IN LOVING MEMORY OF ANDREW FRY

Sadly on Wednesday the 3rd of September my Dad, Andrew Fry, and great author of this blog passed away peacefully in his sleep at midday at the Wiapuna Hospice in Tauranga, New Zealand.

Dad courageously battled his cancer for 14 months even after the doctors had given him three. He inspired many during this time with his positive and outgoing spirit and love of life. With the help of family and friends he achieved all of his dreams in this time. All of which you can read about below.

Tomorrow, Tuesday the 9th of September, we will celebrate Dad's life at St Georges Anglican Church, Gate Pa, Tauranga at 11am. With the amazing efforts of those closest to him the service will commemorate his life in true 'Andrew' style, full of energy and love.

I will post again soon of with an amazing article the Bay of Plenty Times published about my Dad, Andrew Fry.

He was an awesome, loving soul and the best dad in the world! He will never be forgotten.

Katrina Fry

WELCOME TO MY TWILIGHT

As twilight is the end of the day, My Twilight Months is my personal account of the end of my life.

It is popularly believed I am dying of cancer, but part of my success in having already lived twelve months beyond discovery of the first ten metastasised tumours is that I believe it is unlikely I will die of cancer, but a related disease, so the ‘big C’ word has no power of fearfulness in my vocabulary.

While answers to prayer and miracles happen all around me, I feel certain I have been called Home. Knowing I’m going to die before too long, I still look after my body, the temple of my soul, to the best of my ability, warding off the side effects of cancer tumours and trying to manage the more deadly and related symptoms, such as liver disease and mal-nutrition over which I have some degree of control.

Getting back to my blog, the first article you see at the top of the page will be the latest significant development; therefore if you want to see where this all began, you need to scroll to the bottom of the page.

I would like to thank my partner Margaret sincerely for her wise counselling during my feverish writing and for providing the peace at home that allows me to stay in touch with the inner Me as the words flow.

Feel free to click on the tiny blue Comments link at the end of each item and give me some feed back or ask questions; just don’t expect an answer in less than three days, which tends to be how often I visit or edit the blog.

To tie in with the end of my life the articles all have a caption relating to the twilight end of the day, the most beautiful part of the day, and some of the most beautiful months of my life.

If you think my story may help someone you know, please do not hesitate to share it; for this purpose I see it as public domain, but please quote its source so that others can catch up with My Twilight Months.

"THERE'S SNOW ON THE HILLS" THEY SAID

Breaking through the grey fluffy clouds above Central Otago we got our first peep of the golden sunset. The mighty yellow orb had been frustrated in its attempts to warm the streets of Dunedin for several days, causing temperatures to plummet as the thick, moisture laden clouds direct from the Antarctic gathered above the foothills.
Each of our different cabbies to and from the Oncology Department of the Dunedin City Hospital had a new opinion. “You only get snow when it comes in off the hills,” professed one the night before the big chill set-in.
Our journey, of hundreds of kilometres, had taken us from the North Island’s mild Bay of Plenty to the cold ‘Scottish capital’, Dunedin, at the bottom of the South Island of New Zealand.

The objective of this excursion into the deep and wintery south was two days to get an aluminium frame rigidly secured to my head so that I could be bolted to a bed! Hardly treatment befitting a placid cancer patient, but a useful device in medical circles, no doubt, and as the medics wanted to nuke my solitary brain tumour, I was well pleased with the ‘lock-down’ procedure to keep me perfectly still! But, for the moment, my boyish instincts were understandably more interested in the possibility of snow; that is until the taxi’s radio gabbled “on-shore, 35 knots” which, by the cabby’s wisdom, smacked my school-boy dreams of snowmen a fateful blow.
However, deep inside the thick concrete walls of a bunker in the radiation unit things were looking much more productive. For some slightly obscure reason the timetable meant the radiation treatment would take place in the evening and could run late with any discrepancies.
I wasn’t about to tell this highly qualified team their business, but God and I don’t work in the field of discrepancies; He works the miracles and I very willingly believe and give thanks for the results. Needless to say it only took one prayer to have it running like clockwork!
Each time the team insisted I induce a rigormortice like state, the dozen or so measurements confirmed I was secure and within a millimetre in any direction of the last lock-down. This meant they could turn the $4 million installation around my head and accurately shoot directly into the tumour from any direction.

