Cry Baby

I have been precipitously close to tears for the past few weeks. It probably started, fairly unsurprisingly, with the Late Late Toy Show, and sort of snowballed from there. The intense emotional battering that has been bubbling away beneath the service of all our lives this year was bound to start spurting through the cracks once we got to the Year-In-Review end of the TV schedule. 

I am no stranger to the Chin Up and Shut Up school of psychological containment, preferring to barge along chirpily while all around me goes to shite. But there is always a leaky pipe somewhere along the way, a rogue lacrimal duct that decides to get all expressive and wussy, distilling the tight knots of anxiety fighting with each other in my muscles into a pure salty drop of liquid sadness, trickling inexorably down my hot cheek and into the corner of my mouth. And then another follows, and another, and then the other eye starts. And sure then it is simply time to submit, admit defeat, allow all the bloody floodgates to open and indulge in one of those shoulder-shuddering sobfests that make you feel so good.

But I seem to be a bit stuck. The knowledge that we are not done, that this is not yet over, that we may not even be half way through, is pushing on my chest and forbidding me from leaving it all go. Losing the plot now would be a disaster. Got. To. Keep. Going. 

I watched Black Panther again last week. The beautiful sweet power of the movie, the gorgeous accents, the subtle yet groundbreaking imagery of heroic black women in traditional hairstyles; all of this would usually be enough to get my heart soaring and the tears flowing. But I watched it on my 44th birthday, six years and a couple of weeks after I was diagnosed with stage 4 bowel cancer. Chadwick Boseman would have turned 44 two weeks before me, if he hadn't died earlier this year from the same cancer. He was diagnosed after me (as far as I know), and made Black Panther while undergoing treatment. I looked at him and thought about  all the things I know that he knew, the experiences we had likely shared, and I was consumed by survivor's guilt. He struck me as being a kind, good person, and that is as good as it gets. I felt his loss in my heart. 

On Friday, at the end of a very busy week of patients, colleagues, assignments, presentations, deadlines, late deliveries, early mornings, painful scars, aching bones, lashing rain, muddy builders and strung-out children, I got into the car to drive to the sea and meet an old friend. The traffic was terrible; that mid-December grimness of foggy windows, squeaking wind-wipers, huddled pedestrians throwing themselves into the road and general ill-will (oh that wonderful Christmas spirit). My shoulders were up to my ears, my jaws jammed together, my heart pounding. The chirpy Christmas tunes on the radio were starting to grate. I changed the channel and heard the opening bars of Daft Punk's Get Lucky. I once named a blog post after that song, back in 2017, the day after the second Doctors' Disco where I had met and chatted and danced with oodles of friends, and I had written about the gratitude I had felt at being able to do all of that. I was grateful that my illness hadn't stopped me from being able to throw myself onto a dancefloor with dozens of people and natter away into the night about god knows what. Little did I know that three years later none of us would be able to do any of that, for weeks and months on end. No random lunches during the working day. No girlie weekends in elegant cities. No 5pm pints of stout looking out over North Harbour. No intense and exhilarating conference-running. No lingering in the restaurant, howling with laughter while the waiting staff pointedly stack the chairs and noisily load the dishwasher, hoping we'll get the hint and leave. No nights away just because, no nights in on purpose. 

So I thought about all that we had lost this year, all that we had missed. And I thought about how I could have missed this all too. And my brain melted a bit, and I cried big ploppy sloppy tears. 

But I couldn't fully let go. I couldn't sob. 

Got. To. Keep. Going. 

Clarification

 The last line of my last blog was written purely for literary impact. 

I still sleep terribly. 

Foetal Position

For six years I haven’t been able to sleep on my right side. I didn’t think it mattered that much. I have a whole left side and a back to lie on, so wanting a third option is just greedy, right? But now that I can, now that I have the choice again, I remember how important it is for me to be able to face the window, my intra-uterine muscle memory revelling in the curly cosy wonder of the perfect sleeping position. 

The reason for my restricted movements was my Portacath, the small firm hockey-puck device  which was implanted in the right side of my chest wall in December 2014. For three years or so, it allowed me to imbibe gallons of toxic and expensive drugs which shrivelled, shrank and shemozzled millions of cancer cells all over my body, for which I am eternally grateful. After it had done this tremendous work, it sat ready, like a ninja, waiting to facilitate the annihilation of any rogue cells who decided to make a new incursion. It waited, and waited, and waited. Over time, it became apparent that the rogue cells did not appear to be getting it together to launch much of an attack. It appeared, with every successive CT scan, that they were obediently staying in their quiet corners, possibly not even talking to each other, and maybe not even there at all.

