (is that a cue for a song?). My surgery date comes through for the 4th of February. The days pass quickly, and before I know it TQ is driving me down to the hospital. I’ve stocked up on Graphic novels, and my AV500 is full to bursting with my favourite movies. At least I’m going to be entertained during my stay.
The day of my surgery is surreal. I try my hand at some virtual temporal shifting. Its worked well for me in dentists’ surgeries before, it should work in an operating theatre. VTS is a phenomenon that I seem to have perfected. I first honed this skill in a sleepy Italian coastal village when I had to undergo excruciating root canal work. At this point, dear reader, you would be forgiven for thinking that all the treatment and surgery I’ve been through has left me quite ‘wibble’. Oh sorry, best explain what ‘wibble’ is. This is the word used by Rowan Atkinson in ‘blackadder goes forth’ to denote a state of insanity. Picture the scene, the hapless Blackadder, faced with certain death, inserts pencils up his nose and repeats, "wibble wibble", in order to get sent home from the trenches.
George: "What is your name?"
Blackadder: "Wibble."
George: "What is 2 plus 2?"
Blackadder: "Wibble, Wibble."
Moving swiftly on. VTS is a mind-set. Hey, come on I studied psychology for nine years (including two wasted on a doomed M.Phil./Ph.D., my career in the police was the ‘other woman’, so I tore up my thesis, deleted it from my hard drive, and never looked back). By focusing on a likely pain free future point you can say to yourself, ‘I might as well be there now, because this unpleasantness will soon be over and I’ll be looking back on it as just another memory’. Say this enough times and the unpleasant present swiftly passes and you’re in that pain free future. Wibble? Well it works for me!
I also like to become the stand-up comedian in the face of adversity. So when they wheeled me into the prep room I exclaimed to the waiting theatre staff that there’d been a terrible mistake as I thought I had booked myself into the Premier Travel Lodge on Kew Bridge Road last night, and not some scary hospital where they slice heads open. They start to panic, especially when they realise my D.O.B. is wrong on my hospital ID bracelet. It’s easy to get surgeons flustered. I shouldn’t be screwing with these guys, especially when they’re going to be ‘skull-fecking’ me in under an hour. A bloke with a beard steps forward and introduces himself as some prof. from some uni. somewhere. He tells me that with my permission he’d like to video the procedure so he could show his students. What did Andy Warhol say about being famous? Ah yes, “Everyone will be famous for 15 minutes”. Youtube here I come. I agree, and the cannula slips into my hand.
It was the establishment of Christianity as a major religious force, overwhelmingly supported by Plato’s philosophies that furthered the concept of the brain as the temporary residence of an immortal soul. This supposition was bolstered as many Western thinkers applied their own theories. For example, the physician Thomas Willis (1621-1675), founder of the term neorologie, believed that the human brain had a rational soul placed there by God. Whereas, the philosopher Rene Descartes (1596-1650) stated that the seat of the soul was in the brain’s pineal gland. Whilst, Albrecht Von Haller (1708-1777), the Swiss anatomist, physiologist and poet, believed the soul’s location was in the medulla oblongata.
I could go on, but the point I’m trying to make is that brain surgery, whilst awake, is probably the most intrusive thing you could possibly do to a human body. The surgeon is feeling around, cutting through the very fabric of our existence, our memories, our thoughts, our feelings, what makes us unique, what makes us ‘us’.
I don’t want to court controversy and draw similarities to rape, but if you subscribe to Willis’s, Descartes’s, Von Haller’s and others views, the surgeons tools are intruding, burning through the very core of your soul, and you’re lying there helpless for hours listening to the noises coming from your skull, sniffing the smells, sensing the vibrations through your body, watching them move about their work. Aware that you could die at any minute as the anaesthetist will ask you to wiggle your toes and fingers for the twentieth time.

The Big Day

Signing on the 'dotted'.

Wedding car and escort

The big day comes and goes far too quickly. Everyone has a great time, and the Thai Elephant is a big hit. So big in fact that my Borough's CID organise their next lunch there. The Richmond Hill Hotel wedding night treat from my extended Met family is amazing. An atmosphere that is conducive to ah, well... err, a wedding night?! The only hiccup occurs when my good friend Mike, an officer from Merseyside Police, takes a drunken wrong turn and ends up in a very predatory gay bar. Well, that’s his excuse!

Nonetheless, after a flurry of nervous texts to my hotel supper table, I organise a rescue party in the shape of my loyal fellow detective friend TQ, who helps peel the inebriated Mike from his new mustachioed chum.

Anyway, a final nod of appreciation to Superintendent Chalk, DCI De Meyer, DI Leonard, DS Windmill, DC Sheridan, the Commissioner, Sir Ian Blair, the traffic Sgt. who did the out riding, and everyone else that made this a very special day (sorry, I just don't have the space to fit you all in). To my very special family, thank you.

Men who have a pierced ear are better prepared for marriage. They've experienced pain and bought jewelry.

It had been a bit of a rush job, probably wouldn’t have been any faster if I’d ‘knocked-up’ a Sicilian Don’s daughter. Anyway, neither Francesca nor I had been big supporters of the institution of marriage. I had always subscribed to the idiom; if its not broken, don’t fix it! And Francesca had bore witness to her parents’ messy divorce when she was a child, and that would taint anyone. However, the circumstances that we were now caught up in made us see the sacrament from a completely different perspective. By getting married I was protecting Francesca and the childrens’ police pension rights, giving them extra security. And besides, it seemed like the right thing to do. The woman had borne me two lovely daughters, and had stuck with me through ‘thick and thin’.
The invites were easy, simply log on to a vacant terminal at the closest police station and send out a blanket invite to my Borough’s Crime Squad and their spouses. The rest of the places would go to officers in other Boroughs and departments that I had grown close to, blood relatives (err… that would just be my Auntie Ann then!) and friends that weren’t in the Met. I was going to fill that church. Best man would be my oldest and most steadfast friend, J.T.L. (What do the initials stand for? I’m sorry, you’ll have to ask him that yourself. It’s not for me to say!).
The church? None other than St. Elizabeth’s, the venue of my oldest daughter’s baptism, and mother’s funeral. Only seems fitting, as the expression goes, ‘births, deaths and marriages’.
The reception venue was found quite by accident. Walking home from the church after a meeting with our priest, Father Mathias, we stumbled across a familiar, but hitherto overlooked venue, the Thai Elephant, Richmond. Simultaneously we exclaimed, “Hey, that would be large enough!” It didn’t take long for us to give the restaurateur the number of guests and requirements, and in record time a deal was struck.
To give the whole proceedings a topical crime scene theme, I insisted that the wedding photographer be a Scenes of Crime Officer (CSI). Well, they are professional photographers, and it’ll raise a smile in years to come when the guests think back. An urban legend in the making perhaps?
Little did I know that my friends on Borough had arranged with the Commissioner to use his staff car, which he kindly donated, as the wedding car. I was also to discover on the day that the Superintendent of Operations, Mr Chalk, had offered his services as chauffer, and Detective Chief Inspector De Meyer would be usher come umbrella man. As the ‘icing on the cake’, traffic police would kindly supply a uniformed motorcycle outrider.

After shopping for clothes and accoutrements, such as an engagement ring, we were all set for the big day. Not bad considering the whole thing took less than three weeks to put together. That would be the Royal Logistical Corps background then!