Within forty minutes we had completed the entire task with 100% certainty (in my mind! Perhaps 98.5% amongst the others) that the single brain tumour had been destroyed. The following day we did some tests and my responsiveness was just as sharp; all clear to check-out.

To see the sun at all was a treat and once again the significance of it setting at the end of an extremely successful trip was not lost on Margaret and I; thank you God for two days full of your mighty blessings! And now this special and significant treat as Divine timing gave us the lingering sight of a beautiful sunset just as we broke through the clouds. Within minutes the shadowy tip of Mt Cook and the mountains in the Aorangi National Park also broke cloud cover as mere specks in the very distance; oh the Glory! Oh the relief of being rid of the tumour!

THE APPPROACHING STORM

The Bay of Plenty on New Zealand’s north eastern seaboard is a magnificent stretch of golden sandy beaches open to the rolling surf of the Pacific Ocean. Here, in the right conditions, perfectly formed breakers roll in, onto the wide open beaches, offering a mecca for board riders from far and wide.

Almost as a centre piece, the statuesque Mount Maunganui rises high, a mass of volcanic rock marking the deep water entrance to Tauranga’s shipping port and picturesque inner harbour.

From 30 kilometres inland it is hard to imagine the accompanying roar of the pounding surf would be noticeable, yet tonight it is, with the murmuring, thunderous intensity of an approaching battalion of fully armoured horsemen. An onshore wind of 35knots, together with an imminent high tide has meant the salt spray off the crest of the rollers is blowing in clouds across the beach and coating neighbouring apartment blocks and vehicles with a liberal skin of dried and crusty saline solution.

The roar of the breaking surf is a welcome distraction as I lay flat on my bed, shutting out all TV noise and conversation, my senses peaked by an intense pain of another blockage deep in my abdomen. I can tell there is an obstruction because food eaten four hours ago is not digesting and the reflux is starting to burn my digestive tract. I have taken the painkillers, Panadol with a Nurofen top up, but the intensity of the pain keeps building and the bed seems the best place to find any solace.

I offer up a prayer of hope that my loving Father can understand my pain, but the answer does nothing for the agony save to remind me of the freedom of choice I had when I sipped the ginger beer. BUT AHHhhhhh! The frustration, and I allow my ego a couple of minutes to fix myself another little temper tantram.

Outside the wind continues to build and the bare trees, stripped for winter, howl and bend in much the way that I am feeling! Caught in the reflected light of the city’s container port, light clouds scurry across the sky and the temperature seems to dip from balmy to a moist chill that precipitates rain.

A light perspiration dampens my calico cotton sheets as my body reacts to my struggling search for relief. I roll off the bed and crawl around on all fours; this is getting too bad and a threatened lack of sleep is going to make me grumpy. My nurses have said don’t put up with pain, so here we go, they are going to hear all about it as I reach for the telephone.

Throughout New Zealand a string of respite care services operate from local Hospices. These remarkable facilities of, in our case, eight to twelve day stay rooms are the nerve centre of a team of registered nurses travelling constantly between terminally ill cancer patients at home. While sixty percent of funding comes from the District Health Boards, the annual shortfall of between one and two million dollars is funded by all manner of community projects, including highly successful second hand shops generating the life blood to pay clinical and professional staff and upgrade facilities.

Tonight there are two nurses manning the phones and half a dozen rostered district nurses awaiting a wake-up call at any time of the night to attend a cancer patient in their own home. I am incredibly humbled by this service and right now, at 12.30am they are going to prove to be my rescue line.

Surprisingly there’s reluctance to take advantage of this service because many cancer sufferers believe the Hospice is where you go to die. As they regard death as the absolute end, rather than a stage of transition, it becomes a state of being that is singularly unattractive to the many, who don’t want to come near the Hospice.

I feel certain the intense pain is caused by wind in the small bowel and taking a couple of Antacids brings slight relief. Outside the dogs are on duty around the front of the house, alert to any visitors who may have caught us by surprise. But if we were expecting to get a bit of warning of Nurse Lynn’s arrival, we are quite out of luck. A trickle of surface water washes off her tyres with a swish and we welcome her in, without a murmur from the two bloodhounds!

It takes just seconds to administer an injection to the thigh which, twenty minutes later starts to bring the urgent relief that quietens me down. Once again I am in awe of the fact Lynn has hopped out of bed to see to it that I am comfortable, and on such a hell of a night. I am convinced she is the angel, the answer to my prayer, for despite me wanting instant pain relief with prayer, I should know by now that everything is in His timing, which is always just in time, but never as soon as I wanted it. My gratitude spills over again and I hold back the tears of relief that I am so blessed to be made comfortable enough to sleep.