How does the General know when to stand down the troops? When is the right time to withdraw from the conflict zone, disband the army, and decommission the tanks? What if the insurgents are simply lying in wait, lulling you into a false sense of security and waiting for the breach in your defences? 

[An aside: for a person who absolutely abhors the battle analogies which so often swirl around when the issue of cancer crops up, I seem to be flogging the backside out of them now.]

So for the past year or two, myself and my oncologist have been chatting periodically about whether the Port should stay or go. I had made up my mind last Christmas that I was happy to have it out, and then I chickened out and decided to wait for One More Scan. That scan was also NED (no evidence of disease) so I braced myself to accept the potential jinx effect and decided to pull the plug.

This meant going back to hospital again, back to the Old Ward, back to the sound of drip-stands being wheeled along bumpy marmoleum and infusion alarms chiming in futile symphonies. Identifying wrist bands strapped around the wrist, in case of a sudden incapacity to remember one’s own name. And the questions. Same questions, on a loop, over and over. Allergic to anything? Date of birth? Last meal? Allergic to anything? 

The question that irritates me the most, however, is the probing related to possible pregnancy. This tends to be approached in a number of different ways, giving you the feeling that they didn’t quite believe you the first time round and that they will catch you out with their cunning multi-faceted interrogation. Or that you, being female and all, might not be a “reliable historian” when it comes to knowing whether or not another human is growing inside you. So they ask “When was your last period?”, and I say “4 years ago”, and they write that down. Then they ask, “is there any chance you might be pregnant?” and I say “very little” (knowing from years of medical school that nothing is ever 0%). They scratch their heads, and wonder what they are going to write in the LMP box. I tell them I have two mirena coils. Their brains implode. I take the form from them and write NOT PREGNANT in the box, and sign it, and hand it back. Once they see the signature, they relax somewhat. They are no longer responsible for my womb or its contents. 

And then I move to the next room, and the next person with a form, and it starts all over again.

It is not unusual, when you present for any radiological procedure, to be asked about your pregnancy status at least 3 times. I get it. I understand the concerns. They are not in the business of foetus-frying. However, I do think that asking a woman once “are you pregnant?”, and then accepting her answer, is sufficient. Because, in general, women are not into foetus-frying either. If a woman is aware that xrays can harm babies, then they will be the first to call a halt to the process if they think they are pregnant. And I know that many pregnancies are undetected at an early stage, and I know some women can deliver full-term babies without having had an inkling they were pregnant, but to be honest the three-way interrogation in a day ward is actually unlikely to uncover those cases. For many women, being pregnant or not is a reasonably sensitive subject, even more so if they have undergone treatment for cancer. I think a one-off consent form that explains that the procedure would be bad for a foetus, and a Yes or No answer to “Could you be pregnant?” should suffice. And just ask once. 

Anyway, the Port came out, and I can now sleep like a baby. 

[This piece was first published in the Medical Independent]

Crossing Streams

I first started writing about my experiences as a patient with cancer nearly six years ago. At the time, I had a lot to write about, and no real concept of an audience or who might be interested in what I had to say. It was merely a way of getting the mixed-up thoughts out of my head, and it saved multiple repetitions of stories/updates/results/news via text or phonecall. (I hate phonecalls). There was a liberty to it, a freedom to say what I liked, and I wasn’t particularly careful about altering the details to make it less identifiable. So most people who read my words knew which hospital I was in and which city I was writing from, and I did not feel the need to edit myself too much. 

As time went on, though, I realised that more and more people were following my story. It dawned on me that perhaps some of the people I was writing about, those who were caring for me or otherwise inhabited my story, would recognise themselves in it and understandably be sensitive to what I was saying about them. I also discovered that occasionally some people mistakenly believed themselves to be the focus of a particular rant or negative observation that I was making. And there were others again who were beginning to get a bit miffed that they weren’t, as far as they could tell, getting any mention at all. Now, that left me in a sticky dilemma. Do I continue writing, but alter the story to make it anonymous? “I have a friend with, umm, ovarian cancer who is attending a hospital in, eh, a medium-sized inland county, where they serve Lyons Tea and recognise that Dublin is of course the real capital of Ireland…” I don’t think I could have pulled that off. 

