Betrayed by My Own Blood

The Chemotherapy Diaries

Lucy and I Enjoying Our Sleep

I’ve spent the last week of this cycle dodging covid. Someone somewhere seems to have struck a deal with the disease and it has been hot on my tail ever since. The most hurtful detail is that the people hired to carry out the job include my own fiancee, one of my best friends and members of my own family. I’m still winning so far… I would estimate that I have done 10 lateral flow tests and a single PCR this week, and all have come back negative. It’s been close, though.

The first attempt on my life came on Tuesday. Anna and I have been feeling a bit under the weather, both of us waking up with dry throats and feeling more tired than usual. None of the symptoms were too bad, but Anna woke up feeling slightly worse that day so wanted to make sure it wasn’t covid. This was all going on upstairs, unbeknown to my mum and me who were downstairs watching trash tv (Come Dine With Me – the only trash TV worth watching), blissfully ignorant of the situation unfolding upstairs.

“Daaaaaan,” I heard from upstairs, there was obvious concern in the tone. “I’ve just tested positive. It’s only a really faint line but there’s definitely one there.” Mum and I ran into the hallway to find Anna standing at the top of the stairs, worry in her eyes. She showed us the test. There was a faint impression of a line. She did another test, which confusingly came back negative. No sign of a line whatsoever. We thought we’d take a final punt, a decider test. It came back negative again… not a great reflection on the lateral flow tests that everyone is relying on (which we are going to be charged extortionate amounts of money for in England from April 1st). We agreed to keep our distance and sleep in different beds until we could get a PCR to provide a more reliable result, which we got on Wednesday. It came back negative for both of us.

The next hired gun came in the form of my friend Drew. Well, his girlfriend Em was delivering the bullet, but I’m sure he was getting a cut. Tuesday was his 29th birthday, and we had agreed to hang out that night so I could give him his present and the sponge cake that I had baked for him. Pure unadulterated love went into the baking of that cake, and he still tried to take me down with covid. You can’t trust anyone these days. He called me at about 17:00 informing me that Em had just tested positive. I told him about Anna, as this was pre PCR test. Seeing as both of us felt equally at risk of being days away from testing positive, we decided to meet and have a distanced cup of tea. I drove over to his place and stood in the kitchen for an hour, catching up with him and his parents and eating a slice of the cake. It was delicious, if I may say so.

Drew’s Birthday Cake

The last attempt came from my own blood. My mum and I went to Nottingham to drop off some stuff for my brother, Alfie. We took puppy Lucy along for the ride. Once there, we decided to take Lucy on a walk around the local area, Beeston. Beeston is where my dad grew up and all of his siblings still live locally. Alfie is doing his PhD at The University of Nottingham, so he has lived there for a while, eventually settling very near to where my dad grew up, and where his siblings mainly still live. Whilst on our walk, we were going past my aunty Jane’s house. We decided to try our luck and knock on the door to see if Jane and her husband, Roy, were in. At first, we thought they weren’t as no one seemed to be responding to our knocks. We then noticed Jane’s figure peering out of the window, gesticulating at us. She then came to the door and informed us that Roy had just tested positive for covid. “Oh, what a coincidence,” I thought to myself, knowing full well that they were part of this ploy to infect me with covid. We stood talking to her for a while outside the door before Roy came outside and joined us. I’m not scared of no covid; that’s what I was showing them. It’s a dog eat dog world, you can’t cower away from these situations.

My immune system seems to have proven too strong for these weasels and I’m still testing negative at the time of writing. I did hit a roadblock today, though. It wasn’t covid who had the last laugh, but my blood. My own blood betraying me, and I’m not talking metaphorically about my family this time. My actual blood, in my actual veins.

I had my blood test scheduled for today at 11:05. As always, I arrived at The Christie 5 minutes early to ensure that I get through the covid questions at the main entrance, and can check into the relevant department in time for my appointment. Punctuality is my middle name, although my actual middle name is James, which is far less interesting. All was going well. I sat down in the waiting area, armed with my novel. These days I know the drill, and I know that these blood appointments never happen when they are scheduled to. Me and my book had a score to settle, as I’ve been ignoring reading lately. The book was feeling lonely, and I was actually excited to spend some time with it. Four minutes into waiting, at approximately 11:09, my name flashes up on the screen. I’ve barely read 2 pages. How things continue to go so well for me, in such a strange way, I don’t know. I reluctantly closed the book and stood up. “What else can go so well for me this week?” I thought to myself as I made my way across the hospital floor and into the bloods office, begrudging their lack of lateness for once.