A step closer

Two more Italian 'virtual' consultations follow in quick succession. One of the surgeons concurs with Spallone, whilst the other rejects the notion of further surgery as being 'too risky'.
Risk? I 'shit' it! If it wasn't for man taking risks we'd still be in the stone age! Can you imagine Christopher Columbus saying, "I'm not getting on that boat, its too risky". Or Winston Churchill commenting, "War with Germany? I don't think so, too risky mate".

We return to the UK to tell my oncologist that I'm going to 'bite the bullet', 'dig deep in my pockets', and have the surgery in Rome. He's not a happy chappy, and urges me to have a consultation with the UK's premier neuro-surgeon, Mr Henry Marsh. The same surgeon that operated on classical singer Russell Watson a few months earlier. An appointment is set up.
A couple of weeks later I'm sitting in Mr Marsh's office going over my latest MRI from Italy. Mr Marsh is an extremely interesting and charismatic man with the appearance and mannerisms of Dr Emmett Brown, the time travel pioneer from Back To The Future. Like Spallone, he is confident that he can remove all if not most of the tumour. He acknowledges that there will be some risks, such as hemiparesis and death, and is keen to point out a major blood vessel and bundle of nerve fibres on my MRI. Take a nick out of the former and there'll be ten pints of my blood on the ceiling in a blink of an eye. Slice the latter and my best friend becomes a wheelchair. Nonetheless, I accept the offer of surgery, and Mr Marsh is openly astonished at my enthusiasm that I'll be awake throughout the operation. I explain to him that I remember vividly the lecture in my Clinical Neuropsychology module back in 1995. The lecturer explaining that in some cases neurosurgery is best performed whilst under local anaesthetic. This minimises the possibility of paralysis, hemiparesis or loss of some other function such as speech or memory.
No date is set, but he tells me that he'll fit me in on the next available Monday (the day he operates) at St Georges, Tooting. In the meantime I've got a wedding date on the 6th January. My wedding.

Taking the fight to it.

So for all intents and purposes my treatment would consist of 30 x 60gy sessions of radical radiotherapy, and that’s all. My neurosurgeon didn’t want to take the risk of removing anymore tumour, and my PCT were too busy worshiping the dollar to give me my life-preserving drug. And that’s when Francesca and her mother had the great idea of getting a second opinion in Italy.
A few years prior, Francesca’s mother developed an excruciatingly painful but benign tumour on her spine. A radical neurosurgeon called Aldo Spallone safely removed said tumour, and a few weeks later she was walking again. Anyway, she suggested that I meet this Prof. Spallone to see if there was any alternative in Italy to the UK’s ‘suck-it-and-see’ fingers-crossed approach. This idea was met with some disconcertion by my consultant oncologist, who believed that Prof. Spallone was too radical a surgeon. He added that if I insisted on looking for second opinions abroad I should consider two surgeons that he was familiar with and confident in. I took his suggestion on board and accepted his offer.
A flurry of e-mails with copied MRI slides followed, and two weeks later (15/12/2006) I was sitting in Prof Spallone’s office in the Neurological Center of Latinum (NCL) in the outskirts of Rome.
Spallone was an impressive man, almost identical in appearance to the actor from Criminal Minds, Mandy Patinkin.
In conversation, I soon discovered that he had been a practicing neurosurgeon for a considerable number of years having completed his training in the now defunct Soviet Union. Indeed, he had travelled far and wide performing surgery, and had patients in Cuba to his credentials. His private clinic was impressive as well; an immaculate three-storey building in its own grounds, built in the 70’s, with nursing staff dressed in traditional white uniforms.
Part of the consultation fee included an MRI. This was a little too noisy, as they didn’t supply headphones or earplugs. Later, upon studying the images, the professor agreed on the tumour’s classification and stated that he could remove all if not most of it. However, he added that there was always going to be a risk of a complication. For example, he would be working around some major blood vessels, and nicking one of them would mean ‘goodnight Vienna’ for me. Nonetheless, he was confident that he could carry out the surgery, and emphasised that he had performed the procedure a number of times before. I now had another option. I was taking the fight to it!

The Devil is an NHS accountant

Once the shock had subsided we set about researching my options. According to the literature my prognosis would be better if I had as much of the tumour excised as possible. After consultation with my oncologist I contacted the neurosurgeon who initially conducted the biopsy. He insisted that the risks far outweighed any possible benefits. Risks being paralysis or death. He added that it would be highly unlikely that I would find a neurosurgeon in this country who would perform such an operation. He certainly wasn’t going to make any attempt to open my head again.
So what was in store for me? I was to have a course of thirty radiotherapy sessions and hopefully a programme of oral chemotherapy called temozolamide, the current ‘gold standard’ chemotherapy treatment for malignant brain tumours.
It was reasoned that this combination would reduce the tumour's size and inhibit further growth. However, I soon discovered that those not so nice people (I’m trying to watch my manners here, what I really want to call them is unprintable) at NICE (National Institute for Health and Clinical Excellence) had taken away the possibility of chemotherapy. This is the organisation responsible for providing national guidance on promoting good health and preventing and treating ill health. In addition, NICE helps health professionals implement THEIR guidance by providing tools such as cost templates, audit criteria and slide sets (I've said enough already, wink! wink!). NICE produces guidance in three areas of health:

1. Public health - guidance on the promotion of good health and the prevention of ill health for those working in the NHS, local authorities and the wider public and voluntary sector
2. Health technologies - guidance on the use of new and existing medicines, treatments and procedures within the NHS
3. Clinical practice - guidance on the appropriate treatment and care of people with specific diseases and conditions within the NHS.

Basically, ‘bean counters’. The ones that decide if drugs are released, and if so to who. For example, this is an extract from an official release on their website;

Where first-line chemotherapy with PCV has failed, temozolomide should be compared with the only alternative, which is best supportive care. However, the only data compares the benefits of temozolomide with those of procarbazine alone. Costs per cycle of temozolomide are estimated to be £1,488 including hospital costs and medications for side effects.’ Estimating cost per quality adjusted life year (QALY) is difficult because the extension of median survival time is not statistically significant, and the quality of life data are limited. The main benefit of temozolomide is that a proportion of patients benefit from a longer progression free survival time. Therefore the most useful measure of cost-effectiveness is cost per progression free week. Costs will continue to accrue if patients remain progression free, because further cycles of the drug will be given until progression occurs.

As you can see the heartless bastards are obsessed with money and statistics, and would prefer to leave a patient to ‘rot’ in a hospital bed rather than give him or her a shot at beating the disease, or in the very least holding it back awhile.
And in their infinite wisdom NICE decided that temozolomide, "…within its licensed indications, was recommended as an option for the treatment of newly diagnosed glioblastoma multiforme (GBM) in patients with a World Health Organization (WHO) performance status of 0 or 1."

To explain this WHO performance status thing;

0: able to carry out all normal activity without restriction
1: restricted in strenuous activity but ambulatory and able to carry out light work
2:ambulatory and capable of all self-care but unable to carry out any work activities; up and about more than 50% of waking hours
3:symptomatic and in a chair or in bed for greater than 50% of the day but not bedridden
4:completely disabled; cannot carry out any self-care; totally confined to bed or chair.

First part was fine as I had a ‘newly diagnosed’ GBM. Unfortunately, due to the epilepsy it caused, I was off work. As a result I was loosely classified as a ‘2’. So I got the ‘big middle finger’ from the rigid rule worshiping ‘demi-god accountants’ when it came to my PCT (Primary Care Trust) at Richmond and Twickenham authorizing the use of temozolomide in my case. It appeared to me, and those around me, that the Health Service had given up half way through. Bullshit considering that in my job I pay around £2568 in National Insurance contributions, and £5072 minimum in tax every year. When added up and multiplied over a working life that’s a lot of cash to the government and Health Service, and I’m not even going to start mentioning that every time I put my warrant card in my pocket and walk out the door I’m willing to put my life on the line for the people of London. For goodness sake I tackled and arrested a robber armed with a screwdriver a few years ago, whilst off duty, and on my birthday. I earned that bloody drug!