Is this why people write fiction? To tell the stories of their own lives without offending anyone else?

I now have a few different outlets for my writing, with some of it being published in a traditional sense, but to a limited medical audience, and some of it occasionally overspilling from my blog into local or national media. I have also recently started writing academically again, for a postgraduate diploma. I generally decide in advance which piece is going where, but sometimes they get muddled up and then my brain feels funny. 

I feel better for having written all that down, though. 

Thanks everyone. You're all great. 

That's What There Is

 My brain is full again. 

They have changed the interface on the blogging platform. 

There is spam everywhere.

There is noise and rush and complaining about politicians and teachers and hurling coaches. 

There is good masks and bad masks and unrepressed sneezes.

There are good writers, better writers. I cannot read fast enough. I cannot type at all.

There is the hint/sniff/possible possibility of legitimate guilt-free childcare (aka school) and I can smell the freedom, but I know better than to trust it.

There was sun and sand and gentle breeze. Now there is lashingness and dampness and soggy towels. 

There is a pain in my sternum. There is the lack of adherence to the physio's advice. 

There is a list. 

There is no end to the list. 

There is the hesitation to speak about such things. 

There is a speed and a slowness to each day which is almost unbearable, and yet it is borne.

There is strength and bravery and good humour and kindness, and there is the lack of these things. 

There is the darkening of the clouds. There is the blue sky. 

Trench Rot

At the start of the whole pandemic thing (heretofore known as the Pain in the Face), I wrote about how us doctors were standing at a cliff edge, terrified of our next steps. I used the analogy of the WW1 soldiers going Over The Top, facing into certain terror and almost-certain death. 

That's how I perceived it then.

Now I realise that we are in fact experiencing all of the other episodes of Blackadder Goes Forth, and not just the dramatic and poignant final scenes. We are living day by day with uncertainty and the vague dread fear of something happening, but it not happening Quite Yet. In the meantime we shoot the messenger (er, pigeon) and come up with endless cunning plans. 

Some of us are doing a fine imitation of George, infinitely chirpy and positive, always looking on the bright side, until finally the time comes when we have to ask permission for our lower lip to quiver. 

Some of us are in a Blackadder/Darling face-off with colleagues or friends, where people who are closer to the Front Line are dismissive of those sipping the General's wine in the fancy chateau up the road . There is a oneupmanship afoot. "I work harder than you and I'm better than you and I deserve the box of Roses more than you". This, of course, simply stems from the exhaustion of working without sufficient support and acknowledgement, and is entirely self-destructive for both parties. 

We like to think there are some General Melchetts up the ranks somewhere, dithering doddery idiots who we can blame for the PPE mess-ups, or testing failures, or nursing home tragedies. The truth is there probably is no moustachioed buffoon on whom all the blame rests. It was probably simply a product of a very, very difficult situation. 

We may be tempted to try Blackadder's trick of feigning madness in order that we will be sent home from the Front. The irony being, of course, that it is the mad ones who stay. The more burnt out we get, the harder it is to make the wise decision to step back and take a break. 

Captain Flashheart and co are great for the telly, and sure fair play to them, Virgin Media would be lost without their sage and learned advice. 

As for Baldrick, well, we'll always need someone who can rustle up a quick cappuccino...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_CtdYqVK_R4

Why, like?

There are quite a few things that I simply do not understand. 

I don't know why some people (men) wear shorts in winter.

I don't know why some people (men) wear woolly hats in the summer. 

I will never understand why a person who lives in a city would purchase, and then regularly drive, a vehicle designed for traversing a field in Connemara. 

And I am not sure if my attitude to, and perception of, wealth will ever align with (what appears to be) the societal norm.

(Of course, of course, of course, what I am about to say is absolutely and fundamentally informed by my position of privilege, and my colour, race, profession, background, etc, etc, etc. I am standing here with my head in the stocks, waiting for the wet sponges of approbation to be flung in my face. Perhaps those of us who regularly spout opinions secretly yearn for those wet sponges, now and again. To wake us up a bit, like.)

So this is the thing I don't understand: what do people be wanting with all that money? Why do some people want more money than they need? 

What is the attraction of excessive wealth? 

Why, like? 

For what? 

I am completely on board with the idea of a house with enough rooms for everyone, and a garden, and warmth, and a "nice" neighbourhood (though not entirely clear with what that "nice" means). I think a car that works is probably a necessity for a lot of people. Clothes that fit. Food that is plentiful and tasty. Being able to say "yes" when the children ask for an icecream, or a pointless overpriced magazine in a shop. These are all luxuries, but I am grateful that I have them, and I have to say I would be a bit reluctant to give them up. 