By this time the tree tops are fair whistling and the stream at the bottom of the garden has already changed its tune from a light and breezy trickle to a full on gurgle. It always intrigues me where the head waters to these streams start out and ours is at a spring two kilometres up the valley. Between here and there is a small dam which quickly fills in a downpour like this to become a lake. The storm water escapes down the valley by overflowing into the gaping mouth of a vertical drain, when the level is high enough, which gives us a raging torrent downstream, carrying all flotsam and jetsam before it.

That’s exactly what I need to flush out my own system! Oh, the sheer relief of the thought of it!

By morning I have had a good deep sleep and there is no sign of the pain. However, there is still the feeling of being completely blocked. I cannot eat anything except dry biscuits with warm filtered water; I have simply lost all appetite.

Outside it is pouring with rain, lashing against the windows, carried by the same north-easterly gales that foretell the arrival of an intense low pressure system crossing the central North Island. Despite the day it is early enough to schedule some help and we get on the phone for an appointment with the Hospice doctor.

Now this is another aspect of Hospice care that is particularly comforting; while the doctors are there to attend to emergency situations only, they clearly have some ‘down-time’ when they can give opinion on various symptoms arising for day care and visiting cancer sufferers. But what makes their work of such great value is the experience they are gaining. These are GPs in time away from their private practice, but in so doing they gain a wealth of experience in the care of those like myself, with dozens of invasive tumours throughout the body. Now with the best will in the world my own GP is going to reach retirement before he gets the first hand experience of helping so many cancer sufferers. And besides, this month he is on sabbatical, so with the best of intentions I would have only been able to see another locum who knows little of my situation.

The western bank of the winding Wairoa River at Te Puna is the picturesque location of the Waipuna Hospice, with plenty of carparking amongst mature gardens that overlook the river. The building entrance is expansive, with two business awards on display in recognition of the fortitude of this not-for-profit organisation in competing for funding and controlling costs in a manner that matches the best of the city’s commerce.

The lounge acts as a waiting room at the front of the recently renovated and enlarged facility and it is full of Lazy Boy arm chairs. The adjoining family kitchen allows us a good cuppa as we wait to see the doctor.

Almost an hour later the examination has finished and I am armed with half a dozen prescriptions because they don’t keep stocks of drugs for patients. Because of the painkillers I will now need to be on anti-nausea tablets and as expected a schedule of laxatives will aid things along. But in addition is a steroid and for rather unexpected reason, it is to reduce the inflammation around the tumours, especially those surrounding the bowel. Reducing this swelling is hoped to take off some of the pressure and allow my system continued free movement.

I am grateful for the time allowed me and the careful consideration Dr March has given to my symptoms. But all I want to do right now is get back home to bed and sleep; the activity has really knocked the stuffing out of me. Sure enough, my head on the pillow, it takes less than five minutes for me to drift off to sleep and an hour to become conscious again. With all the will in the world it takes twenty five minutes before I can pull myself upright and start paying attention to the passing day.

One of the most remarkable attractions of the New Zealand climate is the speed with which weather systems pass over the country. Already the sun has broken through the cloud, the remains of which are now draped lazily over nearby hills as the cold front passes out into the Pacific. The wind has swung to the north west as we enjoy the penetrating rays of the sun through the clearest atmosphere on the planet.

Margaret brings me warm filtered water and I sip at it, very conscious of the need to get liquid into a body being drained of fluids by the effect of the laxatives. Fluid is all I can cope with and I continue my fast into the late evening, when at last the thunderous rumblings of my stomach start the process of release of the pressure that caused so much agony. I have a storm of my own to deal with before, at last, I start to relax and the body starts to cool down.

With overwhelming gratitude I realise I am going to get a deep sleep of recovery now that my own storm has passed. Through all of this I have known it will be temporary, from the experience of the last four months, as my tumours have grown. For this reason my spirit and resolve are strong and intact, never wavering toward fear as an option. It is not an option because there is nothing to fear, even in dying. My spirit will simply be released from the body that can no longer serve it and it moves into a spiritual realm, in preparation for whatever is the next life cycle.

