The last treatment cycle passed without incident. I was given a new, more powerful, anti-sickness medication this go around. And it did the trick, given I wasn't sick. If nothing else, it removed the doubt that my MIL's cooking was somehow sending me over the edge and to the bathroom. Mid-cycle I had to go back to the hospital for a CT scan. As previously mentioned, this was going to be a key landmark in this whole journey. The scan itself is now old hat to me. It was the waiting for the results that was going to be hard. Trying not to think about something that will have life-changing implications is a tough one. Still, I was going to have to wait 12 days for the results, I couldn't spend all that time running what-if scenarios in my head. After pump disconnection on the Saturday we just chilled at home for the rest of the weekend. It wasn't particularly great weather, and I just fancied not doing anything.
The week was spent with work, and a trip up to a friend's for a socially distanced movie and curry night. With a decent sized room, 2 large sofas, and a judicious quantity of wet wipes and sanitiser, we got through it without coughing on one another.
During the week I got word that someone I know had been diagnosed with late stage pancreatic cancer. This is a man who is fit, otherwise healthy, does a lot of work in the community, and is generally one of the good guys. And now he is facing horrific news. It shows again just what an awful, and indiscriminate, disease cancer is, in all its forms. He had done nothing to deserve what he now faces. No one cancer sufferer does. It is simply a wretched disease, and the sooner the world finds a cure, the better.
The following Sunday, a friend came over to visit, and to take the dogs on a long walk by the river. It was lovely catching up with her. All suitably distanced as always. We have got the process quite well sorted, and I felt comfortable with her in the house.
By the start of this week, I was pretty much spinning wheels waiting for Wednesday's call. And try as I might, it was getting harder to not think about it. I went down to the surgery for bloodwork on the Monday, and was hoping that the results would be relevant. And so Wednesday rolled around. Neither I, nor my wife, had got a decent night's sleep, we had both been dwelling on things without wishing to trouble the other. The call came in, we sat down, buckled up, and awaited the news. Now, there is a group of oncologists who seem to cover my case, and the actual person I speak to varies from call to call. This doesn't bother me, since it is, in essence, making judgement calls based on numbers and symptoms. I know this might diminish the humanity and caring aspect of each of the doctors, but I think you know what I am getting at. Today's call was with my favourite of the bunch, someone who has only really ever given me good news. Unfortunately that streak was about to end.
She went through the preliminaries, before getting to the only thing I was interested in, the scan results. The OK news: tumours in the lungs were stable compared to the prior scan. Some slightly bigger, some slightly smaller, overall, fine. The bad news: tumours in the liver had progressed. As such, the decision had been made to terminate the current line of chemotherapy, and switch to the next line, a drug called LONSURF. The implications are huge. This is the final of the 3 mainstream lines, and after this you enter the realm of clinical trials. At this point in the conversation I was sat bowed forward, head in hands, on the point of crying my eyes out. In all honesty, I am not sure how I made it through the rest of the call. The oncologist went through some logistical matters, describing the delivery protocols, and also the possible side effects. These include the double whammy of both diarrhoea AND constipation (Christ knows how those manifest together), and also (admittedly on the remote list) the chance of death. Great, taking a pill to keep you alive from a disease, with the chance the pill might actually kill you before the disease does. And so the call ended, and my life had taken a huge course change.
We sat in the lounge and cried for what seemed like ages. I have had my fair share of shitty and devastating news over the past months, but this topped it all. It is hard to recall what exactly I was thinking or saying at this point, it all blurred. I do recall telling my wife that I wasn't actually scared of dying, what I was scared about was the pain and hurt of those I will leave behind. After some time had passed I had to update my sister and my boss. I could only do this by chat message, there was no way I was going to make it through a telephone call with either of them. My wife updated our close friends, with a request to not get in touch right now. I must admit, I felt a bit of a twat telling people, who I know having nothing but genuine love and support to offer, not to contact me, but I needed some time to process the news. A few friends had messaged in the days leading up to Wednesday with words of support, and I dropped each of those an update, with a request to keep radio silence for now.
Me, my wife and MIL went out to the pub for lunch after I had mentally regrouped somewhat. It was a gorgeous, sunny, autumnal day, and we figured an hour sat in the sun, with fresh air and cold cider, would be exactly what the oncologist had ordered. After that brief escape we returned home and I came back to reality. There was no way I was getting any work done that afternoon, not that I think anyone expected me to, so I camped on the sofa before making tea for us all. By bed time I was feeling better. I made the vow to my wife that I was done with feeling sad and crying, and that Thursday was the first day of the rest of my life, and I had to make it good. For my sake, and the sake of those around me.
So, a new day came around. The news hadn't changed any, it was still incredibly shit, but my mental state had improved somewhat. Yes, still raw, but also with a new resolve, whatever that would actually entail. I gave my sister a call, it was a tough one. We both cracked at times, but not too badly. I then saw a message from my boss, and exchanged a few notes. I had readied myself to call him earlier, but I knew I couldn't manage it. This time though, after discussing the situation, he noted he had some work stuff to discuss. If pushing meaningless bits of paper around wouldn't take my mind off things, nothing would. We ended up chatting about this, that and everything for a half hour or so, and I felt a lot better for it. That afternoon, I emerged from my virtual cave and ended radio silence with some people, dropping them all a similar message, basically saying 1) yes it is bad, but, more importantly, 2) I have my life to get on with. I then dealt with a barrage of messages, unanimous in their support of us. It remains overwhelming. But I wouldn't change it for anything.
On Friday morning I had my weekly Zoom call with my support group. I logged on, and to start with it was just me and one of the group founders on the call. She asked that ever-loaded question "so, how are you doing?". With an often cracking voice I gave her the full and gory details. At least it was someone who gets it. Others dialled in, and whilst I was fully prepared to go over it again, it never came up in conversation. Which is totally fine. After the call, I sent a message in our WhatsApp group explaining the latest on my situation. And again, was met with responses of support and best wishes. A few weeks ago, a lovely lady in the group had died. And among the various sad thoughts I had on hearing the news was a realisation that I might be next. At that point I had felt more frail, it was compounded now.
Later that evening I sent out a message to my wider group of friends to update them. A common theme in the responses was being lost for words. I get it, I totally do. If the situation were reversed, and I got such news from a close friend, I would be in bits knowing I was powerless to do anything to assist except offer support. No one should feel bad for not knowing what to say. The fact someone cares enough to be at a loss is all that matters.
And so to Saturday. I got a call in the morning from a close friend, who I had updated the previous day. My voice was all over the place, as I was doing my best to not cry. Not because I think it is weak, or wrong, to cry. Just that I am sick of crying. We spoke about me making the best of the rest of my days. And he just had to laugh when I told him the start point was a trip to Larkhall Athletic this afternoon to see them play Barnstaple Town in the FA Trophy. Longest march starts with a single step, and all that.
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