But why would the clothes have to be expensive? Why would the car need to cost the same as a house in Leitrim? (no offence, Leitrim). Why would I need to buy, and then exhibit, a candle that costs the average weekly industrial wage?

I just really, really, really don't understand. 

Those Endless Days

Trust me, I really do appreciate how annoying it is when a person is persistently positive. 

Chirpy McChirpface in the face of obvious and insidious disaster. 
Little Miss Smiles when all around there is doom and gloom.
Bonnie Langford in a room full of Fr Stones. 

But I just can't help myself. 
I keep seeing so many good things in the world at the moment. Some of them are cringe-level stuff, like my children's snuggles or the bright yellow daffodils outside my window. Others are a bit more tangible, like the lazy mornings spent in PJs and tea-drinking, when we would otherwise be roaring at each other about swimming gear and money for football and no you can't wear those wellies to ballet. 

No restrictions on peanut butter usage.
No lunchboxes.
No uniform washing.
No near-fights with parents who believe that leaving the engine on in their 4x4 outside the school gates is perfectly acceptable behaviour.

More tea.

Witnessing the affirmation that the people who you knew were Good turn out to be Even Better.
Witnessing the corollary, and feeling smug about it. 

Remembering the times when I had to stay away from other people because they might make me sick, or they had to stay away from me because I might make them sick, and feeling that the world has a smidge more understanding now of how that felt. 

And yes, the fish in the Venice canals (although I am not so sure about the veracity of that one).

Technology turning out to be really quite easy to use, after all. People. 

Watching how a bit of motivation can encourage the most recalcitrant. 

Gardening.

Having a clean house and not resenting it.

Not having to wheel the same trolley around the same aisles buying the same food and queuing and paying and packing and unpacking and repeating. 

Feeling glad that the availability of hairdressers/nail technicians/tanning salons/teeth whiteners is entirely irrelevant to me. (I do miss my physiotherapist though).

I have a house with enough rooms in it that we can all spend time apart comfortably. 
I have a garden with flowers and vegetables and rusty scooters and goalposts and at least seven footballs. 
I have access to books, movies, TV series, video calls, music, paper, Scrabble. 
I can see greenery out of all of my windows. 
I don't have all the different foods that I might want or desire, but I have a grocery delivery slot booked, and I can afford to order a takeaway and pay the milkman and ask the butcher to drop me in some sausages. 

I have never been a big fan of shopping malls, and I pretty much hate buying clothes and shoes and make-up. 

I have low-maintenance friends who live between 300 and 3000 miles away from me, so this separation is not new for us. 

I am safe in my home. Abuse, addiction, animosity, antipathy - these do not loom large in my household.

These days could be so much harder. 

I am thankful. 


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HNJcd1pTaL0

Over The Top

I have consumed so much information in the past two weeks that whatever comes out of my head now is simply a mish-mash of other people's words, advice and opinions. I am no longer the master of my own thoughts. My consciousness is simply a stream of memes from fourteen different WhatsApp groups and my brain is no longer able to tell the difference between the Junior Infants Home-School-Mom-Drinks-Wine-To-Survive hilarity and the Learned-Colleague-Who-Knows-Their-Stuff-Says-We-Are-All-Doomed misery. 

A few phrases are lodged at the front of my brain (I have heard this being referred to as top-of-mind. Advertisers love when they can get their stuff to be Top of your Mind). Someone described the feeling in emergency departments around the country as being like the deep low tide sucking all the water from the land just before a tsunami hits. This then reminded me of William Wallace shouting HOLD! And someone else mentioned the final scene in Blackadder Goes Forth, when the lads go over the top. (To save you having to follow the links, I can tell you that none of these scenarios end particularly well). 

These are the fears of the medical community, and they relate not just to the likelihood that our hospitals and clinics will soon be flooded with people, but that the staff working in those hospitals will be washed away, trampled over or blasted apart by the illness itself. We are aware that many of the people who have died from Covid19 around the world have been healthcare workers. We know that those who work closely with sick patients are more likely to get severe illness than those who work more peripherally in the hospital. We also know that wearing the correct personal protection equipment (PPE) can dramatically reduce the risk of becoming infected. 