Ahead of me is closure for the physical life cycle in this body, an ending for all of the attachment this body has invested in, in the physical world. Already this process, that ends my own attachment to the ‘things’ I love, has been happening on a very regular basis with changes taking place all around me. I had grown attached to springtime in the valley where I walked the dogs and they have just clear felled it, temporarily destroying the environment to which I was so attached. The crowd of people I loved to work with have moved on, they are not the same folk; my attachment to the old co-worker family is gone.

The approaching storm has been partial closure in this lifetime for my body, this walking source of intelligence, in order that my spirit can let go and let God. This is all the dying process towards the time when I will finally choose to go to the Light. This Light is thee source of all Love, God, and I will choose to leave rather than hold on any longer, choose a new direction that is purely in the universal spirit, and without my failing body.

But that is not today, it is sometime ahead, when I am ready to be received, and I haven’t a clue when that is going to be or how it will happen. My mind thinks it will be another storm, but my inner voice reassures of peace as I pass through to finally go home.

THE CALL OF EVENSONG

The dogs love their evening walk, just on nightfall, when the ‘possums’ emerge from their hiding place for a night of foraging. Shah and Heidi think they are fair game, the opossums don’t wait around to find out!

If I haven’t noticed the time, the end of an afternoon is heralded by evensong, a chorus of birds at the end of the day. It is a mesmerising time; the beauty of the golden rays of early winter’s setting sun together with the tuneful clarity of the song thrush.

Perched high above the valley on a commanding tree-top he cocks his head up and sings his praises with an attitude of gratitude for all the day has given him. Others join in up the valley, adding to the inspiring chorus of praise in the half light of dusk.

I am full of admiration for these creatures that are so obviously thankful for natures’ abundance. I feel it strikes a chord with me for each day now is so clearly a bonus as my body battles to survive the onslaught of the secondary tumours.

Shah and Heidi are watching closely; I only have to move, gather the cap, coat, head light and it is obvious to them we are off up the valley. There is sweet anticipation in their minds, one an energetic, 40kgs pure white Samoyed with an unlikely companion, a fragile and aging little Fox Terrier.

Sweet anticipation is the essence of hope, rather like the carrot of hope I have just been given. I have just heard from a clinical trials team on a phase one drug test who say they may be able to fit me into their programme in about eight to twelve weeks. That seems a long way off now my muscles are aching from depleted nutrition. But it is something else to be positive about. Although phase one is the first time tested on humans, there is sufficient evidence to show this new drug has the ability to shrink advanced metastasised melanomas, like mine. The programme involves numerous hour and a half trips to Hamilton and probable side-effects, but equally there is hope of shrinking the tumours and a significant contribution to humanity’s future success in combating the disease….. bring it on I say!

Shah is getting impatient, daylight is fading and he snorts as he stretches, giving me an evil eye as I thread my boot laces. I grab the ski pole used as a walking stick and slide the gate catch. Like a bolt of white lightning, he’s off across the adjoining paddock towards the reserve. Heidi is much more sedate and lingers to sniff every tuft.

For me the start of the two kilometre walk is now very slow as I push to get my legs moving. It really is a shuffle for the first half a kilometre. Yet miraculously I continue to suffer little or no pain. It’s not that I don’t get pain; last night a brief swelling in the bowel made me grab the Nurofen. And every three weeks or so another tumour pushes its way through muscle in its fight for space and causes me plenty of ‘jip’. But the pain is temporary at present, at most only lasting two to three weeks, then its gone, as the muscle relinquishes and the two settle in together. Overall, however, I have no need for anything more than a couple of Panadol, mixed with the occasional Nurofen.

Minimal pain is the only benefit of having secondary melanoma; the tumours develop no pain in the way that bone cancer usually does. And the miracle is that the toxins released by the tumours, the cause of liver disease and numerous other nasties, have not brought on the anticipated pain of disease or infection.

But it is certain in my mind that the tumours are feeding off muscle and the heart and lungs struggle to get my legs moving quick enough. I push with the ski pole on the gentle gradient and notice my breath is already condensing as the cold air drops into the valley. Shah tries to kerb his enthusiasm and occasionally looks around from a distance to check I’m keeping up.

Sometimes I now wonder just how long I have left. Not that it matters because, in my heart, I have had all the guidance I need to know at some stage I will be heading Home. Home from where my spirit first came as I took my first breath. Like all of humanity, foremost a spiritual being, I had chosen to come to this world for a human experience.

