Cancer 200

My 200th post on cancer. When I started this blog, I didn’t think I would still be here two and a half years later. I am, but there are end signs. There is growth of lumps in my abdomen, and a significant lump at the opening of my stoma. The first led to the possibility of a change of chemotherapy treatment. It hasn’t been changed, but I have been scheduled for a CT scan to see if there are any further changes. The second led to my one-week course of radiotherapy, which I finished yesterday. I was warned of side effects, and I do have them. I was warned that they could be worse next week, which could be fun, as I also have chemotherapy. The effects so far are increased tiredness, changes to my stoma output (you don’t need details) and pain at the lump focused on by the radiotherapy.

It is odd having radiotherapy. You lie down on a hard bench (that wasn’t long enough for me), and the staff line up your lump by using the tattoos that I was given a few weeks ago. I hate tattoos. It takes longer to set up than the treatment, which for me lasted about one minute, half from one side of my abdomen, half from the other side. There are no feelings when the radiation enters, though my neuroticism easily imagines that I can feel it. I was sort of let down when the big RT machine didn’t go zap or start flashing laser-style beams at my stomach. Too much science fiction, methinks. I have been reading about nuclear war and radiation sickness this week. I know that there is a little difference between radiotherapy and being a couple of miles from ground zero in a certain Japanese city on 6 August 1945, but it’s my imagination, and I will let it fly whichever way I choose.

My 200th blog. I feel I ought to reflect back on the last two and a half years, but what is there to say? I had a big operation to remove the cancer which did not work as well as expected, I was very ill in hospital for a while and most people thought I was going to die, which if I had not seriously vomitted all over the waiting room at the CT scanning department I might well have done. On my first release from hospital, I collapsed and was taken back. While in hospital, I attended my sister’s funeral (yes, she died of cancer) in a wheelchair five days after my operation. I remained quite ill for a few months. My chemotherapy started in June 2023 and ever since then, with short breaks, I have been treated every other Tuesday, usually most of a day in the hospital being pumped full of drugs, and then spending the next two days attached to a bottle with another drug, so three days a fortnight of active chemotherapy. The following Thursday it is blood tests, followed by meeting the consultant on Friday who, so far, has mostly cleared me for treatment the following Tuesday.

That is if all goes well. I then have CT scans every three months, and various other things go on.

It is relentless. There are times when I just want to stop the treatment, enjoy my last few weeks or months without being jabbed, poked and poisoned, and die contented. But I don’t, or I haven’t yet. I just put up with it. There is the important six-day period where there is usually nothing happening. This has on a number of occasions been the opportunity to go away, whether to Northumberland, the Lake District, Yorkshire, Scotland, or occasionally the Netherlands. These trips keep me going, make life worthwhile. I am lucky that I don’t generally have severe side effects, and that I can do most normal things.

Except, I can only walk a short distance, I don’t drink alcohol, I am a little limited regarding driving, ie I usually have to stop by about 3pm, and I am useless in the evenings. A later night out for me is 8pm. I then turn into a pumpkin. At home I can sit and watch TV quietly until around 9pm, but late nights are out of the question. The only thing apparently unaffected by cancer is my diet. Apparently people lose their diet. I haven’t. The problem is when you are less capable of exercise but still eating the same (or more, I need treats when I am feeling down), the weight increases. Add that to the hernia around my stoma then I am not the thin thing I was.

I rarely mention social support because a certain person doesn’t want to be talked about, but I have excellent support from family and from friends. I have many people I can turn to and rely on.

There are six weeks breaks from treatment, where we have been to the Baltic coast of Germany and to the Pyrenees. We are hoping for another break in September/October (assuming I am alive, that is always a corollary when planning beyond a few days away). Bavaria? Alpujarras? Denmark? South of France? Driving of course.

I still try to write. I have lots of projects that proceed very slowly, because I don’t have the energy. I recently completed supervision of a number of MSc students. I am not planning any further paid work. Much as I always enjoyed supervision, my favourite part of my job, there is a time for it to stop.

Overall, life is good. It is not what was planned, but then plans have to change. As I have often said, I am not frightened of death, not existing is irrelevant when you don’t exist; but I am a little nervous of dying if it is going to be painful. I can only hope that one day I will be happily doing my thing, and during the night I will drop dead. It might be a bit harsh on those close to me, but it would be ideal from my perspective, looking forward.