Recently a friend chastised me for saying in an email that I had to see the vampires, on the basis that phlebotomists don't drink the blood they collect (well, not in front of the patients anyway).  So I had to chuckle to myself when this morning the phlebotomist got out a tourniquet that looked like this:

This is just a bit of nonsense really.

This week I have shifted to using E45 shampoo and shower cream, both labelled pH balanced, hypoallergenic and fragrance free.  They are kind to my scalp and my skin, though my eyes don't like them very much.  Ah well, it's all a balancing act.  Care for my skin and put up with itchy eyes for an hour or two.

I'm just not convinced about the "unscented".

The shampoo has a smell reminiscent of the footbaths you used to get at swimming pools in the 1970s - some sort of antiseptic-meets-chlorine kind of smell.  No wonder my eyes don't like it!

The shower cream looks and smells like Copydex glue, even has a similar consistency but thankfully does not stick!

All of which make ablutions a bit of nostalgia trip as the smells evoke aspects of my childhood.  All I need is a few wax crayons, some boiled cabbage and San Izal loo roll and I'll be back to the various primary schools I attended all those years ago.

It intrigues me how smells get associated with certain places and times, how the merest hint of a fragrance can evoke a whole raft of memories, good or bad.  For me, lilies are known as 'Crem Flowers' because they are so often (and for good historical reasons) used for funerals and the smell takes me to the various crematoria I have worked in.  By contrast the smell of lamb cooking reminds me of my grandparents home.  And so it goes on.

All of which serves as a reminder that although I like using scented things in worship from time to time I have to be a bit careful what I choose as I have no way of knowing what effect the chosen scents may have.

How do you count the distance up a zig-zag path when the steep bends precede the longer climbs?  On Friday, all being well, I have my third dose of chemotherapy - half way through the course.  So it's half way, kind of.  It is officially an 18-week course of treatment and this is week 6, so maybe only really a third?  Or do I drop off the last three weeks after the final dose and say it's effectively fifteen weeks?  Who knows.  Psychologically it's better to be half-way through so I'll go with that!

Half way up a hill is a good place to pause and look around a bit - back at what's already been achieved and forward (a bit, not too much!) at what lies ahead.  A space to draw breath, maybe to admire the view or check the map.

Lots of things to think about - mostly good things, humbling things, inspiring things but also the gentle whisper of the 'What If Fairy' .  Baptist ministers probably shouldn't speak of fairies, but there you go, it works for me because she (definitely female for some reason) doesn't fit any of the dualistic theological characteristics of supernatural beings.  The What If Fairy is neither malevolent nor benevolent, not a demon/evil spirit nor an angel/good spirit, just a voice that asks questions that I must then choose how to deal with.  What if my tumour continues to shrink?  What if it doesn't?  What if I only get five years?  What if I live a 'normal' life span?  What if this, what if that?  What if I handle this well?  What if I screw it up?  The What if Fairy does not seek to snare me, but she makes me stop and think and -  being a recipient of free will, albeit shaped by personality and context - it is up to me to choose how I respond.

One of the most humbling things about all this is the number of people who are praying for me - people in churches I've never been to, people in places I've only read about, people of other faiths and, if crossed fingers are a kind of prayer, people of none.  I actually feel quite sorry for God, who must think 'oh no, not her again'.  And of course prayers come in all shapes and sizes, and reflect what is authentic for the person praying them - miracle cures, strength to cope whatever the outcome, wisdom for medics and so on.  I have a dear saint in my own church who tells me I will go through this like a ship in full sail, and tells me I am a great witness to others about faith.  To be a witness of faith that is honest enough to express fear and uncertainty, that trusts in a God who shares the darkness as well as the light (check the psalms!), that believes God works with and through human endeavour and medical skills, that sees 'healing' as different from, but not excluding the possibility of, cure... to do that would be a great outcome, and an answer to my own, largely unspoken, prayers.

Some people tell me I'm brave.  I remain to be convinced: I'm just me, dealing with stuff the only way I know how.  If it is brave to admit your fears, to name your questions, to open yourself to others, to risk being misunderstood then OK.  But I'd rather hope that is just about being the kind of person I want to be.  Tenacious (or stubborn and determined), independent (but learning to be interdependent), positive (with large doses of realism), practical (organised!)... these are aspects of who I am.  It is also far easier to be 'brave' when you heaps of support, as I am privileged to - from my friends, my colleagues, my church, my denomination and way beyond.  Real bravery must be doing it on your own.