This world is the school of love, if you don’t attend classes and do your homework here you open yourself to the constant demands of fear and ravages of setbacks and hard knocks, like my cancer. Thank God it only manifested itself in these tumours after I had learnt the power of prayer for peace of mind and a true understanding of my journey through the death process.

But how would you know this school stuff when you are simply living to enjoy the worldly experience? Simple, you wouldn’t! But it is all there, I just needed leading to it when I was ready, but I wasn’t ready until I had tried, failed and was willing to open my mind and heart to the underlying teachings of the bible, from a man centuries ahead of his time and an intellect that left others in his wake. Everything Jesus has taught and later channelled in 'The Course in Miracles'* has been fundamental to my growth in the last decade, and yet for decades earlier I was doing no more than paying homage without walking the talk. I am so grateful to have been taken gently by the hand and to have my own ego, my own experiential “I know best” thought process challenged.

Shah has only one thought process going on and it is connected to his sense of smell. Suddenly his curled woolly tail stands up as he bolts through the neighbouring orchard. There is a movement and a little squeal of alarm and a tree shakes as I hear the sounds of curved and sharpened claws ripping at tree bark for traction away from the marauding Samoyed. Shah lets out a harassing yelp, a mixed call of excitement and the frustration that his quarry slipped away from him. The opossum is safe, for the moment.

Like the opossum, I have so much to think about, up a tree with no where else to go except the heavens above! The yapping tumours have put me in this tight spot. Now, tuning into my body, I am weighing up every moment, every twinge to assess just what is going on. It’s really not surprising my brain starts to fade if there is too much happening around me; I am already processing how I feel from every waking moment, assessing whether I have it in me to overcome whichever symptom rears its ugly head next.

Ten days ago it was bowel congestion; no, that is not necessarily constipation, because I have tumours growing throughout the abdomen restricting normal bodily functions, and at least one in the wall of the bowel steadily constricting what I want to get rid of. Last night I was stretched out on the carpet as Margaret tried to assess the tightness of the stomach and what we were dealing with. All I knew was that I was so full I could no longer digest food in a normal timeframe. At 5am this morning I woke with an intense desire and ten minutes later felt a great relief; I could now focus on the next most pressing need.

So it is from one day to the next, emphasising one lesson I have learnt, to live strictly in the moment. Just as the dogs have to really; they never know from one night to the next whether I will be up to settling my dinner with a good stroll.

Although one thing is consistent, and that is I am getting slower and slower moving around and struggle to summon energy for the simplest tasks. Time seems to race by, but the reality is that I am so slow that I fail to notice time slipping by any longer. It takes real focus if there is an outing in the diary; like going in to work today, by the time I was ready I needed another sleep and crashed on the bed for an hour.

But nothing is allowed to sleep out here; with Shah racing ahead again, his instincts for a chase heightened by the last encounter, he completely ignores the horrendous noise behind us. Something between a hyena and a strangled cat could surely be the only monster capable of such a noise. It’s a guttural laughing bark which you fully expect to be followed by the animal spitting. It sent a shiver up my spine the first time I heard it in the dark, but opossum hunters would be well used to the unusual threat as you leave the furry pest up a tree, but which in realty highlights their presence for anyone with a weapon.

Shah is only interested in the next one, hopefully on the ground. And by this time little Heidi has got a taste of the excitement and is forcing her aging joints into action.

They love it, and the walk is good for me too. Even more remarkable is that I am still able to do it. Another prayer, another day, one step at a time.

To highlight the return journey a ‘morepork’ swoops into the darkened branches above me. The little owl has the characteristic big eyes and schoolboy appearance of the bigger owls, but a distinctive call that early pig hunters around the camp fire quickly translated to a polite request for more tender pork. I have no doubt the translation was aided by some serious consumption of a local brew to give the birds call more definition!

Another owl joins in across the valley as I first glimse the lights of home. We left by evensong, now this is a fitting chorus to herald our return to the comforts prepared by my darling Margaret.

APPENDIX:

* 'A Course in Miracles' was referred to previously in my blog of 26th April 2008, which read: 'While I’m not deeply religious, it is the spiritual truths taught through most beliefs that have shown me the way to this inner peace and strength. Inspired by the words of Jesus I later studied the extensive and deeply spiritual works entitled ‘A Course in Miracles’. The Course has a beauty that is ‘out of this world’ and becomes a life changing experience for its students.' ISBN Ref:0-9606388-8-1. First published by the Foundation for Inner Peace in 1976 as a three volume set and published again as a single volume in 1985 and 1992.

