Life Update: April 2025

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Stayin’ Alive
(Dancing Day to Day with the Big C)

Blogger’s Disclaimer: Not actually me.

Well, it’s been a year now since the Calamitous Colonoscopy of Destiny, which occurred on Easter Sunday, of all days, in 2024. (When the hospital called to confirm the appointment, I was like, are you sure that’s right?) It was on this usually joyous spring holiday that the doctor and his team found a plus-size tumour near the junction of my large and small intestines. A biopsy and follow-up CT scan showed that it was advanced colon cancer. It had spread to the peritoneum, or the lining of the abdomen, and was deemed inoperable, which limited the options for treatment. I was scheduled for chemotherapy, but was told it could only slow the cancer for as long as possible, not cure me. (Although I still hold out a flicker of hope for one of those miracles I’ve heard about. Come on, all you deities, get cracking on that, stat!)

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ABSOLUTE BEGINNER: THE ADVENTURES OF A MIDDLE-AGED UK NEWBIE

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Epilogue: The Citizen
Part 2: How British Am I?

[Blogger’s Note: I was born and raised in the United States, moved to Canada for love in my early 40s and then relocated again, well into my 50s, to the southern coast of England with my British-born spouse. This has been a series about my sometimes amusing and frequently embarrassing exploits as an expat.]

How British am I? It’s a question I’ve been asking myself now that I’ve reached the end of this blog series on life in the UK from a newcomer’s perspective. After residing in beautiful, occasionally baffling Britain for eight years, I’m clearly no longer a newbie, but every day and in countless different ways I’m reminded of how much more there is to learn about my adopted home. So I’m not quite sure how far along I am on the path to reaching peak Britishness. Getting my citizenship in the summer of 2023 certainly helped, but I worry that obstacles like my flat American accent and near total ignorance of the Two Ronnies’ comedic oeuvre keep holding me back. 

Which leaves me in a kind of national identity limbo because my connection to my birthplace grows weaker the longer I’m away. This really hit home during a return trip to the States for Thanksgiving last autumn.  [Blogger’s Note Deux: I know, I know, I really should be more timely with these posts. I mean, I published part one of this epilogue nearly a year ago! What can I say? The muse, she is fleeting. Plus, it’s been a bumpy 2024 so far.] After a five year absence, due to the pandemic and the travel hassles it left in its wake, I felt strangely out of place in the US, or at least in the sprawling swath of suburban Georgia where I spent the holiday with family. Everyone I spoke to sounded odd, that is to say, just like me. Not one person trilled “lovely-jubbly” or “toodle pip” in a charmingly sing-song lilt like they do in my little village beside the English Channel. And everything was miles apart. I shelled out $30 for a cab ride from the Atlanta airport to the “convenient” Airport Radisson, where I stayed the first night after my plane got in late. Walking to any destination was out of the question, and even when I accompanied family members in the car to their nearest shopping centre, the drive seemed to take forever. And once we got there, I was reminded of how absurdly huge American parking lots are. In fact, the only substantial walking I did during the entire trip was from far-flung parking spaces to the doors of whatever big box store we were visiting. (I think I see the Target entrance somewhere in the distance…) I’ve become so accustomed to the compactness of our English environs, where we can stroll to dozens of shops and restaurants in less than 10 minutes, that the vast distances between places and the excessive expanse of commercial spaces in the States kind of shocked me.

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Life Update

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So I Have Cancer, Again
(And It’s a Doozy This Time)

Okay, here we go…

In early 2005 I was diagnosed with bladder cancer. The diagnosis was, in a way, a relief after several months of discomfort and such frequent urination that I couldn’t leave the house without planning stops at all the public restrooms along my route. The urologist removed a fist-size mass of tumours from my bladder and then went back about 12 more times over the next four years to excise smaller ones that kept popping up. I underwent a localised chemotherapy treatment that lasted six weeks and endured many, many cystoscopies. (That’s where they take a camera attached to a long, thin tube and insert it… well, let’s just say it doesn’t go in your ear.) The process was arduous, painful and stressful, and even though I’ve been clear of bladder tumours for a long time now, I still have to have an annual cystoscopy to make sure everything is copacetic. I really look forward to it, said no one ever. 

I thought that experience would make me square with the C-word, but it turns out it was just a warm-up act. Now for the headliner: I was recently diagnosed with advanced bowel cancer. This followed a routine, and obviously long overdue, colonoscopy, a biopsy and a subsequent CT scan. The cancer has spread to the lining of the abdomen (peritoneum), causing a build-up of fluid, and it’s been deemed inoperable unless I get an A+ on the chemo treatment I’m currently undergoing, which my oh-so-cheery oncologist says is unlikely. Failing that, they’ll try to manage it with chemo and keep me alive “for as long as possible,” to quote Dr. Sunshine. He said this with that faux-sincere, annoyingly condescending tone doctors use that sounds like, I am offering you well-rehearsed words of comfort, Patient 4673, while wearing my patented “I care” expression. Of course, what I’m really thinking about is my upcoming holiday in Greece.

