In January I was having romantic dinners on the beach in Koh Samui, in February I had a fantastic annual appraisal at work and planning the year ahead with my team, in March on a routine check up my doctor tells me I have a tumour on my tonsil that is probably benign but will need removing.
The recovery from the tonsillectomy has been as long and painful as the doctors predicted. Seriously, if I managed to shower and eat, it was a 'good' day.
I only managed to leave the house once last week for a hospital appointment where, in pain and drugged to the eyeballs, a mild mannered doctor delivered the news that the tumour they removed from my tonsil was cancerous (Squamous Cell Carcinoma, grade T3). He thinks he's managed to cut it all out but in light of it being an 'aggressive cancer', I will need radio and chemotherapy therapy at which point he introduces me to Lyn, 'my' Macmillan nurse and other doctors who will be overseeing my radiotherapy/chemotherapy. Still a bit of a blur really but I remember him saying I'll get to meet a dietician and speech therapist next week. It's only in the last couple of days I'm thinking, why the HELL am I gonna need a bloody speech therapist?!
Because of the position of my tumour and where they will be treating me with radiotherapy, I have to see the hospital dentist next week who will decide if I have to have any, some or even ALL of my teeth removed before they start treatment. After treatment, my gums will lose their ability to heal meaning if I lose any teeth in future, well, I'm not exactly sure what that means but it can't be good, huh?
The more I learn about the side effects of the treatment, the more harrowing it sounds. Nausea and fatigue, of course, but it will leave a burn on my neck. I won't be able to go in the sun (maybe with total sunblock?) and I can't use moisturisers during treatment. I'll almost certainly lose my hair, possibly including eyebrows and eyelashes (which usually grow back so I suppose no big deal) and my saliva glands are likely to stop working and their function may or may not return (which comes with a whole host of issues on its own), the list goes on. I read a page of the literature the hospital about side effects then have to put it down before I can muster the strength to read more.
A thousand questions race through my mind. Some big ones: Will the treatment work? How will I cope with the side effects? How long can I afford to stay off work? Will I need to lose some or even all of my teeth? And other things that while perhaps not life threatening, feel like a big deal to me: What will I look like? If I can’t exercise, will I become clinically depressed? Will I be able to wear a shirt for work after treatment or will it rub too close to the area treated by radiotherapy? Will the scar fade?
They have suggested fitting a feeding tube direct to my stomach before I start treatment so that if/when I am unable to eat, they can maintain my weight. (I've not mentioned I'm trying to lose half a stone). I'm dead against it, of course. It feels intrusive, undignified, will leave a scar, is prone to infection and sitting down to dinner each night is one of my greatest pleasures (even if it has taken me half an hour to clear my plate recently). My partner, David, is forever running his hands over me in bed and telling me how much he loves my smoothness. Having him need to feel around a plastic tube protruding from my stomach, well, kinda kills the moment, no?
My partner been heroic. Taking me to every appointment, keeping me calm, making sure I eat, telling me I am beautiful and giving me tea and hugs. A superhero, of sorts though he keeps pushing me to do stuff when in all honestly, there have been days I have struggled to find the strength to make it to the bathroom. He's more the tough matron side of nursing than the gentle hand.
He has been here before, of course, caring for his previous a partner who died of cancer and I am feeling tremendous guilt that he has to go through it all again. Most of things I have been able to offer him as a partner (double income, cooking, housekeeping, counsellor, business consultant, PA, sex, etc) seem to be fading. Some to return, of course but at 43 years of age and with the diagnosis still fresh, it does feel a tough call.
I’m hoping that sharing my story will expel some of the fear.
Fulham P