Interlude...

Yeah I know, I haven't updated my blog for some time. Its been difficult to find the time to sit down and think back to what happened after I got the crap news. Truth is everything was a blur of information and having to face up to the cold hard truth. The next five months would see me transformed from a happy-go-lucky individual with hair, and how I loved having hair (as the two pictures below demonstrate), to a freaky scarred patchy skinheaded Bond villain.

Bologna 1996, Radio Kappe Centrale. Spot the Richie Flanagan Show co-producer at the back, goatee beard and hair longer than a 'dolly bird'.

The cheeky chappy at the back barely in the photo. Hair tied back in a pony tail, well, I was going through my hairy leather clad biker phase. I had three that morning. "Ooh shut that door".


And the flop haired lothario in the impromptu Niagara cover shoot for that debut EP.

To this...

and even this. Oh well, at least I get to shag Sophie Marceau. Right, where's me fluffy white cat?

He who laughs last has not yet heard the bad news. Bertolt Brecht.

On the 13th November 2006 I attended my mother’s funeral service at my adopted parish church, St. Elizabeth’s of Portugal in Richmond. It was a fairly small turn out, my aunt, Francesca, her mother, my daughters, and some friends from work.
Afterwards, a hearse takes her remains up to the Wirral for burial. This will be in two days time. Unfortunately, I am not fit enough to travel. However, as expected, friends and relatives from the Wirral attend the burial to pay their last respects.

A full two weeks after the operation I go to the out patients clinic at the Royal Marsden for the result of the biopsy. Sadly, the results haven’t come back from
Pathology. They give me another appointment for two weeks.

The days drag by until the appointment. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that the tumour is not as serious as it looks in the MRI. Again, I go to the clinic with Francesca. This time the head of the dept. comes into the consultation room. He has the results. He is ‘backed up’ by two other clinicians. The rest is a blur. I pick out the words, ‘not good news I’m afraid’, and ‘malignant’. A seizure that is a size 9 on the Richter scale envelops me. I struggle to stay seated on my chair.
There are no treatment options, its radiotherapy from here on in. Another appointment is made.

Ricardo, Sonny, I missed you guys!

Trapped in the apartment until I recover from the surgery, I immediately invest in a digital set top freeview receiver, which allows me access to about seventeen more channels (puny by American standards I know). This allows me to reacquaint myself with a lot of re-runs from the 80’s and beyond, and one of my all time favourite shows is being aired after sixteen years in some dark cupboard. Miami Vice brings back fond memories of another life I lived so many years ago, so far away. A life of condos, Corvettes, ties as thin as the moustaches, and Maserati driving Columbians with permed hair and chests and fingers dripping in too much ill-gotten gold (another scary story). I lap it up and am lost in the nostalgia.

Ten days after being discharged I’m having my twenty staples being removed by a nurse in my doctor’s surgery. This is nasty, and is very similar to removing normal staples from cardboard except the nurse has to break through scab and overlapping skin to get under them and a grip. Not pleasant, and I excuse myself from time to time to squeal like a pig. Cue Deliverance reference.

A couple of days later Francesca’s mum flies back to Rome. Despite the usual anti-mother-in-law jokes this is not ideal. Francesca needs as much help as possible, and Ann is a bit like a ‘fish out of water’ with the kids.

A few days later I attend St. Georges hospital again. This time it’s for an electroencephalogram. TQ, my friend from work is happy to take me there, and cheerfully sits through my ordeal of having my scalp glued to a net of tiny electrode like objects. After bombarding me with ‘up close and personal’ strobe lighting for what seems like an eternity, and being subjected to the usual rave music and Star Trek Borg references the technician ‘unhooks’ me from the machine and TQ and I leave via our waiting squad cube.

Things you don't want to hear in surgery number 38 - Better save that. We'll need it for the autopsy.

Early November 2006. Less than a week after my mum's death I’m being admitted into St. George’s Hospital, Tooting, for my biopsy. Avtar, one of the cops in my squad, takes Francesca, my auntie Ann and me there. The kids stay at home with Francesca’s mum, who is over from Rome for about two weeks.
Upon arrival I'm booked into a two-bed side room. The patient lying opposite me, I soon discover, was a roofer that had fallen some distance onto a concrete floor compressing part of his skull a few weeks prior. He was cheerful, and introduced me to the delights of the patient TV at the side of my bed.
After about two hours I told Francesca and Ann to go home, it was getting late and I didn’t want Francesca to go home to find her mother dangling from the rafters. The kids had a tendency to ‘run rings’ around her.
Shortly after, the nurse came around and took a blood sample from me. This would be the first of many. One of the surgeons called in next to explain the procedure to me. He told me that in addition to a biopsy they would be removing a portion of the tumour through ‘debulking’. It was anticipated that this would alleviate any pressure build-up within the cranium. He’s a young man, in his early thirties, and judging by his name and accent I would say he was from Central America. Not a good time to mention the Alamo then?!

The next morning a nurse wakes me at 7am. She orders me to wear a ridiculous operating gown. After ablutions I don it the logical way, the only way the one hundred tiny tassels can be tied. Unfortunately, this leaves me with a slight problem, my ‘wang’ is hanging out. Hmm… air-conditioning, I think. Just then a nurse walks in. Time for a ‘bom chicka wah wah’ moment. Yeah, not the way my lucks been lately! She’s someone’s granny, about 300lb, and not putting up with any shit at the start of her shift. “Son”, she announces in a thick Jamaican accent, “you got that on the wrong way”.
Shortly after a porter arrives with a gurney. Carefully, covering my ass and ‘bits’ I gingerly hoist myself up and sit on the side. With one deft movement I bring my legs up horizontal whilst maintaining my dignity.
Quick intros. In the theatre, seem like a nice bunch of people. I remind them that I’m not a traffic cop, and that I only usually deal with robberies and burglaries. A small prick in my hand, doctor, there’s a time and a place [sorry, couldn’t resist that], an icy stream up my arm. I try to say the caution, I get to, ‘…court…’, and I’m out.

Operations are strange things. I always fancied time travel would be the same. I mean the needle goes in and the next thing is you wake up three or more hours later in another part of the hospital with no sense of elapsed time. Sure enough, true to point, that’s what happens.

The recovery in hospital is swift. Ten staples in the side of my head, and a big patch of hair missing. The wife fondly refers to me as Frankenstivan. Truly, the root canal work two years before was worse. But then again, that was in a tiny Italian village with little or no anaesthetic. Just call me Indiana Ivan. Well my life is made up of challenges. ‘Snakes, why did it have to be snakes?’ Nah! Brain tumours, why did it have to be brain tumours?

Four days later I’m on my way home to the temple of doom. Well the mother-in-law is staying! Help!

