By Posted in - Blog on July 15th, 2015

In Southern Thailand 1990

“Ghostface hurry up and die” screamed my wife

Was I still swimming in the fog of chemotherapy poisoning? Drowning in theinsanity of toxic madness? No, that ghastly nightmare ended two and a half long months ago.

Had I already died and was now alive and not so well residing in the bottomless
pits of hell? No I was almost comatose stretched out on the second
hand cream sofa in cold, rainy, windy, bitter, bleak Blackpool with stage 4
neck cancer with only a slim chance of surviving the next 12 months. It was November 2012 and I was like a burnt skeleton in complete agony after the most horrific, unbelievable and painful treatment had been endured just to give me an outside chance of staying alive a while longer. The skin around my neck was black and blistered with scabs which were oozing, vile, foul smelling pus seeping and dripping everywhere but that was nothing compared to the inside of my neck and throat. It was swollen and scorched, giving me the excruciating sensation of drinking scalding water 24/7. The morphine hardly touched it. The radiotherapy had destroyed my saliva glands and zapped my taste buds but no problem because it was impossible to eat so I had to keep myself alive by pouring beige coloured sickly, sticky, sweet smelling liquid through a tube in my stomach. I took sips of water but each tiny drop stung as I tightly gripped the side of the sofa in torment battling to swallow. I was choking up infinite gooey chunks of slimy, gluey, glutinous, bloody yellow green Phlegm painfully regurgitating it into the bright yellow hospital bucket next to the sofa. It was purgatory. I was so weak and fragile and just gazed at my spouse in disbelief.




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