COMET RIDER

Two years ago the spectacular Comet McNaught lit the night skies of New Zealand with a fiery display. As time passed the earth’s orbit meant the comet was just visible, right after sunset, above the rugged range of hills to the west of the bay. In my wild imaginings you could have stepped astride the comet for one exhilarating ride. In much the way I was to throw my leg over my sports motorcycle for one last ride.

Turning right I leaned the bike into the roundabout and gently squeezed the throttle open. Second, third, fourth, the 250cc motor produced remarkable acceleration as I clicked up through the six speed box with a clutchless shift. I lowered my head out of the wind and timed a gap in the traffic perfectly to pass without backing off.

I had thought I was going for another bike ride, little did I realise it would be my last as the full implications of the brain tumour hit home. I had never ridden a motorbike until two years ago and already I had 20,000kms of awesome experience behind me. I struggle to believe it must stop, but the reality is cancer in the brain means I am a threat to the safety of others. I can only be thankful for the great rides I have enjoyed to Waiheke, Pirongia, Taupo, Pauanui, plus the daily commuting past stationary cars; the memories bring tears of joy.

It had been a lack-lustre day of resting up and feeling jaded, but late afternoon sun inspired me to get out for a dose of my drug of choice, adrenalin.

Throughout the last year I have been acutely aware of the feel good ability of adrenalin when the body is struggling against cancer. The natural product of the adrenal gland clears the head, quickens responses and gets the heart and blood pumping. It is part of the ‘flight or fight’ natural defence mechanism of the body, but hard to stimulate without real excitement. On a scale of 1-10 the bike can produce an 8 safely, perhaps a 7 if you stick to the exact speed limits, but get on a race track in anything and the punch of a 12 out of 10 can last for a couple of days.

The roundabout at the top of the hill was clear to throw the lightweight bike into a left, right, left lean and power away, now I was really starting to enjoy myself! I headed east, enjoying the glow of the setting autumn sun, to the other side of the bay where a beachfront café overlooks the river mouth and lapping waters of the Pacific Ocean. It’s a 45 kilometres ride around the foothills rising from reclaimed marsh. Building the road was a nightmare in the early days and even now the heavy traffic quickly makes it uneven. But you can also see for miles, to a distant volcanic cone to the left and the bush clad hills to my right.

They talk about the freedom of a bike, but it is also like a meditation; you clear your mind of all other thoughts, allowing the all consuming exhilaration and absolute focus to take over. There is risk, but no where near the fear based rhetoric that peals off the tongue when friends hear you are buying a motorbike. The human ego is seemingly charged with the sole responsibility of spoiling fun and achievement with “what if” sentiments, however well meant. I have never got on the bike without a prayer and I have never come off on the road or experienced the “drivers won’t see you” scary tale. I simply feel like a spirit released, joy filled, every time I open the throttle.

Close to the hills the long shadows are already chilling a small township as everyone heads home for dinner. It was a safe place to slip past the slow juggernaut ahead; the rest is open road and I was only ten minutes from the café. I turned left off the highway and glanced to the sun sitting right on the hilltop; it was seemingly rising again as I quickly drew away from the hills.

Of course, there is a lesson in everything; having to give up the bike is one in a series of lessons recently, for me, and they are all about letting go of attachment to things of this world. I have an attachment to all of the good feelings about the bike and riding. They are amongst my top ten worldly experiences. But I am a spirit, eternal in nature, and here for a human experience. Before long my spirit will be leaving my tired, fragile and deceased body behind to move on into another realm. These lessons on attachment are coming thick and fast, teaching me to let go of everything on this worldly plain as I prepare for my ‘Coming Home’ to the loving arms of my heavenly Father.

My intuition had been telling me this could be my last ride and I opened the throttle wide. The road is a series of long straights and uneven tar seal through tight curves, a potentially lethal mixture. I took no chances and hauled on the front brake, gently on the rear, before gingerly powering through the rutted corners and back on the throttle for the next straight.

The 50kph restricted zone for the picturesque coastal village is just 500 metres ahead and the beautiful reflections of high tide in the estuary grabbed my attention. Remarkably the sun is still above the horizon and several strata of clouds promised a beautiful sunset.