Ideally, every encounter between a healthcare professional and a patient right now would be carried out in the correct PPE. Ideally, one would err on the side of caution to reduce the risks of transmission to an absolute minimum. This would protect both the patient and the caregiver and ensure that enough people are well enough to provide healthcare to the hordes that need it. So, ideally, we would wear the right gowns, masks and gloves for each interaction, and have enough left over to have a few spares in case we need a wee half way through our shift.

However, the world does not have enough gowns, masks or gloves apparently (according to at least ten of my fourteen WhatsApp groups). So we need to ration them. Now, no one is saying that we should just throw ourselves onto the pointy swords of the marauding virus. No one is telling us to go over the top with just a little stick to fend off the machine guns. No. They are suggesting that we wear a gown, goggles, gloves and fancy mask when we are forcibly suctioning secretions out of a moribund patient in ICU. It would be a good idea to wear the full kit while intubating a young man who is struggling to breathe. It would be wise to have most of it on while examining the chest of a middle-aged woman who is coughing and spluttering uncontrollably. 

But what about when someone is sitting there with one of those persistent shoulder-curling coughs, but is otherwise not too bad? Or a fella with a high temperature but not much else wrong with him? Surely there's no need to go wasting precious resources for that? Or how about the elderly lady who knows she is dying, and has chosen to stay at home? Will a night nurse or a GP go into her house to help her to die well, wearing a full hazmat suit? Or not wearing any protective gear at all?

Every coronavirus death that is announced is given a designation as being "erra fair enough" or "god that's awful" depending on the presence or absence of the infamous "underlying conditions". It is quite surreal to hear this dismissal of the value of life, based on the fact that the person might have had a drop of asthma or a bit of the old stage 4 cancer. I think I can see the logic; the softening of the blow, the minimisation of panic. But I am not sure that the family of a 57 year old victim who happened to use an inhaler or took some tablets for diabetes are able to accept that he was simply a sitting duck. 

And what about the healthcare workers who also happen to have an underlying condition, or are a little more senior in their years? Should they retreat to their cocoon, pull the blankets over their heads, and let their greatly under-supported colleagues stand in front of the rampaging virus with their diminishingly-pointy sticks? Or should they throw themselves out in front, given that they now have Expendable written across their foreheads and their deaths can be put in the "ah well" category?

Let's face it, none of us filled in that CAO form thinking jaysus do you know what, I'd love to die for my country. Some of us filled it in with dollar signs in our eyes, and there are very few dollars swishing around the hospital corridors these days. Most of us signed up with a vague Miss Universe aspiration of "helping others", but not really ever envisioning that we would have to risk our lives just to listen to someone's chest. Sure, there are the hero doctors like David Nott and those other MSF types but we all know they are a bit left-field, a bit out there. Not like the rest of us. I watched the documentary "For Sama" before all this Covid carry-on started, and I found it incredibly moving but so, so far away. Now I think of the film-maker's husband and his colleagues working in those horrendous conditions, and how their lives have been so dramatically changed in a short period of time. This is what lies ahead for us, too. We are being forced into the roles of heroes, warriors, patriots, martyrs. When really we just wanted a nice house with a garden and a feeling of being useful. 

So we are scared and worried, and ashamed and embarrassed by those feelings. We are willing to climb the ladder into No-Man's-Land, but we wish we were in a massive armoured tank and not just carrying a small stick. Some of us may want to point out that we have a dicky heart, or flat feet, so that we can be legitimately sent home from the Front. We may even consider going AWOL. But in the end, most of us will do what is asked and expected of us, and some of us will do a lot, lot more. 

We are all trying to think of cunning plans, but in the end we may just have to take out our diaries and simply write, "Bugger". 

Coronatherapy

Like anyone else who has been through chemotherapy, I have a certain upper hand when it comes to dealing with the coronavirus situation. Those of us who have survived periods of very low immunity know all about hand-washing and cough-catching, and we are dab hands with the antiseptic wipes. We are used to keeping people at an arm's length, and giving virtual hugs. My children are familiar with me shouting "stay away" at them because of the number of times that I have been radioactive (and the odd few occasions when I have pretended to be radioactive just so I can drink my tea in peace).
So cancerheads have a teeny bit of smugness about them now, watching everyone else freaking out if they hear a stray cough on the bus or pulling their sleeves over their hands to open a door. We've been at this craic for ages now lads. We are pros at the germ-avoidance. 