Piove sempre sul bagnato

That evening a few of my workmates kindly drive my aunt and I down to Kingston Hospital to visit my mum. I find her giving the nurses a hard time, telling them what treatment she’ll have and what treatment she won’t. She does have a point though as she has probably spent more time on a ward than most of them put together, and that’s only when she was a child.
The following day, another visit thanks again to a lift from my workmates. I’m starting to feel that I’m imposing on them, and I stress my concerns. They assure me that its no big deal, and they’re more than happy to help out. As the weeks progressed their generosity and compassion never failed to amaze me, nor would I ever take them for granted. At the hospital, my mother and I attempt to chat a while, but she had a difficult night and her health has not improved.
The following morning my aunt receives a phone call. It’s a doctor asking us to attend the hospital in the first instance. Francesca urges me to go with my aunt but I have an appointment with a member of the Strategic Management Team, and a representative from the Police Federation immediately after that. I had planned to visit the hospital straight after the meetings, the 65 bus to Kingston passing the police station where I would be.
The reception in the office is uplifting. Most of my workmates are present, and we chat and eat the cakes I brought for about half an hour before the first meeting. Just as I’m about to sit down with Chief Inspector Morgan for the first appointment I receive a phone call on my cell. It’s my aunt, she’s crying. Slowly she tells me that my mum has just died, that her heart had given out. I collapse into my chair with my head in my hands. I cannot hold the tears back. I sob into my phone that I’ll come down right away, and then end the call. An overwhelming feeling of betrayal and loss surges up from my stomach. I should have been there with her, to hold her hand and to comfort her in the last moments. Instead I had put the police first. Then I tried to rationalise, I had believed that my mother was indestructible, she had to be. How could someone who had been ill so many times before in their life die now, at this moment in time, when I needed them the most? I turn to the Chief Inspector, compose myself, and tell him the news. He puts his arm on my shoulder and offers words of comfort and condolence. He then goes to find my Detective Inspector. The Chief Inspector returns a couple of minutes later with a shocked DI Leonard and DS Robinson (Robbo). They offer their condolences and then go to find a driver to take me down to the hospital.
The trip to the hospital is surreal. As the scenery races by I find myself questioning what has happened in these two short months. I’m in denial, this shit can’t be happening! I call Francesca, and she starts to cry. She tells me that she’ll leave the girls with a friend and make her way down as soon as possible. I tell her that DI Leonard and Robbo have arranged for a couple of officers to collect her shortly.

I meet my aunt at my mother’s bedside. As we stand by the bed, she tells me her last words and that she went peacefully. I sit down and cry as I gently take her lifeless hand. Francesca arrives moments later. She breaks down upon entering the ward. We hold each other a while and sit next to the bed. Francesca tells me that two of my workmates had volunteered to baby-sit until we got back. The kids are in very safe hands. After some time Francesca and my aunt leave me with my mother so I can pay my last respects. I sit for a long time holding her already cold hand whilst reflecting upon the good times we spent together, the occasions I had held that hand before, when it was warm and full of life. I kiss her forehead softly, apologise, tell her I love her, and leave…

Happier days; from left to right, my aunt Ann, Francesca, and my Mum.

A Motto for the McNally Family Crest

As an aside, I noticed that the McNally crest, coat-of-arms, whatever you want to call it, has no motto on a banner. Based upon what I've been through in the last 10 months I’m thinking that I'm more qualified than most other McNallys to decide on one. I think the one below is the best and sums up our fighting spirit. Its in Ulster Gaelic (thanks Seán), which is more accurate considering where the name originated. Translated it says - 'Fate, when I catch up with you I'm going to kick your ass.'

Sleeping space was clearly limited in the flat, so being small of frame my mum opted for Ol’ Faithful the Chesterfield. Meanwhile my aunt plumped for the futon in the girls’ room. Each not as uncomfortable as they may first appear. Ol’ Faithful is a remarkably restful couch. I’ve lost track of the amount of evenings I’ve drifted off into its antique leather whilst watching my favourite shows. Whilst Francesca and I spent a year using the futon as our main bed when we moved into our first unfurnished flat in what seemed like a million years ago.
After a couple of days my mum’s health deteriorates. She complains of shortness of breath, and her movements become laboured. I’m used to her being poorly, desensitised even. My mother has never truly enjoyed good health starting with the removal of a lung as a child due to TB. Later in her life, doctors had advised her not to have me for fear that the trauma of the pregnancy would kill her. However, she went ahead, and here I was 490 months later. I had grown up with her bronchitis, crippling migraines, gall bladder removal, Sjoegren’s syndrome and other associated maladies, but despite all this I believed her to be a strong woman, and I was glad that she was there despite the feeling that it was going to take more than a motherly ‘kiss it better’ and an elastoplast to fix my problem.

A few days later my mum took a turn for the worse. Her breathing is even shallower, moving exhausts her, and she has pains in her chest and back. An appointment is swiftly made at my doctors’ surgery across the road, and my aunt goes across with her. At around the same time Craig, my DS, calls around to see how I’m getting on. Half an hour or so later my mum returns and announces that the doctor wants her admitted immediately to Kingston Hospital, and that her intentions were to pack an overnight bag then call a taxi. Craig steps forward and volunteers to take her to the hospital in his unmarked police car. Initially she declines afraid that she would take him away from his duties. However, being of ‘good heart’, Craig won’t take ‘no’ for an answer and eventually she accepts his offer.
Later, I was to discover that my mum and aunt had tried to force £20 on Craig for his ‘trouble’. Craig had had to remind them that he had driven them to the hospital as a favour, and to make sure my mother got there swiftly and safely due to the immediate health concerns and not for profit. I laughed so much imagining Craig’s face when they tried to force a gratuity on him. Craig as straight as they come locked in a ‘war of attrition’ similar to a hapless priest having tea forced on him by Father Ted’s Mrs Doyle, “Oh go on, go on, go on, ahh you will, you will, you will (and on, and on) .” Priceless.

Family

A couple of days later my mother and aunt arrive at the flat. As they step into the hallway we embrace in turn, each hugging me tight repeating that everything is going to be okay. My mum reiterates that the McNally family is strong and together we would beat this. She had a point. Those few relatives that had died of the big ‘c’ or coronary heart disease had done so because they had abused themselves over the years through drinking and smoking. I on the other hand didn’t smoke, apart from the odd ‘Cuban’ on special occasions. I drank in moderation even infrequently, that trip to Poland being a ‘one off’. I exercised regularly, and ate good wholesome food, mostly organic. Indeed, the ancient McNally coat-of-arms was a defiantly raised arm clad in armour gripping a battleaxe. I was from a long line of fighters who didn’t recognise the concept of ‘giving up’. Still, I sobbed into my mother’s collar that there was so much that I had yet to do. She replied that everything I’ve ever seriously put my mind to I had accomplished, and that I had done more in my 40 years than any average man had done in an entire lifetime. That kind of reminded me of a famous unforgettable quote by Abraham Lincoln, “In the end it's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years.
My aunt puts her arms around us both, and Francesca follows suit. Olivia and Camilla wrap their tiny arms around my legs. Family.

Often it takes something like a tumour to make you open your eyes properly.

Later that evening Jamie and Stuart, a couple of friends from the Crime Squad call around. They sit and we chat across the hall on all the good ‘jobs’ I’ve missed as I put the kettle on. Once tea and biscuits, staple diet of the police officer, are out of the way Jamie leans forward and presents me with a bulky envelope. I open it and pull out a card. “Just a little something from the guys at work”, says Jamie. I open the card and my jaw literally drops to the floor. To my amazement, the card is stuffed full of £20 notes. “We had a whip around, thought it would come in handy”. I am overwhelmed and humbled by their generosity. For once I am lost for words. Equally, the words on the card show true compassion and solidarity. I am sincerely honoured to work alongside these people, and as the coming months would show, they surpassed being colleagues, workmates, police staff, police officers and truly became for me my second extended family. I love them with all my heart.

When I die, I want to go peacefully like my Uncle did, in his sleep -- not screaming, like the passengers in his car.