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ABSOLUTE BEGINNER: THE ADVENTURES OF A MIDDLE-AGED UK NEWBIE

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Epilogue: The Citizen
(Part 1)

[Blogger’s note: I was born and raised in the United States, moved to Canada for love in my early 40s, then relocated again, well into my 50s, to the southern coast of England with my British-born spouse. This has been a series about my sometimes amusing and frequently embarrassing exploits as an expat.]

Well, folks, the deed is done.  The ink has dried, the champagne cheap prosecco has been quaffed, and the plus-size person who prefers the pronouns she/her has sung. After diligently chronicling my life as a UK newcomer in this blog series, which has been enjoyed by literally tens of readers over the past six years, I’m pleased – no, chuffed  – to declare that I am finally a British citizen! Who’s a legit Brit? This guy. [Blogger aims both thumbs at his chest and smirks smugly.]

I received my first British passport this summer, having applied for it only a few weeks prior, a surprisingly speedy turnaround given the snail-like pace of the rest of the immigration process.  (And perhaps even more astonishing, the photo ain’t half bad either.)  It’s the happiest of endings to this chapter of my UK adventure and a fitting finale for the “Absolute Beginner” series. While I’m not a master of all things Blighty quite yet, I feel like the passport is my diploma from newbie school. Time to explore more advanced topics – I’m considering an in-depth analysis of the game of cricket, for one. Granted, I’ve only been to a single match and I didn’t really know what was going on, so maybe “in-depth” is a stretch. But I enjoyed it and the players looked super cute in their cricket whites, so how about a shallow analysis of the sport’s dishiest batsmen? Anyway, to close out this series, I’m taking a look back at the observations about British culture that I’ve made along the way. Some of my views on the topics I’ve covered have evolved significantly, others not so much. For instance, I still have absolutely no desire to try Marmite.

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Oh Sh*t, I’m 60!
On Being Blindsided by a Major Milestone

David Byrne was right. I am asking myself, “Well, how did I get here?”

When I was a teenager back in the days of yore – aka the late 1970s/early ‘80s – I used to wonder what life on Earth would be like in the year 2000. Would it be the futuristic utopia we saw on the Jetsons? Or would it be a terrifying hellscape overrun by Alien-esque predators with banana-shaped heads and corrosive drool? More importantly, would I achieve my dream of being an international rock superstar, captivating whatever remained of the human race and our extra-terrestrial tormentors with my majestic vocals and deeply profound lyrics? It was fun to muse about such scenarios, but then the lacerating realization that I’d be turning 38 in the first year of the new millennium would abruptly pop my daydream bubble. God, I’d be so very, very old! My adolescent brain couldn’t fathom such an advanced state of decrepitude.

Well, here we are in 2023 and what I wouldn’t give to be 38 again. I turned 60 late last summer and these many months later I have yet to come to grips with it. (And sadly, I’m not even a famous rock star to cushion to blow.) How in the name of Methuselah did this happen? 60 is just not a good fit for me. I feel simultaneously unworthy of such an august age – I lack both the emotional maturity and sage wisdom usually associated with a sexagenarian – and offended that the march of time would treat me like everyone else along its parade route. How dare the laws of nature apply to me! I demand to speak to the manager.

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Dream Diary: A Swift Decision


Recently I dreamt that I had some free time on my hands and after briefly entertaining the idea of doing something productive, like exercising or housework, I decided instead to re-watch one of my all-time favourite TV series, Veronica Mars, on DVD. I headed over to a video store where I used to work called Poppin’ Video (not a real place) to see if they had the box set available to rent. When I entered the store, I saw my old colleague Corinne behind the counter. (Not someone I know IRL, although she had kind of a Joan Jett look about her.) She didn’t seem all that pleased to see me, which wasn’t surprising given that I was a bit of a slacker when we worked together, often calling in sick or showing up late and generally shirking my duties when I was there. I asked whether the Veronica Mars box set was in stock and after sighing heavily and rolling her eyes, she went and found it for me. I dug my old Poppin’ Video membership card out of my wallet and handed it to her to secure the rental. Corinne examined the card and shook her head. “This is invalid,” she said. “Look at the name and address on the front.” It read:

Natasha Orange
222 Tanning Bed Blvd.
Hot Pants, Florida
Telephone: 867-5309

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Ready Study Go: Brushing Up on All Things British (and Welsh and Scottish and Northern Irish) for the Life in the UK Test