We are also pretty nifty on the whirlwind-of-emotions front. We have been doing the Homer-Kubler-Ross thing for a long time, oscillating wildly from near and certain doom to a serene, hands-in-the-air acceptance. There is a limit to how long your brain can cope with imminent death, and sooner or later it reverts to trying to decide between Netflix and NowTV. 

I have no tips or advice that I haven't previously shared, but repetition is the hallmark of the lazy blogger, so here goes:

• It will all be okay. Even if it's not okay, it will be okay.
• Now that we are all cooped up together, your immediate family probably already have whatever germs you have, so hug them. (Briefly).
• Check in for information twice a day from a reputable source like the HSE or DoH, but do not go to Facebook seeking reassurance. IT WILL NOT BE THERE.
• Listen back to previous episodes of John Creedon's show. Not only will the music be soothing, it will be interspersed with news bulletins from days ago, which will probably be much better news than today's. 
• Walk in the fresh air and relish any socially awkward tendencies you may have - we now have a great excuse for nodding and smiling and moving swiftly along. 
• Start making Patrick's Day floats for the virtual parade in your back garden (we are particularly excited about this one - no crowds, hot tea, front-row views).
• Take delight in the fact that you'll finally get to eat the mung beans/liquid glucose/nori sheets that you bought after watching the 2016 season of Masterchef. 
• Watch the To-Be-Read book pile getting smaller and smaller. 

And remember:

WASH

YOUR 

HANDS!

(AGAIN)

Extra Time

At about 11:30 in the morning yesterday, I suddenly experienced an overwhelming sense of contentment. I was still in my pyjamas, listening to Marian Keyes' Grown Ups on audiobook and emptying the washing machine for the second time. It was windy outside, but sunny, and my pathetic assemblage of potted plants were doing their best to look spring-like. The house was a mess as always, but I had nothing else to do for the day except to try and restore some order on the detritus. I had just to decided to get out my old sewing machine to "whip up" some costumes for World Book Day. I even decided to see World Book Day as a delightful opportunity for my children to express their creativity, rather than a pain-in-the-face chore that I could do without. I tried to assess why I suddenly felt so good. Then it came to me. 

Coronavirus. 

The first case on the island of Ireland had been announced a couple of days ago, and for some reason an overwhelming sense of relief had washed over me. I have been preparing for the next WiMIN conference for months, and it is happening in Belfast in three weeks' time. Or at least that's the plan. It might have to be cancelled, if there is a ban on mass gatherings, or if the speakers can't travel, or if we are all holed up in our houses eating tinned tuna and rubbing the last few mls of hand sanitiser onto our chests. And the realisation that all the organising in the world couldn't have prepared me for this was actually a sweet relief. 

It reminded me that I do all this WiMINing to avoid the ever-present sense of impending doom that accompanies stage 4 cancer. But now there is a real crisis! If you suffer from chronic anxiety there is nothing better than an I Told You So moment, an event that proves how right you are to be interminably terrified. And so the rough edges were smoothed, the clenched jaw relaxed, the shoulders lowered themselves from the ears. 

It was helped by the fact that yesterday was February 29th, that little bonus ephemeral almost non-existent day, a Narnia day, an International Date Line day, a coming-up-smiling-on-Tuesday day. A little oasis of calm in the desert of all-out world-wide apocalyptic carnage. 

It was lovely. 

Tuned Out

I received a set of over-the-ear headphones as a Christmas present. I had asked for them. I wanted to be able to clean the toilet and listen to podcasts without my little in-ear jobs falling into the Ajaxed water. I didn't realise that big puffy headphones are not made with the spectacle-wearer in mind, and the arms of my glasses get squished into my mastoid bones. My head also gets ferociously hot under there, causing me to have to remove at least one of the many (many) layers of clothes that I tend to wear.

But the sound is sublime. Being enveloped by voice, or music, or both. Being intimately connected with the person on the other end of the bluetooth magic. 
And noise cancelling. 
What parent doesn't need this? 
I am in the room with my children and I am the absolute opposite of present. I am away, immersed in Nick's grief, or Jen's sports updates, or Cillian's eclectic New Year's Day mélange of Scottish folk music and Limerick rap. The children obviously require aural attention now and then, but generally all they need is food and the enforcement of safety regulations, so I am not really neglecting them that much. Their lips move but I can't hear what they're saying (and they wouldn't even get the Pink Floyd reference anyway). 

Ajaxing the toilet is so much more fulfilling when you're listening to Eton Rifles.