“Don’t worry babe, its only temporary. Its probably only for a year. The tablets will control the epilepsy and you’ll get it back”
“I know, but will I live that long?”
“Please don’t talk like that”.
“Look, I’ve read the research on the Internet, so have you. Come on love don’t cry we have to be strong”.
I affix the 1st class stamp to the envelope. One last look at the stupid photo on the license. A goatee bearded, wavy haired, uniformed cop. I had the photo taken in a passport photo cubicle in the local post office whilst grabbing a quick break a few years ago. I had to update it for a driving course at Hendon. I had worked bloody hard for all the entitlements on that laminated card, and barring the odd point here and there for speeding collected and lost over the years, I had kept it relatively clean despite inexperience and stupidity on two wheels, cranking up thousands of miles in four, and tiredness in sixteen tonnes of green multi-wheeled mayhem belonging to HRH. But the law is the law, and with the sealing of a manila envelope an era in my life was over. I was effectively banning myself, talk about Judge Dredd.

Bearer of my own bad news

I got through to my Mum’s sister, Ann, first. “Are you sitting down?” I asked.
“Hold on I’ll get your mother”, I sensed fear in her voice. Moments later my Mum picked up the phone, I heard frantic muttering in the background then, “Hi son, are you okay?”
“I hope you’re sitting down Mum, I’ve got a bloody brain tumour”. A moment’s silence, then…
…She told me not to worry, not to give up hope and that miracles happen all the time. We talked about my prognosis, the type of tumour, Francesca, the kids, my job, religion. She told me not to lose faith, and that she’d come down to London on Friday with my aunt because at times like this family should be close together. Her words were calming, soothing, what I needed to hear. Not the reaction I expected. She was composed, collective, and rational just when I needed her to be. If roles were reversed, and I just discovered that I was likely to survive my offspring I’d probably go ‘postal’. I couldn’t help thinking that it was rehearsed, that she had braced herself for the worst news after I had told her about the seizures those few weeks ago. I was later to discover from my Aunt Ann that after I hung up they held each other shivering and crying for what seemed like an eternity. The ‘stiff upper lip’ was for my benefit. After a while my Mum turned to my Aunt and had said, “Oh my God he can’t drive, that’ll kill him!” She knew my passion for the internal combustion engine.
God knows she’d seen enough cars and motorbikes grace the driveway.
Against her better judgement, when I was 17, she bought my first motorbike, a Honda XL125R
(Hey a flick side parting, Levi cords, Adidas Capri trainers, and Benetton rugby tops were de rigueur in Liverpool in the early 80's). Later, when I came back from a working holiday in the USA, she helped me import my VW Karmann Ghia. Later still, she stopped me from committing GBH when a very ex-friend purposefully neglected to add hardener to the two pack paint laid on my cherished 1973 Carrera RS replica. Imagine a classic sports coupe effectively covered in a thin layer of yellow putty – sacrilege. She even watched in amazement as I shoehorned a Porsche 356 Super 75 motor into a VW beetle 1303S. She was even more amazed when I through a rod racing a 2.8 Capri.

Strange, the things that ‘pop’ into your mind and take ‘centre stage’ when faced with adversity. But then again we’re complex creatures with many inbuilt psychological defence mechanisms especially designed to deal with such circumstances.

There’s a few people that’s gonna dance on my grave but that’s ok as I’m getting buried at sea (thanks for that one Bernard)

If I had a penny for every time I lay in bed and stared up at the ceiling and agonised about how I got the bloody tumour in the first place I’d have about 63p, or some figure like that.
But seriously, over the coming months I had plenty of opportunity to go over every possible scenario and factor that led to my predicament. I got it down to four possible causes.
The first and most obvious was the ‘demon’ cell phone. At risk of being sued, my girlfriend at the time and I bought two Motorola digital flip phones after I started my psychology degree at UCLAN. This was around 1992/93, and we were still in the ‘cross-over’ from analogue. Digital phones were cumbersome things with huge batteries compared to today’s arty miniatures. I’m no cellular communications wizard but I reason that this is largely due to the positioning and number of phone masts, in addition to battery technology. To explain, these days there’s a phone mast at the top of every church, block of flats, and any building with some real height.

Back in 1992 you would be lucky if you found a couple of masts in a town the size of Preston, Lancashire. As a result, a cell phone had to generate a lot of power to ‘throw’ that signal out, and ‘pull’ it back in. These days they don’t need as much power as there’s probably a mast in your back garden. As a result, super slim ‘sex toys’, that everybody fawns over, which have, together with the arrival of the MP3 player, pushed robbery statistics through the roof, (well you can take the boy out of the police [temporarily], but you can’t take the police out of the boy). So there I am scribbling away at my coursework in my tiny room in the university halls of residence. Meanwhile 45 miles away is a lonely insecure ex-to-be twiddling her talons, er… I mean thumbs, convinced I’m high on speedballs pole dancing with nubile young student vampire babes at the local student union bar come ‘Titty Twister’. As a result, she kept me pinned to the phone every night talking crap. I do remember though, at the end of every lengthy exchange the right side of my face and head being warm to the touch. The extended antenna ending exactly where the tumour began. I should have kept those conversations to a minimum but the aggravation would have been unbearable. Oh for foresight.

Secondly, I left school when Margaret Thatcher had her steely grip on the country. At one stage there were 3.5 million people unemployed. A job was like gold dust. At the time my CV wasn’t exactly brimming over with qualifications and experience, so I took the first thing I could find, a job with one of the largest dry cleaning chains in the UK. Wasn’t long before I was fully trained as a machine operator and Hoffman presser and acting as relief across Merseyside. However, some of the working practices of the managers, and the aging machinery, left a lot to be desired. Indeed, many a time I saw, and smelled, damp clothes being extracted and sent up for pressing in order to keep up with the burgeoning workload. Unfortunately, research has since shown the solvent used, Perchloroethylene, to be carcinogenic.

I narrowed the third possible cause to blow to the head. By it’s very nature the astrocytoma is a deep-rooted bastard that may have been there for many years. How long? Nobody knows. Its not like you can cut it in half and count the rings, or take a sample and have it carbon dated. I lost track of the number of falls and bumps I had at school whilst playing boisterous childhood games such as British bulldogs (probably now called UK Labradors), and block 123. I’m not going to explain these, suffice to say they were gladiatorial.

But all that was 30 or so years ago. What had happened recently? Well there was an altercation with an empty tea urn belonging to Her Majesty in the back of a Bedford 4 tonner, also belonging to HRH, when I was wearing a certain green uniform.

However, there was no unconsciousness, concussion, lump, blood, nothing. I had come off my motorbike a few times, but I never landed on my helmeted head. And I had been punched a couple of times, but no cartoon ‘tweety birds’ circling my skull. Besides that, zilch!

Finally, it may be my own bad luck. Perhaps people sometimes get these things in a vacuum with no obvious causes. Maybe non-conformist cells ‘wake-up’ one day and decide, “Fuck it, I’ going to grow different from now on!”
One thing is for certain though, given a long enough time line the survival rate for everybody drops to zero!

Oh yeah, did I mention on a bad day I've got one
of these every 45 seconds? Can't be good for your health.

And on a final note, its also crossed my mind that one, maybe more, disgruntled ex-girlfriends may have got their hands on one of these. No not the 747, the bloody doll. Creepy.

