"...I was winded by the realisation that I could've died. Equally, I realised that now I had to live." - David's story

4 minute read time.

 'Life after cancer' written over a picture of a pier, stretching out into the sea and blue sky.

Last month, Community News shared My cancer, my sexuality, me. – a piece written by a gent named David, which spoke about his diagnosis and its relation to his sexuality. David’s story made for an extremely honest and heartfelt read, so I thought I’d ask him to contribute another piece this month. 

Fortunately, David recently underwent chemotherapy treatment which proved to be successful. His below piece covers difficulties and mixed feelings David felt following this news. 

I should mention David originally shared this piece with the Centre for Mental Health; a fantastic charity that works to promote mental health and wellbeing, and to change inequality and disadvantage throughout the life course.

The walk from the waiting room to his office seemed interminable. The lights were harsh, and I could hear my shoes squeak on the newly polished floor. He strode in front of me, as doctors do, and for a split second, I wanted to flee. Sensing my anxiety, he turned and broke the silence. “The news is good”, he said, waving bits of paper, the chemo has worked”.

'I tried to get into the champagne-cork-popping vibe, but in truth I felt nothing.'

A short while later, I honoured my promises and called my sister, my mother, and a handful of friends. They shrieked, cried, and encouraged me to celebrate. Woohoo! I found a bench in the hospital foyer and sat down. I tried to get into the champagne-cork-popping vibe, but in truth I felt nothing. Nothing at all.

'Caught off guard, I was winded by the realisation that I could've died. Equally, I realised that now I had to live.'

In the days that followed, I became distanced from people, and most of all, from myself. I felt a leaden inertia, a slow-mo jet lag, a debilitating shock. I’d been travelling at breakneck speed with little opportunity – or indeed willingness – to think about what was happening. Caught off guard, I was winded by the realisation that I could've died. Equally, I realised that now I had to live. But life would never be the same again. I felt ashamed. My values had altered, my confidence weakened. The unquestioned certainty of my life was forever undermined.

Weeks before, despite little time to process the diagnosis, a routine was established, and I quickly fell into its settling rhythm. Each would start with chemo day: The North Circular at rush hour; blood tests; the consultant; and sitting in the chair - the canular fixed in my vein, the bags of cytotoxic suspended above me, their poison dripping slowly into my system.

As well as being technical experts, the doctors, nurses and healthcare assistants were kind and compassionate. At their best, they sat with me, listened, and allowed an unusual and pragmatic intimacy to develop. This did me good. I liked them. And I liked being the centre of attention. In truth, I didn’t think much about what was going on inside of me. It was as if the purpose of the process was the process itself.

I nodded and smiled at other patients. Some looked healthier than I, others looked far sicker. Sometimes we’d chat – pleasantries, the weather, usual stuff. I kind of wanted to make friends of them but doing so would entail accepting a truth I could not yet tolerate. Despite my convoluted denials, I was ill like they were ill. Still, I kept my distance. It mattered not, I was well supported after all. My sister and close friends came and sat with me on chemo days. It was almost fun. We – they, the clinicians, and I – had a task and we were getting on with it, as best we could, together.

After each chemo came the side effects – nausea and itching, sore mouth and ulcers, discomfort and constipation. I slept a lot, and just as the fog lifted and a little energy returned, it was chemo day again. The routine kept me in check.

The void that followed, despite the success of the treatment, was concerning. I missed the contact with the hospital and felt abandoned. Get well wishes from acquaintances ceased. And I was cut adrift. Fortunately, a chance discussion with a nurse led to a referral to counselling.

In the weekly sessions that ensued, I tried to talk candidly about the shame I felt, the loneliness, my fears. And I slowly rediscovered my confidence. Sometimes I was surprised. Learning how to sleep again, for example, did not answer the big questions about death and life’s purpose that bore down upon me, but helped rebuild my strength, which in turn helped me to cope. There would not be, as my counsellor described it, a ‘big ta-dah!’, but a slow emergence into something new. Patience and self-compassion were key. Some things, quite simply, cannot be rushed.

If you’ve felt similar to David either post-treatment or when recovering from cancer, go ahead and share your thoughts in the comments section below. If you’d like to discuss both the emotional and physical after-effects of cancer, you might like to join our Life after cancer group to talk to other members who understand.

Anonymous
  • Although I have not finished my treatment ....I start 20 sessions of radiotherapy tomorrow,  I can fully relate to what David is saying. I can feel the loneliness creeping in already.  The Chemo is finished so I must be better now according to some family and friends but I'm not . The tips of my fingers and toes are still sore, I don't have any hair, my eyebrows are gone and I look like a drip white faced alien.

    I really wish I had joined this site earlier then I would have realised that I don't need to feel guilty about not being better just because some of my family think I should. ......

    I wish you all the luck in the world David and thanks for sharing your story

    X

  • That's an excellent blog by David. really concise, and spot on. Thanks to him!

    I had throat cancer in 2015. The treatment is combined radio- and chemotherapy, which is pretty rough. But so far so good and I would say my recovery has been excellent so far. However, it is a long, complex process (hence my admiration for David's concise, yet complete blog) and the aftermath of this experience goes on a long time. Yet it is one that is harder to talk about and there is nothing really there under the NHS, as they are hard-pressed and too busy dealing with existing treatments etc. I didn't know there was a LIfe after cancer group. I will take look right now...

  • FormerMember
    FormerMember

    Thank you David. You’ve captured so well the experience of going through treatment and coming out the other with the old you shattered into fragments. It takes time and hard work to build the new you. But it is possible. 

  • FormerMember
    FormerMember

    Thanks David great blog. I first had cancer 2009 it was a bit of a shock but with in an hour

    of being told I seem to go to somewhere in my brain that I had never been to before.

    it felt strange but nice as I didn't worry about anything. I think it was a defence against 

    depression which I had suffered from for 20+ years and there is IMHO nothing like

    depression and have been diagnosed 3 more times with cancer in the last 10 years.

     Now I don't want to go anywhere or do anything since finishing my last chemo 6 months

    ago. Have lost interest in my classic cars which I've had for over 30 years but will keep them for

    when it all comes right again.

     Best of luck to all of you suffering 

     Trev

  • FormerMember
    FormerMember

    Thank you David I’m into  week 5 of chemotherapy tablets and radiotherapy. Cancer definitely changes mind thoughts which I’m finding out as I go along with treatment. Best of luck and thank you for sharing you story.