Nearly a decade ago I had done all I could for my previous partner as round after round of chemotherapy and steroids left her tired and nauseous in the unsuccessful fight against breast cancer. It was then I had first noticed the coincidence of our witnessing numerous stunning sunsets. As 'The Celestine Prophecy' first told me, there are no coincidences; for those awakening to their true Self, these are the signs and wonders that become everyday experiences.

I rounded the waterfront to the café’s beachfront car park and pulled off my helmet, mesmerised by the colour and beauty of the setting fiery orb and its reflections on the gently breaking waves. As the local kids tossed a rugby ball and raced barefoot around the car park, I quietly gave thanks for an awesome ride and the Divine timing of this magnificent sight.

The cappuccino in the café was just what I needed. As darkness fell I pulled the helmet back on and switched on the twin headlamps; they would light my way through the night just like the fiery comet across the western horizon.

THE BLACKBIRD'S WARNING

The theme running throughout these updates to My Twilight Months is the beauty of the end of the day, a time of reflection and gratitude for what the day, and in my case, my life has brought me. My first article, My Sunset told of the realisation that my sun was setting. In this, The Blackbird's Warning, my life coping with cancer takes on a new and more disturbing discovery.

If I’m honest I have to admit to being very disappointed with my latest CT scan. Things had been going remarkably well, with only the onset of greater fatigue slowing my pace and noticeably shortening my breath on hills.

Yes, twelve months down the track from noticing the first lump just inside the collar bone and getting the news that the choroidal melanoma, my primary cancer in the right eye, had metastasised to ten secondary tumours throughout the body, I am still able to walk the dogs a kilometre every morning and night.

And I feel sure I have kept my vital organs almost disease free with daily doses of colloidal silver*. The only challenge, I thought, was keeping up with the demanding appetite of the aggressive cancer cells, which would otherwise cause weight loss and mal-nutrition; I seemed to have this in hand as well, holding my weight at a slightly skinny 72.5 kgs on a 1.836m skeleton.

But what I didn’t want to hear is the news that a 1cm tumour had become visible on the scans inside the right brain in just the last six months. As the beauty of my sunset fades the blackbird’s nervous warning could disrupt the peacefulness, but I won’t let it.

When you consider my cancer specialist could only reliably promise me three more months of life in June ’07, I have been so thankful for the extra eight, very special months of living I have enjoyed so far. With the realisation of an early demise I have taken every opportunity offered to indulge my passions for motor sport, flying and travel, all gifted to us by very good friends and family.

I simply felt that elsewhere in the body I was more easily able to cope, but in the brain, well that has the potential for so many unthinkable symptoms. But I can’t afford to get into fear, so I won’t go down that track because a peaceful night’s sleep is the most important consideration of all.

Just live one day at a time, I tell myself, and in that way I can keep my positive outlook and try to put more emphasis, than I have ever been used to, into enjoying everything and everyone around me.

Thankfully I have no symptoms at present; the scan was a routine follow-up and not the result of any problems I was experiencing. But I do need to look out for difficulties in dressing (the imagination runs wild there!), walking and visual impairment in the one eye that still provides excellent vision.

I now estimate I have well over 50 tumours** in the body and for this reason my Hospice doctor has recommended against considering neurosurgery as an option. Its invasive nature increases risk of infection and adverse reaction from those organs, the left lung in particular, already trying to cope with attached tumours. So now I am looking forward to seeing the radiologist for further discussions on the best direction to take.

APPENDIX:
* I have been taking an egg-cupful 30mls of colloidal silver morning and night. Colloidal silver is produced by electrolysis via two silver rods suspended in pure water. It is an ancient alternative medicine known as an extremely effective antibiotic. I first took it to try to clear up the 16cms mass of dead tissue and toxins in my liver. The toxins are produced by dying cancer cells. Because the liver was only functioning at half strength, my body had half the energy and a large part of my food was being wasted. I feel the colloidal silver went a long way to correcting that, with a noticeable return of energy for at least six months. My skin colour and complexion also improved, which is interesting in itself, because in old times the English aristocracy got their nick-names ‘Bluebloods’ from the fact they were the only ones who could afford silver cutlery and combined with regular doses of colloidal silver for good health their skin turned a silvery blue!

** I now have 17 tumours protruding through the skin; a year ago I had two that were visible, but the scan showed 10 in total throughout the body. I am therefore assuming, rather unscientifically, that there must be a total well exceeding 50 tumours.