The nurse who did my test was sneaky. She immediately started chatting to me about whether I had plans for the weekend. I told her that I have treatment the next day so my plans were pretty limited. Just as she was telling me about how she was planning a quiet weekend, she said “sharp scratch” mid-sentence, at the exact time that the needle pierced my skin. I almost jumped out of the seat. It was fantastic. I didn’t have time to do my normal routine of dramatically looking away and saying something pathetic like “oh I don’t like to watch!”. 30 seconds later, I was putting my jacket back on and thanking her. It all just happened so quickly – the waiting time, the extraction and now I was taking my leave. I felt like I’d been given back an hour of my life, on the same weekend as the clocks go forward in the UK, marking the start of British Summer Time. Everything was coming up roses. I had gained an hour back on the weekend where we frustratingly lose an hour in Britain. Covid was failing at hunting me down and now I was leaving the hospital early. Perfect.

I decided to try my luck and track down a nurse to ask whether my oncology team had managed to write a report on my health. I’ve previously mentioned some difficulties with returning to work. Essentially, my employer would not accept a plan I put together for me returning to work without Occupational Health (OH) getting involved first. OH did a phone interview with me where they asked me some fairly basic questions about my condition and the status of my treatment. From a purely medical point of view, the situation looks quite bleak. I’m on chemotherapy that is considered extremely toxic, with a cancer that has an extremely high mortality rate and I am currently classed as inoperable. The report they produced essentially warned any employer to run as far away from me as they can. At one point, the report actually states that I may need to be considered for ill-health retirement… What on earth would the point of that be? I’ve been paying into a pension fund for 5 years max, the first 3 of them with serious reluctance. The only reason I paid into it at that time was to keep my dad happy, who is pension-mad and manages to force them into any conversation about anything. Seriously, try it with him. Talk to him about ANYTHING, and I guarantee within 7 minutes of engaging he’ll be telling you about how important pensions are.

Anyway, to counter this OH report, I agreed with my line manager that I would get a written report from my oncology team. This report would support all of the things I suggested in my return to work plan. Not an unreasonable ask. Getting my oncology team’s time to create this report is difficult, though. Now, I’m not complaining per se, these people are doing incredible work to save people’s lives, including my own. The nurse who told me that they would do this, however, made it sound like an easy task. 2 emails, 3 voicemails to the specialist’s secretary and 3 weeks no luck in getting any contact would disagree.

I stumbled around the oncology department’s corridors looking intentionally lost. A nurse spotted me and came over to ask if I was Ok. Boom, the plan was working. “I’m looking for a member of my specialist’s team. I haven’t been able to work for half a year and want to return to work, but need a report from the oncology team to help my argument that I am healthy enough to return,” she then cut me off. “This is the breast cancer unit. I imagine you’re in the wrong place,” she smirked; I already liked her. After I explained that I have pancreatic cancer and gave her my specialist’s name, she said that his team were in today. She offered to track them down and speak to them and asked me to go back and wait in the waiting room. 5 minutes later she emerged again, recommending that I contact the secretary again, but giving me the details of the 2 head nurses in case I still didn’t get a response. A bit frustrating, but it’s progress. I counted it as a win and left the hospital with my head held high. Things were doing well, until about 17:00.

I was back home when I got a phone call from ‘No Caller ID’. Nothing ever good usually comes from these calls. What you quickly learn if you are being treated at The Christie is that these calls are almost always from the hospital. The other 20% of the time, however, they are from Carphone Warehouse and they’re trying to convince you that they can better your current phone deal. Luckily, this was the former. I honestly would choose a cold call from The Christie, the contents of which could be quite literally anything regarding my cancer, to having to speak to the random call centre operative from Carphone Warehouse. I’m 99% sure it is a scam anyway.

“Hi is that Daniel?” Not a great start. Who doesn’t know that I am, indeed, Daniel? My ego was already bruised. “Yes, speaking,” I heard someone say this on the tube once and have imitated them ever since. It feels so cool. “It’s one of the nurses at The Christie. Unfortunately, your platelets are too low to go ahead with treatment tomorrow. The bottom limit is 75 and yours are 72. We’re going to have to delay treatment by another week.” Well, that’s annoying. Anna and I had planned to go to Dorset next weekend, then I was going to spend a few days the following week in London before my next treatment. Chemotherapy is king, though, and I know I’m lucky to be getting the treatment I am, so I’m trying not to dwell on the minute details of how my plans need to shift slightly to make way for my potentially life-saving treatment. I can be a little frustrated though, right?