So, Friday will bring the third bend on my uphill climb.  No styles this time (at least none I'm aware of) and a sense of familiarity with what the steep bit will entail.  As it happens, this coincides with the Scottish Baptist Assembly, which means I can't attend.  That's a disappointment as I am one of those weird people who loves Baptist Assemblies.  But I will pray for them as they seek to listen for God's voice, knowing that, mysteriously, we are connected within the love of God.

This is long and rambling, but to end, an old hymn that came to mind this morning

Father, hear the prayer we offer:
not for ease that prayer shall be,
but for strength that we may ever
live our lives courageously.

Not for ever in green pastures
do we ask our way to be;
but the steep and rugged pathway
may we tread rejoicingly.

Not for ever by still waters
would we idly rest and stay;
but would smite the living fountains
from the rocks along our way.

Be our strength in hours of weakness,
in our wanderings be our guide;
through endeavour, failure, danger,
Father, be thou at our side.

Love Maria Willis (nee Whitcomb) (1824-1908), Samuel Longfellow (1819-1892)

And a cute picture that just arrived in one of those circular emails we all get...

Now unless you happen to live in Scotland the above may not make a whole lot of sense but it reflects some thoughts I've been having recently and a bit of my more odd-ball humour.

I spent most of yesterday breaking the back of an exercise to turn my portfolio of submissions as part of a DPT (Doctorate in Practical Theology) programme into a single submission suitable for submission as an MPhil, ostensibly under the same regulations.  My cunning plan involves writing little linking theological reflections, based on a pastoral cycle, between the items to show how each emerged (honest guv) from the one before, or at least from something the one before made me think about.  Irrespective of what I think/thought about the programme, had I not been diagnosed with cancer I would have slogged on to the end and hopefully got a doctorate out of it.  As it is there is no way I could guarantee being fit to resume studies in a year's time, the requirement to intercalate, and to be brutally honest, such studies are no longer a priority.  Situations change - as I will note in my final reflective chapter - and with them my aspirations.  To be MPhil NED seems a better aspiration right now.

NED?  Non Educated Delinquent?  A term of mild abuse used in Scotland to describe the same kind of people who might be termed Chavs further south.  A term that is a stereotype for people whose response to lack of opportunity and education amuses those who have had both.  I aspire to be a NED?  Yes!  Because it also stands for "No Evidence of Disease" which is as good as it ever gets for someone who had been diagnosed with breast cancer.  There is no 'all clear', though if you make it to ten years NED then probably you are.  Yes, to be a NED sounds good right now.

Who knows, one day I might return to my research and get yet more letters to add to my collection (though if you want to become a Revd Dr/Rev Dr the cheapest and easiest I've found, accidentally, is to write Revd as your title on an English heritage application form!) but for now MPhil NED will do nicely... and the latter is a stronger aspiration than the former.

Yesterday evening we had a male voice choir singing at church as a fund-raiser towards the building re-devleopment fund.  It was an enjoyable evening and the choir offered a varied programme of light music.  It did have a few moments that were entertaining in ways perhaps not intended, but for me that added rather than detracted.

Here are a few of the more bizarre moments...

In introducing a soloist to sing 'On the Street Where You Live' the MD said that the musical was called My Fair Lady as an attempt by the writer to mimic a cockney saying Mayfair, except he said 'Mayfair' in such a scrambled way that no one could possibly have made the connection.  Probably best not to try to sound Cockney with a Glasgow accent...

For me, it was slightly surreal to hear a choir of Scots singing the Men of Harlech with gusto - especially when via the lyrics they were claiming to be Welsh!  Very weird.

The piece de resistance for me was the announcement of the last item 'a great Welsh hymn and our signature tune' - When I Survey the Wondrous Cross.  Sorry folks, Isaac Watts was English.  Granted the tune used may have been Welsh, but no Welshman would claim Watts as one one of their own.

There were some brave choices, notably a solo of 'The Music of the Night' from The Phantom of the Opera which is far from easy to sing, and some that took me in my mind to various crematoria, such as 'Unchained Melody' and 'Danny Boy' as well as one that I last sang when I was about 8, the 'Eriskay Love Lilt'.  All in all quite an enjoyable evening.

Next time I think we should have our own choir and some of our gifted musicians performing.  What d'you reckon?