How to turn a world upside down

I stagger out of the building my head full of death. I pull my phone out of my pocket and call my Detective Sergeant, or Craig, as he likes to be called by the officers he supervises. I want to talk to Francesca, but this isn’t the sort of news that you tell your long-term partner face to face. Similarly, I need to tell my mum and Aunt, but there’ll be a thousand questions, hysterics. I need to have a cuppa and compose myself before I tell them. Anyway, I have a good relationship with Craig; he’ll get my head straight. I sit on the car park kerb and I sob into the phone, “Craig, I’m dying. I’ve got an inoperable brain tumour. I’m all fucked up”. His words are calming and soothing and help me get everything into perspective. At least the tears stop. After a while a ring off and call John, the guy I went to Poland with those few short weeks ago. John usually has an amazingly pragmatic view on life. If anyone can make sense of this its John. For the first time in the sixteen years that I’ve known him he’s dumbstruck. He keeps asking me to repeat myself as if he needs to hear it a multitude of times before it sinks in. We talk as I walk slowly to the train station.
I arrive at the flat some forty minutes later. Its empty, Francesca is out collecting Olivia from the nursery. After a few minutes I hear their buggy being pushed through the car park gravel. I decide to meet them in the basement.
“How did it go love?”
“Well, do you want the good news or bad news first?”
“Don’t do this to me, just tell me how it went at the hospital”.
“Well the good news is you’re going to be around £200,000 better off. The bad news is I wont be there to spend it with you”.
“What?”
“I’ve an inoperable brain tumour love”. She collapses in my arms. Her tears mingle with mine. I hold her tight to me and bury my face deep into her long dark curls. She smells and feels good as always, comforting, but somehow different. I’m appreciating her more. Unconsciously, I’m taking in every molecule of her perfume, and every inch of contact as if it were the last. The children begin to cry.

The light that burns twice as bright burns half as long...

Late afternoon Tuesday the 17/10/2006, I’m on my back inserted into the MRI at Kingston Hospital. Despite the headphones piping cheesy music it’s still very noisy inside. I’m pulled out of the cylinder after about half an hour. The radiographer assures me that I’ll be called with the results the following day and I leave.
That night I’m calm. I’ve already rationalised that I have a small brain haemorrhage. I know this can be remedied quite easily with either medication or a small operation. After all, it made sense; stress or exertion seemed to bring about my seizures. I reasoned that this was likely caused by blood pressure building up causing the weakened intracranial lesion to swell and ultimately press on the same area in the brain thus eliciting the same sensations of Presque vu, olfactory and auditory hallucinations and eventual disorientation. I thanked God that I took that module of Physiological Psychology at University. I knew that it would pay off one day.

Early afternoon Wednesday the 18/10/2006, the phone in the living room rings. It’s the dashing doc’s secretary. He wants to see me later this afternoon. Feelings of dread and fear well over me.
A couple of hours later I’m ushered into his austere but spacious office. As the doctor offers me a seat I glance to my left to see him put up what appears to be an x-ray of what must be my skull on an illuminated wall mounted x-ray reader. I identify it before he can utter another word. A large white mass, like a clenched fist, sitting behind my right eye. His words fall on me like hammer blows to my body. “I’m afraid you have a large brain tumour” I look again, this can’t be true, this sort of thing happens to other people. “Tumour?” “Yes”, he replies, and then the words start ‘bouncing off me’, words that no amount of training in psychology could prepare you for. Words such as ‘astrocytoma, inoperable, mortality. Nausea wells up in my stomach, I cup my head in my hands and begin to weep like an inconsolable child. “But I was a good cop”. “And you still are”. “How long has this thing been in my head?” “There’s no way of telling”, comes the reply. “Typically, they’re very slow growing. Could be ten, fifteen years, could be longer”. I start to think back on all the things I have done with this ‘time bomb’ in my skull. I bloody climbed the Glyder range in Wales. Negotiated Corno Grande, highest peak in the Apennines. I’ve scuba dived underwater mountains in the Med. Raced solo across Europe on a Kawasaki, and got myself through the tough training at Hendon police academy, all with this crap growing away, festering. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in the rain. It’s now my time to die. “Look, in my experience tumours such as these are largely benign. However, we won’t know until we have a biopsy performed. In the meantime, I’m writing you a prescription for anti-epileptics. We’ll be in touch with a date”.
I float to the hospital dispensary. Hand shaking I pass the prescription across the desk, I’m given a number. Mercifully, I’m alone in the waiting room. I stand with my back to the pharmacists and sob quietly.

Potential Catastrophic Biological Failure Detector

Saturday comes quickly and Francesca returns home with the kids. Come Monday midday I’m attending my eldest daughter’s nursery for her induction day. It’s a big deal for us as its our baby’s first day at school, albeit nursery. And while she skips about making friends we’re being introduced to all the staff and facilities. Meanwhile, my youngest daughter, ever the extrovert (where does she get that from?), is happily milling about with children twice her age. Afternoon, I’m sitting outside the neurologist’s office at Kingston Hospital trying to get images of white haired Teutonic fops fighting vampiric hordes with nothing but a pointed stick (Python reference, had to get one in somewhere – The Americans will appreciate that, always have good taste in humour the Yanks). “Ahh… neurotic middle-aged Arab type woman sitting next to me, She’ll do”! Within three minutes she’s told me all her ailments and how’s she ended up sitting in a neurologist’s waiting room. Now if I could just use that ability on suspects in interview. I’m just about to diagnose her when, “Mr McNally?” “That’ll be me”. Apart from the regrettable name Dr Van Oertzen cuts a rather dashing profile. A slim, good looking six foot something forty-year old you just know has no problem picking up the ladies, der Scheißkerl.
We sit I talk. After some minutes and a plethora of hmm’s and aha’s the dashing doc recommends that I have an MRI scan the following day. I ask him that despite it being ‘early days’ does he have any idea what may be up with me? He replies that it could be some form of epilepsy. I protest that I’m not trashing around and losing consciousness. He retorts that there are many types of epilepsy, the ‘grand mal’ being only one. None the wiser I thank him for his time and patience and leave to make my appointment for tomorrow.


The internal ‘bodyclock’ is well documented. Indeed, Circadian rhythms are important in determining the sleeping and feeding patterns of all animals, including human beings. There are clear patterns of brain wave activity, hormone production, cell regeneration and other biological activities linked to this daily cycle. However, the ‘bodyclock I’m thinking about is when your girlfriend reminds you that she’s not getting any younger, and that she needs to get married and have children. I digress. Where am I going with this? Similarly, I actually believe that the human body has some sort of inbuilt destruction detection device insofar as we detect potential catastrophic biological failure in the absence of symptomology. Allow me to explain. Prior to the first incident taking place in September, I went up to see my Mother and Aunt at the family home in the North West of England. Whilst there I drove around all my old haunts, places I wouldn’t normally visit in a short weekend trip to my folks. Somehow I wanted to relive the memories (nostalgic son of a bitch). What made it all the more poignant was the fact that I had my three-year old daughter with me. It was summer, I wanted her to see where I grew up, what seasonal sensations I experienced at this time of year thirty years ago. I wanted to see her run with her bare feet through the damp sand collecting shells. I wanted her to pick the flowers from the borders in the park, and eat ice cream on the promenade. I wanted her to have some quality time with her grandmother.
I also visited a dive shop and found the bargain of the century in the shape of a one piece Oakley 7mm semi-dry suit. Wanting to pay cash, I left a small deposit and told the storekeeper that I would return at the end of the week. End of the week comes, and I start to make my way to the store. As I approach the door something internal physically prevented me from carrying on. A little voice inside my head saying, “forget it mate, you’re not going to need that suit, it’ll be a waste of money”. I didn’t pick it up, and I let the deposit go. At around the same time I started to Ebay everything. Stuff that had monetary and sentimental value, all were sold electronically. Confusing considering I’m such a horder of memories. Stranger still was my sudden obsession with constructing a list of 100 things to do before I died, and ticking them off as I religiously, no ritualistically, completed them. Meanwhile, Francesca shook her head at me in bewilderment. I remember that somehow I was ‘clearing the decks’, making sure that I had experienced everything that I could possibly experience legally, and not leaving clutter behind.