It is strange as after a tough few days initially, this has been the best cycle I’ve experienced by a long way. I’ve had very few side effects, I’ve been running a lot and doing some good times, and I’ve barely felt ill at all. It’s almost tempting to say I have managed to forget I have cancer at times, apart from the constant quips I manage to force into most conversations about having cancer. “Dan, can I watch this programme that I’ve been looking forward to for weeks?” an innocent bystander in my house may ask me. “I’VE ALREADY GOT CANCER AND NOW I CAN’T EVEN WATCH COME DINE WITH ME FOR NINE HOURS A DAY,” I respond, tears streaming down my face. I may as well milk it seeing as it is happening to me whether I do or not.

More seriously, though, I have been cooking and baking a lot again this week. One of the major benefits I’ve found of having cancer has been that I can go about doing things I enjoy, like cooking, running and baking, and people look at me with admiration for doing them. “It’s amazing what you’re managing to do considering what you’re going through,” people say. I have to feign some sort of achievement as I respond saying that I’m only human. The honest truth is that I love doing all of those things. I’d rather be doing them than sitting around feeling miserable. I also have a constant sous chef now as my mum is retired and has a vested interest in my cooking endeavours – she gets to indulge in the final products (unless they have chocolate in, as she gave this up for lent; why on earth someone would do this to themselves is a mystery to me). This allows me to summon my inner Gordan Ramsey. “IT’S FUCKING RAW,” I shout at her as she hands me the chopped carrots. It’s fun for both of us, honest.

Whilst discussing my mum, I have a funny little story from this week. We were out walking the dogs together on Wednesday. The sun was out and it was a clear day, so she decided to take her binoculars to indulge in a spot of bird watching (she isn’t eating chocolate so what else is there to indulge in?). At one point, she was looking through the binoculars whilst holding a bag of dog excrement. I’m not sure if she had forgotten it was in her hand or just didn’t care, but it was hanging right next to her face. I tried to get a picture, but she had just lowered the binoculars by the time I had my camera out. I was do disappointed to not have captured the key moment, but I got pretty close.

A Level of Commitment to Birdwatching That is Unparalleled

Anyway, back to my low platelets… with this being such a good cycle, I do find it strange that it is also the one where my platelets have fallen by so much. The nurse told me it means that my body is still working through the chemotherapy drugs and that it may be doing so at a slower rate because of the accumulation of drugs in my system. The result of the platelets dropping is that my blood doesn’t clot well. It helps to explain why when I removed the cotton bud after my blood test yesterday, it was covered in blood, and why it has left the below mark ever since. Gross.

Low Platelet Bruises Don’t Mess Around

So, although chemotherapy takes the overall victory this round, I do get another week of feeling good. Better just crack on and enjoy it, even if I won’t be able to go to the beautiful Dorset coast for a little bit longer. Lucy and I have been on a few road trips recently. The below picture was taken as we went to see my best friend Luke in Huddersfield. She really is a little heartbreaker.

Lucy Raring to Go to Huddersfield

I hope everyone has a lovely weekend. Here is a vibey song that reminds me of dancing in the sun at Glastonbury in 2019, before I had ever heard of Covid and when I would have bet every penny I owned that I wouldn’t be fighting cancer before the age of 30!

Baking Away the Day

My favourite time of day is the morning. Knowing that I have the potential of a new day ahead of me is always motivating and makes me feel optimistic. I don’t like sitting in bed for very long, which frustrates Anna. She enjoys sitting in bed with a coffee and relaxing. I want to get up and start doing stuff. Today was a good day on this front – I got up, got myself straight to the shop to buy a few things that I needed, and then put my baking apron on. The newest apron I have acquired was a birthday present from my friends Dan and Em, and it reads ‘Dan Godley Baking Queen’. They got it for me for my birthday, and it is very fetching. I was determined to live up to the title today.