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[Blogger’s note: I’m an American expat twice removed, having relocated to Canada early in the new century and then to the southern coast of England in 2016. This post details an important event in my immigration journey that had me stressing over an exam grade for the first time since my student days decades ago. ]

You know the classic anxiety dream where you’re at school and the teacher announces a pop quiz for which you are totally unprepared? Also, for some reason, you’re wearing nothing but tighty-whities? I felt a similarly palpable panic while wide awake and en route to take the Life in the UK Test, a requirement for immigrants like myself who seek permanent residency in Britain. Mercifully for the townsfolk I passed on the walk to the test centre, I was fully clothed. And sufficiently informed, or at least in theory: I had read and re-read the three-volume study guide published on behalf of the Home Office, the governmental department that rules on visa applications. I had also taken more than 40 practice tests, both in the guide and online, and passed them all – out of 24 questions, you’re allowed six incorrect answers and I had not missed more than four.  And I’d been through a comparable process in Canada when I applied for citizenship there. Yet I couldn’t shake the unnerving sense that I was going to blow it. Long-suppressed memories of my scholastic shortcomings in adolescence resurfaced on cue to fuel this fear – the C- on that baffling algebra exam, the D for that botched frog dissection in biology, the essay that was returned so full of red marks it looked like a crime scene. Let’s just say I was never the teacher’s pet.  

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This Must Be the Place: Putting Down Roots – Finally – As a First-Time UK Home Owner

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Chapter Seven: Oh! You Pretty Things
(Wherein the Author Reveals a Frankly Unsettling Obsession with Home Accessories)

I can’t walk through our downstairs living room without looking at the mirror. Not in the mirror, although I occasionally sneak a peek at the old mug in passing just to make sure I don’t have mustard in my goatee or my eyebrows haven’t fused together overnight or something. (I live in mortal fear of the unibrow.) No, at the mirror, a simple oak-framed piece of glass, the latest addition to the still-evolving décor of our flat. It’s as Scandi-minimalist as they come and possibly too plain for many tastes, but to me it is a thing of unparalleled beauty and elegance. Not only does it bounce light around a somewhat dark space, but its blond wood frame is aesthetically harmonious with furniture pieces nearby, so it ties the room together with aplomb. And when the hubby put it up, he couldn’t have positioned it more perfectly on the wall – dead centre over the sofa – so I’m proud to say that it’s very, very well-hung.

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Steppin’ Out: My Reluctant Reentry into a Post-Lockdown World

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BLOGGER’S NOTE: Covid-19 has had a devastating impact on people across the globe. The intent of this series is not to make light of the pandemic in any way, but rather to examine the author’s idiosyncrasies, which existed long before the virus and, all being well, will be there long after. In these uncertain times, we must continue to take every available measure to protect our personal and communal health. Thanks for reading and stay safe.]

One thing I’ve learned in these many months of hand sanitizing, nasal swabbing, and banana bread baking is that I am a creature of habit to the max. Admittedly, I’ve shown signs of this tendency in the past – for instance, I’ll eat the same thing for breakfast every day for weeks before I force myself to switch it up. But under the string of lockdowns imposed on Britain due to the coronavirus, I morphed into my super-boring alter-ego, Captain Routine. While others bemoaned the tedium of one day blurring into the next, I reveled in the same old same old. I went grocery shopping at the same time every other day – mid-morning, before the lunch rush. I stuck to a fixed rotation of exercise walks, ambling in an easterly direction one day and west the next, traipsing south on the third day and north on the fourth before starting the cycle over again. I listened to an album every time I sat down to lunch – just one, all the way through, though I permitted myself the whimsy of choosing from a variety of genres. And I worked on this blog most weekdays from 2:00 pm until 3:30 or so, allowing for breaks to surf Amazon and Discogs. (Given that I’ve only managed to produce one post every couple of months, I’d say those breaks were many and lengthy.) It’s been a regimented, repetitive existence that has suited me just fine.

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This Must Be the Place: Putting Down Roots – Finally – As a First-Time UK Home Owner

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Chapter Six: The Everything Room
(It’s a Man Cave! A Music Hub! Guest Quarters! It’s Also a Floor Wax!*)

So far in this series on the thrills and spills of property ownership, I’ve tackled such sexy subjects as sump pump maintenance, storage shed de-cluttering, and bath towel symmetry. And readers have responded by staying away in droves! Just kidding, air kisses for my core group of beautiful masochists who have stuck with me as I’ve nattered on about DIY and decorating minutiae. I humbly request that you indulge me again for this latest effort, a rather giddy love letter to my favourite living space in the Portsmouth pad that the spouse and I have called home since late 2019. Huzzah! It’s the upstairs sitting room!

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