Career Suicide

There’s noise all around me as my colleagues mill about their tasks. There are arrest enquiries to be completed, prisoners to be processed, statements to be taken, mug shots to be shown, and breakfasts to be eaten. My workload is not a particularly heavy one today; collect CCTV from the scene of a non-residential burglary, take it to Hounslow police station and view it in the hope that I get a good image of the ‘slag’ that ‘screwed’ the warehouse. Secondly, collect a victim of robbery from his H.A. (home address) take him back to the venue (place he was mugged) with a view to jogging any suppressed memory and identifying any overlooked forensic opportunities. The latter has all the hallmarks of an ‘insurance job’. A ‘victim’ pretending he/she was robbed in order to generate a crime reference number so they can claim a newer more up-to-date cell phone. Unfortunately, this is all too often the case, and is difficult to prove otherwise. Often it simply comes down to ‘gut instinct’ to detect a liar, which as we all know is simply a layman’s’ term for intuition and experience http://psychologytoday.com/articles/pto-20070424-000001.html . Sadly, this is not enough, and I’m digressing widely. Guess it comes with studying psychology for far too many years. Besides all that I’ve still got my other crimes to investigate, there’s a shortage of unmarked cars, and I’m still phasing in and out of reality. I cannot get behind the wheel of a police vehicle, nor any vehicle for that matter. I would be a danger to the public, my colleagues and myself. In fact, the way I’m feeling I shouldn’t be in contact with anyone in a working capacity, I’m a bleedin’ walking health and safety violation. I then decide to take the ‘long walk’ into the DI’s (Detective Inspector) office and put all my ‘cards on the table’. This crap isn’t going away.
“Guv, can you spare a few minutes”? “What’s up big man?” Now my DI, a stocky Glaswegian in his forties, is one of the nicest blokes you could ever hope to meet in this life. The sort of person a guy could instantly feel at ease with and open up his heart. I am truly blessed that I can refer to him as a friend of the family. However, potentially committing career suicide should be very low on the list of things to do of a young and upcoming detective, nobody wants a ‘loon’ on their team that could keel over in a fight, or ‘flip out’ in a high speed car chase. “Guv, I think I’m really ill”. “Close the door behind you mate, take a seat”. And then it all spills out and I begin to shake. “Likey… Likey, my office now!” The office door bursts open, “What’s up Guv?” “Get a car, one with blues ‘n twos, and get Ivan to the hospital pronto”. “What’s up mate?” “He’ll fill you in on the way, get going”.

I’m at Kingston Hospital in record time a testament to the driving ability of my work mate John. As promised I’ve got him ‘up to scratch’ along the way, and he decides to stay with me while I get booked in for the usual barrage of probes and questions. A phone call, “it’s the Guvnor, I should stay with you as long as it takes… I was anyway, we’re paid by the hour” I crack a wry smile.
After a while the doctor in charge visits my cubicle. He informs me that they cannot find anything wrong with me, and that they considered keeping me in for observation until my Neurologist appointment next week, however, he is more concerned that I’ll leave here with more diseases than I went in with. His advice is to wait at home until my appointment with Van Helsing, after all its only three days away. I’m discharged none the wiser, but at least free of MRSA. Another phone call from the DI. I’m not to come in until after the neurologist’s appointment next week. I wonder how I’m going to tell my folks about all this

Pleasuurre, painn, someone somwhere is eating a lot of Muller yoghurt

Saturday night, Francesca and the kids are still in Italy, its time to party. By 1900 hours fellow lawman, close friend and confident, Joe, is at the flat. By 1905 we’ve hit the local bars of TW19, spending over the odds for vodka that would have cost me a fraction of the price two weeks ago.
By 0205 hours the two of us are making the sad slow meandering march back to the flat. In true Northern fashion Joe takes the floor with a few cushions, and I hit my bed with a resounding thud. The following morning I have a pain in my neck. I write it off as having slept too soundly in the same position for far too long. Anyway, I got a good 20 hours to shake the effects of the night off before I’m on duty again.
Next day and the pain is still there, worse in fact. Work is a nightmare, notwithstanding the stupid comments every five minutes about the stiff neck. Definitely no overtime today.
When I get home I ‘drop’ a couple of paracetamols, virtually no effect. The rest of the evening is spent in excruciating agony to the point that I’m walking around with a wrapped up towel around my neck as a makeshift brace. And then I make the fateful mistake; self diagnoses, http://www.wrongdiagnosis.com/ I typed all my symptoms in and… Shit! Bedtime is propped up in a sitting position on the couch. Lying down is far to tortuous. Sleep? Forget it! The next morning at the stroke of 0830 I phone the surgery and get an emergency appointment with my GP.
Not long after I’m sitting opposite my doctor again. A few minutes later he’s recommending that I be admitted to hospital with suspected meningitis. I protest his diagnoses. There is no sensitivity to light, or high fever (I’ve done my homework). He retorts, “There’s more than one type of meningitis, I’ll call an ambulance”. Shortly after I’m in the local hospital being prodded with needles, having lights shone in my eyes, and having my reflexes taken every five minutes.
After what seems like at eternity the doctors return to my cubicle only to announce what I already knew. “Well its not meningitis, here have some Diclofenac. Take one three times a day. If symptoms persist go back to your GP”. Within a few hours the pain has gone completely.
However, within days it’s ‘bang, bang, bang’ three ‘funny turns’ in quick succession over the period of one afternoon and evening. The exact same M.O. as the others. Soul sucked out through face whilst experiencing a strange feeling of deja vu, or rather presque vu (from French, meaning "almost seen"). The sensation of being on the brink of an epiphany. “There’s something at the back of my mind trying to breakthrough. If I can just understand what it is I’ll have this sucker, whatever it is, fully understood, and once its fully understood, its beat”. A sort of ‘mind over matter’, I will have taken away it’s ‘power’.This sensation is coupled with the familiar taste that I don’t recognise, and the background music that I’ve heard so often yet still can’t put my ‘finger’ on. And then ‘schbang’ as my soul slaps back into my face, and the ground reaches up to meet the disorientated me. However, despite the symptomology there seems to be a resounding theme with all these incidents; They’re usually post exercise or some form of exertion, until a few days later.
I’m in a classroom at work being subjected to a training day. It’s a lengthy affair covering the usual diverse topics, from fire pickets to domestic violence. We’ve all just come back from a short coffee break and are now in the final stretch. The end of the working day is in sight. A quick ‘n easy Q and A and we’re just about finished. I’m sitting amongst a small group of colleagues mulling the scenario over when ‘bang’, “You crafty bastard you ‘snuck’ under my ‘radar’. I didn’t see that coming. Did anyone notice?” “Training days over, thank God. Feeling like crap, early dart home on the bus.” Light workout, a few curls in front of the TV before I start dinner, ‘bang’, second one of the day. “Right, stop that. No more exercise until this crap is sorted”. Into the kitchen for a light evening meal, ‘bang’ a big one. “Bloody sniper got me, I’m on the floor”. Panic sets in, I start to phone everyone. I don’t want to be alone. Francesca tells me that she’s going to come back the following morning. I pull myself together and tell her to stay in Italy for the last few days of her sabbatical. After much cajoling she relents.
The next day I feel bad, worse than usual. But then again, I had three ‘spells’ in one day. Travelling to work on the bus is dreamlike. I feel strangely disjointed from reality. I float into the office, boot up my computer, and then realise that I can’t go on…