Dan Godley Baking Queen

On the baking schedule today were some cookies, and a sponge cake for a local estate agent business called Stephenson Browne, who donated £100 to my Run 40 campaign. I had intended to do something to show my appreciation sooner, but I got caught up in all the cancer chemo blah blah stuff. Now that I have been elected as THE baking queen, it seemed a no brainer as to how I could show my appreciation. I also thought that if anyone from Stephenson Browne reads the blog, they may have wondered if I am actually any good at baking. The answer? Well, I’m not sure. I dropped the cakes off, complained about having cancer for a few minutes, then left, conscious that they all have jobs and it was the middle of the day on a Monday. Of course, I had to get in a few minutes complaining about the cancer. Some things are not only confined to the blog – I really do moan about it this much in real life too. But I hope they like the cakes! I didn’t take pictures as they are both recipes I’ve made a few times and have definitely posted pictures of on here already. I don’t want to bore anyone off by repeating the same images of the same cakes I am trying to master… Similarly to the topics up for discussion on this blog, which I ensure never centre on repetitive themes. I mean, sure, I like to talk about cancer, baking, chemotherapy, Lucy and positivity, but that isn’t all I talk about, is it? Anyway, back to the baking.

I was up and throwing together the ingredients of the cake first thing in the morning. 8:30 I had my first cake in the oven and was starting on the cookie dough. It was great; my music was on, the cake was smelling good and I had actually got a good night’s sleep for once. I know so because I have a handy little device that can’t help point these things out to me…

My smartwatch records data on sleep, such as sleep quality, amount of deep sleep, sleep time etc. Until this morning, I had woken up the previous 3 to my watch telling me that I slept like shit, that I’m going to be knackered all day and that I should consider relaxing because my stress levels are too high. It berated me for having 2 nights in a row where I actually managed to get 0 minutes of deep sleep. The most annoying part is that I think the watch is right – I felt crap all weekend and like I hadn’t rested at all. The annoying thing is that the watch just sits there smugly regurgitating data at me but offering no practical ways to implement its ‘solutions’. I can’t reduce my stress levels just because the watch tells me it is beneficial to do so. I haven’t even been that stressed – the watch tells me that I feel more stressed than I realise I am, which makes me stressed that I cannot detect my own stress levels. I can’t stress enough how stressful the stress data can be to consume. It even has the cheek to arbitrarily assess my sleep with a numerical value. I’m not sure what the number is out of, but last night it was ’71’. The night before it was ’18’. You’d think I was out clubbing but I was in bed by 11. I now feel under pressure to try and impress my watch by sleeping well, never being stressed and exceeding my step count every day.

I am sure that this higher quality of sleep is why I felt good as I flew around the kitchen at 8am today, though. I’d finally scored a day-lifting 71. The summary still read ‘Long but restless sleep’, but I can live with that. The ‘sleep quality’ reads ‘Fair’. I imagine the watch shrugging as I read the word, indifferently providing an assessment and wishing I’d just go running again so it could be put into activity mode. That’s where it really gets its kicks. All this other stuff is just white noise to a sports watch. Ok, I’ll move on from this now…

The staff in the Stephenson Browne seemed appreciative. They also seemed amused that I made vegan cookies as well, just in case any of them were vegan or had an intolerance to dairy. I don’t think there were any such restrictions, but I wanted to be safe.

After such a productive morning, I crashed out in the afternoon. An innocent 20 minutes of sitting down to regain some energy resulted in me waking up with Lucy in my arms. I checked my watch to try and establish how long I had fallen asleep for…an hour and a half. After a further 30 minutes of trying to fight the fatigue, I managed to get myself up and motivated to walk Lucy. My mum came along. We went on a route where we pass by a large pen of pigs. There were 2 babies throwing each other around in the dirt with an older pig occasionally barging them with its snout. We were very amused but Lucy couldn’t care less. She’s too busy searching the earth for quite literally anything to eat – from cow poo to plastic, she has a boundless and eclectic taste when it comes to ‘food’.

I intend to continue baking cakes for all the people who were extra generous with their donations, so long as they are close enough to me to allow me to do so. I’m still coming to terms with just how successful the Run 40 fundraiser was. It makes me nervous to ever try and raise money for anything again – quit while you’re ahead and all that! My oldest sister has recently decided to run the London Marathon for The Christie. Once she has a fundraising link, I will be sure to share that on the blog. The Christie really is an amazing place, as anyone will tell you who has been there for treatment. I’d like to raise some money for them too in the future, but I think I need a cooling-off period for now.

Days Away

The Chemotherapy Diaries

It’s been years with the hope kept close to my chest
That what I’ll get will be better than what I have
So I’ll stay inside and try to sleep my days away

Days Away – Pentimento

Picture from my 29th Birthday Gathering

It’s been a strange cycle so far. With the last one being 3 weeks long instead of 2, I got a taste of normality. The extra week did me a world of a good and it certainly helped my mouth settle down after ulcer-gate. I had actually forgotten what it was like to have a relatively normal amount of energy, but had not realised that I had forgotten, if that makes sense. The months on chemotherapy shifts what the standard is in your mind of what is ‘normal’. It is hard for me to truly remember what my energy levels were like before I started treatment now, but I also had another month-worth of time where I was very ill before starting treatment. This was when I was in and out of the hospital, trying to establish what was wrong with me. It means that I haven’t felt at full strength for over 5 months now. That third week I was given off chemotherapy is probably the best I have felt since before I even fell ill. I got quite caught up in it. My runs were faster, I was up earlier each day and life wasn’t fatiguing me anywhere near as much. It was easier to go to restaurants, laugh with friends and enjoy myself. I was also really happy with the few blog posts I did that week, and wish I had spent time writing more. The whole experience has made me yearn for a return to a similar state of normality. Perhaps that helps explain the last week I have had with cycle 8.

There isn’t a lot to complain about, per se. Physically, in terms of symptoms, it hasn’t been a particularly bad cycle. My nurse during treatment warned me about cycle 8. “A lot of people find this one the hardest. The accumulation of drugs and mental fatigue can take its toll. Let us know if you need a break. Your oncology team can give you a month off if you’re feeling run down by it all.” She had a lovely Geordie accent; I could have sat listening to her speak all day. She was also extremely complimentary about my baking and kept coming over to chat to me about restaurants that she recommends that were nearby in Manchester. It always makes the session go quicker when you have a friendly nurse who likes to chat – although, almost all of them are like this at The Christie. By the time I left the hospital, she had already eaten 3 slices of the victoria sponge cake. I was impressed she was so skinny – it must be those laps around the chemotherapy ward, turning off all the alarms on the machines and chatting to the patients.

The problems with this cycle have been more subtle for me. I’ve felt extremely disconnected, unmotivated and absent. For the first 4 days of the cycle, I really didn’t know what was going on, what I had done, when I had fallen asleep and when I had just been sitting there doing nothing. The world seemed to be happening in spite of me, as opposed to me participating in anything that was going on. When I finally got myself motivated to go running on Thursday, it didn’t feel like my brain was controlling my feet. There was a disconnect between the 2. I felt myself running along but didn’t feel like I had any autonomy over the situation. My body knew I was running and was doing it, but my brain wasn’t interested enough to be involved. It is this apathy that is hitting other areas of my life.

It is a strange phenomenon really. I can’t quite sum it up in a way that even makes sense to me. The lyrics quoted at the start of the blog post stand out at the minute because it feels that they describe the situation well. On Wednesday, I was trying to reflect back on the past few days but I genuinely couldn’t recall what I had done. I barely knew how often I had been awake or asleep. Everything had blurred into one elongated memory of me just sitting around the house, occasionally cooking, occasionally walking. My mum and I went and visited friends together on Tuesday which was really nice. I even drove there and back as mum doesn’t like the motorway, something which I am not usually able to do that soon after treatment because my fingers cramp up badly. It only lasts about 5 days, but I try and avoid driving during this time in case it happens and I suddenly can’t grip the wheel. This is what I mean about the cycle not really being as bad in terms of physical symptoms, though. My hands only cramped for a day or 2 this time. All of the shortcomings of the cycle feel relatively indescribable and intangible. After having such a good extra week in the last cycle, I now feel like I am holding onto hope that I will be able to feel like that permanently, but am condemned to continue with the hard miles for now; sleeping away the time if necessary, just trying to get through it.

There is nothing worse in life than wishing time away, though, even if I am on chemotherapy. I’ve managed to make the most of the past 4 months and I shouldn’t be stopping that attitude now. The amount I am baking has settled down, but I am cooking a lot. My mum and I just started getting an organic veg box delivered to our house from a local company. It is quite ridiculous that I’ve never had to wash dirt off vegetables before eating them in my entire life, considering vegetables are grown in the ground. The modern world is so disconnected from the reality of food. Whilst watching Come Dine With Me earlier in the week (a TV show that I am watching far too much of these days), a bunch of guests criticised their host for bringing out the different cuts of steak and explaining to them about their relative qualities. The host of the dinner party was a butcher, so he had a keen interest in this type of thing. Considering all of the guests expressed excitement at seeing steak on the menu, I was surprised that 3 of 4 of them then started to tell him that he had done something wrong by bringing out the different cuts of meat whilst they’re having a dinner party. What do these people think they are eating? This man is explaining to you why different types of steaks taste differently before offering to cut you off a fresh piece of it and cook it to your liking – how is this not your ideal situation if you claim to love steak?! One of them said that they don’t like to see the meat raw unless it is in a packet. It is absolutely baffalling. Well, now I am getting in touch with the origins of my vegetables; I am scrubbing them clean like they are my own offspring, then cooking them with love, which is an unusual place to take this considering what I just said about my offspring.