Journey back to reality

Mission accomplished its time for that slog across the eternal city in time for my evening Easyjet departure. Not as ‘easy’ as it sounds. I don’t know if you’ve ever experienced really bad London congestion at rush hour, well multiply that by a factor of ten and then you may be getting ‘warm’. However, I’ll give the coach driver his due, he cut a swath through the evening’s traffic like a gladiator’s sword through a, well, er… another gladiator. Italian drivers, put the British to shame. Whereas, the British are largely content to sit in tailback after tailback on a nightly basis, Italians will make a concerted effort to actually get through the queue. Italian males are probably eager to get home to their busty Sophia Loren look-alike wives, and table spread with delicious home cooked fare. ‘Brit’ males on the other hand ‘look forward’ to an empty house (she’s still at work helping pay for that second mortgage), and a boil-in-the-bag languishing in the freezer’s bottom drawer. We may have to deal with ‘Mamma’ and her over-sexed mates, but bring on the ‘Mediterranean diet’ any day of the week.

Finally, with minutes to spare, I arrive at the airport, grateful that I left Francesca and kids ‘tucked up’ in the comfort of their second home. It had been decided weeks earlier that Francesca should have a decent time in Rome to ‘recharge her batteries’. On the other hand I had work commitments, and two weeks off was more than enough. God only knows how the mean streets of Chiswick must have deteriorated without me.

Two hours later I’m touching down in Stanstead. I had no idea of the true journey that lay ahead.

Centurians, cake and christenings

The meeting was a success, Camilla, my youngest, was to be baptised the following Sunday. In record time the invites are sent out and the cake and party nibbles are ordered. This was to be a lavish little Italian affair, a chance for Grandma to show off her hostess skills, and more importantly her latest Prada bag, and a chance for Francesca to catch up with some old friends.
In the meantime it was time (pardon the pun) to bend the space-time continuum and introduce my offspring to their origins by means of a tour of ancient Rome in child-size bites. Where better to start than with the Colusuem? And it’s not long until the girls have made a new friend. And no, its not Ross Kemp (or Ed on a TARDIS excursion).

Sunday is a success, especially for me. I don't know if it was the Ted Baker linen suit, Nicole Farhi shirt and Patrick Cox loafers, the English accent or a combination of both, but I ended up fighting the wife's mother's mates off with a proverbial stick. Anyway, have a look at the photo below and you be the judge. I'm the one in the

middle by-the-way. In typical

Italian fashion the food is delicious, the guests well-dressed, and the event is topped off by small children running between legs at a hundred kilometres an hour.

Mission to Rome

The stop over in the UK is a brief one. Basically, repack my bag, not much call for mud covered paramilitary garb when I’m walking the kids through the trendy centre of Rome, grab a bite to eat, and try and get a good nights sleep before the flight the following morning.
Letter on the doormat. It’s the referral. I’m to see a German neurologist, a Dr Van Helsing, or something like that, on the 17th October. “No problem I’ll be back long before that”. “Besides”, I remember thinking, “I might not even need to see him, after all I’ve put myself through in Poland I’ve not even had the faintest indication of a funny turn”.

In true Easyjet fashion I arrive at my destination famished but heavier in the wallet. A sprint to the transfer bus, and half an hour later I’m at the sleazy side of Rome’s centre; Termini, the huge central rail station that links the rest of Italy and some parts of Europe.
A mad dash across the road to the closest tabaccheria (tobacco kiosk). Buy a biglietto (ticket) for the ATAC (bus), and zig zag back to where they’re all parked. Twenty minutes later I’m at Francesca’s mother’s place, a contemporarily decorated 7th floor apartment close to Trastevere (I digress). In true Italian fashion there are kisses all round upon my arrival, then a light snack and a rest before dinner. The next few days are largely spent resting, eating and window shopping. Its noted that on a few occasions I feel light-headed, but after gorging myself on pizza bianca, a chewy and salty pizza derivative, and chinotto, a bitter sweet type of cola, I feel re-energised. Carbs and sugars, am I developing some sort of diabetes?

I'm losing track of the mission at hand. The true reason I’m in Italy’s capital. Its Thursday the 28th September I have an appointment with Don Ricardo this evening. Its crucial that the meeting goes well.

Bullets, Beer and Babes

The beer flows freely at Dom Żołnierza. Old acquaintances are refreshed, and new friendships are struck. As the night progresses I spy a group of German cops, bedecked in their green uniforms, sitting sternly by themselves in the corner of the hall. Drunkenly, I attempt to ingratiate myself upon them, however, the bitterness of 1966 remains and I leave them brooding over their steins. Mental note to self, “Don’t discuss soccer with the Germans, it’ll only end in tears”.
Its 4am by the time we stagger into our hotel room worse for wear after touring the hostelries of the old town. I turn to John and Andy and exclaim, “You do realise that we have to be up in two hours?” “WHAT?” “Well, we got to get a taxi from here to the barracks outside town where all the other competitors are billeted. We then have to have breakfast with them, get on their coach to the range, and be on parade for 7:45 in time for the competition start at 08:00”. “In that case we’d better get our heads down”, replies a pale Andy.
There’s a chorus of digital alarm clocks at 06:00. I’m first out of my bed, closely followed by a groaning John, then finally Andy out of the pullout sofa. No words are exchanged. No words need be exchanged. Still struggling with the laces on our combat boots and the urge to vomit we make our way down stairs to a waiting taxi.
Everything goes according to plan despite raging hangovers, and by 07:45 we’ve formed a line in the dewy grass along side all manner of military uniforms, most still clearly under the influence, in front of a Polish colonel and his entourage.
Having listened to range do’s and don’ts in what sounds like Klingon, Romulan, Cardassian and Ferengi we set about the competition.
I’m on form, and despite a friendly ribbing in the background from the Royal Navy team I blow the Norwegian entry away on the .177 round. Similarly, our team makes short work of the German army on the .22 rim fire rifle. I consider it prudent to refrain from drawing a similarity to a certain 1-5 victory in 2001. After all, they are armed Germans and look what happened in “39. Likewise, we hold our own on the AK47, Glauberyt 9mm machine pistol, and Dragunov 7.62 sniper rifle. However, as the day progresses the hangover that has kept me strangely alert starts to subside and my performance begins to tail off. This is evident in the poor performance on the PK 7.62 GPMG, the grenade throw and the standard Polish police issue p83 9mm pistol. Ah well, that was my excuse at the time.
By 15:00 the competition is well and truly over and we make our way back to the hotel, via the barracks, for a well-deserved sleep until dinner.
Come 20:00 we’re rested, washed, dressed in fresh designer garb, and ready to hit the town again. First things first though, the Pharaoh restaurant across the road for another super huge helping of steak, and chicken kebabs washed down with copious amounts of beer and vodka.
The rest of the evening is spent moving from bar to bar sampling various brands of Polish vodka, locally brewed beers, occasionally meeting up with other competitors and engaging in friendly drunken banter, and now and again upsetting the locals.
We stumble into the hotel lobby at around 06:00 much to the disdain of the night staff. I fancy I hear, “Bloody mercenaries”, as we fall into the lift. But then again that could be just the vodka.

Night blurs into day for a third time, and by Monday morning we’re ready to kiss the tarmac at Stanstead.