The vegetable box also presents culinary challenges. So far in my culinary adventures, I have grown accustom to finding a recipe, getting the ingredients from the shop and then making said recipe. It is a pretty straightforward process and I haven’t seen anything wrong with it up to now (other than wasting ingredients more than I would like as I only need them for a single type of recipe). The veg box presents weird and wonderful vegetables that I wouldn’t usually use, however, such as swedes, as well as not giving you all of the exact ingredients you would need to make a particular recipe. That means either going rogue and trying to make something not from a recipe (gasp! gawk!), or going and buying more vegetables from the shop, which feels like you’ve failed at being a good veg box samaritan. Its my first taste of the Masterchef challenge, another TV show where the contestants are offered a large range of ingredients to choose from, then given a brief to cook to – ‘A journey through your childhood’, for example. My brief to myself is simply ‘use things from the veg box and try to make an edible meal’. It isn’t quite as ambitious. Whereas those contestants are incredibly talented chefs who make amazingly innovative meals up on the spot, I make honey roasted swede and carrot. I wanted to see if I can taste the difference between the organic veg and what I’d usually get from the shop, so kept it quite simple. Not too inspiring. The veg was really good, though.

The one thing I have been baking, though, is this Jammy Blackberry and Almond Crumble Cake. I cannot stress enough how good it is. It is SO DAMN NICE. I found it as I was looking for things to do with some almond flour that I was given as part of my amazing birthday present from my amazing best friend Luke. He got me a 6 month subscription to a service which send you 6 unique and unusual ingredients every month. I substituted the ground almonds for the almond flour and cannot believe how nice it turned out. If you’re looking for something to occupy you on this sunny Sunday, I wholeheartedly recommend taking an hour to throw this cake together. It is delicious.

The cycle is easing off now and I am feeling more with it. My challenge to myself is to enjoy the next week as much as possible before I am back to treatment on Saturday. I’m not sure why I have had such a hard time with the blog recently, but I have. The last post didn’t feel cathartic or encouraging, it just felt like I was airing out a lot of dirty laundry and not getting any release from it. I hope it didn’t come across that way. I decided to post it because I thought the things that I was complaining about will likely effect others in my situation, and the ‘cancer experience’ is a key part of this blog, so I felt like I should put those frustrations out into the world. I also want to try and write when I am in a jarring and frustrated mood because, again, that is a reality of having cancer. You can’t always expect yourself to stay afloat when facing such adversity. I’m glad to say that I have enjoyed writing this post a lot more. It feels good to just mindlessly speak about things and not try too hard to be funny, to be interesting, or to write well. Sometimes it is just as good to write whatever is on your mind, in whatever tone you feel comes naturally. Hopefully it is still enjoyable to read.

My friend Charl took the below picture of Lucy yesterday and it is absolutely BEAUTIFUL. Her new favourite spot to sleep is on the top of the back of the sofa in the lounge, where the sun hits for the majority of the day. She can lay there sleeping for hours. I’ve witnessed her fall over the back 3 times now, usually because she is twitching in a dream. The drop is extremely big considering her size and the first time I was very worried about her. I was sitting on the other sofa when I saw something in the corner of my eye. I looked over and it was Lucy’s 2 front paws clumbsily trying to grab onto something as her bottom half had already disappeared behind the back of the sofa. Her eyes were fully opened as she tried to comprehend what was happening to her. She was looking me dead in the eyes as if it was my fault as she finally succumbed to the inevitability of the situation and fell to the floor. All I heard was a large (and fairly comical) thud! I ran over to see if she was ok. She had already got to her feet and was shaking off the embarrassment (I assume this is what she was doing as she wasn’t wet). She then enthusiastically pottered around to the front of the sofa, jumped onto it, climbed onto the arm, made her way up to the summit and went straight back to sleep in the same spot. We could learn a lot from dogs if we really wanted to, couldn’t we? If only humans were that resilient.

Lucy’s Perch on Top of the Sofa