My story so far...

Drive by mask fitting

2010-05-09T07:43:45Z

This was the day when I was due to have my mask fitted. Not one of the plaster of paris affairs but a rather fetching plastic mesh contraption that had a touch of the Hanibal Lecter about it. Apparently I can keep it in due course - Halloween is going to be a blast!

So, follow me down the long, sterile corridor into a large room with a monster of a machine that has 'Varian' stamped across it's formidable head. Similar to a CT scanner but this baby is big.

I am invited to remove my upper clothing and to lie on the table that extends from the 'mouth' of the machine. A series of clear, shaped boxes are then placed under the back of my neck until one fits nicely.

Now, I am no Keanu Reeves but the lights are dimmed and I am bathed in a grid of green laser light giving me a distinctly 'Matrix' look. Quite cool, I think.

Three radiologists then busy around me for a few minutes, lights on and off, nudging me around until I am lying very straight. Don't move, whatever you do...

Picture this. You are lying flat on you back trying hard to remain absolutely still. You can't turn your head so you only have the extent of your peripheral vision to work with and the sound of a lot of activity going on.

Approaching steps and voices.

Suddenly, two radiologists appear at your sides holding on to your shoulders and a third produces a large 'D' shaped piece of solid hot plastic in front of your face.

Without delay the plastic is thrust down onto your face, moulding to the shape of your head. The radiologists use their hands to press the plastic close to your skin all around your head.

Fortunately I had seen a picture of a mask on the internet prior to attending so I had worked out that breathing would not be a problem as the plastic stretches into a chicken wire like mesh. Without this prior knowledge, this could have been a traumatic moment.

Hold on! I've just been mugged by medical staff. My sense of humour dictates that this is hilarious. Do you ever get one of those almost irresistible but wholly inappropriate giggling fits? Oooh, I was so close!

Lots of moulding and pressing later, the mask cools and the radiologists step back and admire their work. I now realise that I am utterly immobilised.

The lasers are switched on and off again, X-rays and measurements are taken and a series of stickers and markings are drawn on the mask. I am desperate to say "can you see what it is yet?" in my best Rolf Harris voice but can't talk as the mask has my mouth trapped.

Next, a radiologist seems to be drawing on my chest and asks me if anyone told me that this would be permanent. Sorry? What will be permanent? OUCH! One small stab later and I have my first tattoo. Not very rock 'n roll but a dot to align the machine when I come back.

Finally the job is done and the mask is released. Freedom.

Now I am told that all that is left to do is to go for another CT. With mask.

Oh no! I didn't particularly enjoy my CT as I found the contrast injection quite uncomfortable. The idea of being held down whilst another is done isn't appealing. Deep breath...

Into the CT room and lie down. My veins are starting to moan about the attempt to turn them into a Tetley tea bag surface with all the injections so the cannula takes a few attempts. Another ouch.

Soon I am clamped down by the mask and the CT goes ahead. This time the contrast was almost unnoticeable. Silly boy, what were you worried about?

All done and it's time for a cup of coffee...

More scans than a supermarket checkout...

2010-05-06T20:48:28Z

Having had my biopsy result confirmed it was time to undertake a round of scans to see the extent of the problem.

I'm blogging my experience of the scans for anyone who is about to jump on the roller-coaster ride that is cancer treatment and who may wonder what lies ahead. Unlike the others, this blog is more factual than a reflection of my emotions.

Round one was a MRI scan.

The machine was a long, thin cylinder that I laid inside. The table was raised so that my nose was close to the top of the cylinder and I was unable to see out. The scan took about 30mins.

I have never been claustrophobic but I certainly needed to calm myself down from feelings of being trapped inside.

Breathe, relax...

Round two was a CT scan.

This involved lying on a machine whilst an archway moved over me, the innards of which were spinning with some fury. At the same time 'contrast' was injected into my body via a cannula that had been put into my arm.

The contrast wasn't particularly pleasant, making me feel really hot, but the sensation only lasted for a few seconds.

Phew! Glad that's over.

Round three was a PET/CT scan.

This scan was far more interesting! When I arrived at the hospital I was taken to a small room where a geiger counter was gently clicking in the background.

I was then given an injection of radioactive material following which the staff stayed well away from me! Always at a good arms length I was led to the scanner over an hour later where the quick and painless scan took place.

I was then presented with a card that explained to airport staff why I may have just set off their bomb scanners.

I had to stay away from my young children for the night but disappointingly found that I was unable to glow in the dark.

Round four was another CT scan after my mask had been fitted. I will describe this in my next blog.

So, during this time how was I feeling? Well, I felt comforted by the amount of activity that was going on. The medical staff had been simply amazing, giving me an overwhelming feeling of support. I am sure that I will never be able to thank them enough.

Who needs tonsils anyway?

2010-05-06T06:52:49Z

Friday morning and off to hospital I go, content in the thought that my GP surely can't be correct in her absurdly quick diagnosis of possible cancer.

Enter an ear, nose and throat consultant. A fair bit of poking and prodding later I am advised that my nasty tonsil will have to bite the dust. Oh well, whilst I was rather attached to it, I don't suppose that I will miss it.

I have heard of these NHS waiting lists, I wonder how long this will be? Monday.

Monday? That's awfully prompt and the words "cancer - discovery" on the doctor's form aren't very comforting but still, this is bound to clear up the fact that at 40 and a few days it simply can't be cancer.

The big day arrives, the hospital staff are wonderful, I wear one of those really fetching gowns that show off my Brad Pitt buns (dream on!) and the tonsil is gone, replaced by a really sore throat. Job done.

A week goes by and I don't hear from the hospital which is good news isn't it? If the biopsy was cancer then they would have been in touch by now. Excellent, on with life.

Are you a fan of the Simpsons? Have you seen the doctor who laughs, no matter how bad the news. Now the call from my consultant.

Operation went well, tonsil removed without issue. Biopsy results aren't acceptable. Sorry? What was that? Does that mean that the tonsil was cancerous? Oh yes.

If you haven't had this news are you wondering what it sounds like, what it feels like? For me, nausea spreading from the depth of my stomach through my whole body. Still armed with very little information I guess that even an optimist jumps to the worst conclusions.

I did discover a new talent at this point. Being a rough, tough fella it is a new experience to be able to reduce myself to tears by simply thinking of my wife and children. For the first time that I can recall since childhood I needed a hug.

The journey begins...

2010-05-05T21:24:23Z

So there I am, Christmas 2009 and all my family have sore throats. This appears to be fairly normal as my eldest daughter started school last year and it would appear to be a petri dish for diseases where they meet new children who in turn pass them to their siblings and parents.

Well, I appeared to be a perfectly healthy guy but after everyone else had shaken their visiting bugs I was left with a nagging if very mild sore throat that just didn't seem to want to go away.

I can't recall the last time I went to see a doctor but this was becoming annoying. A course of antibiotics would save the day.

And so to GP number one who dutifully gave me the required pills for my tonsillitis.

Two weeks later the sore throat was doggedly holding on so back to the doctors.

Are you familiar with "the look"? You know the one, when someone's face says that something is wrong. Welcome GP number two (to whom I may owe my life in due course) who said that she wasn't happy with what she could see and that she wanted me to go to hospital to be checked out. What was I doing tomorrow morning?

Now, I don't know a great deal about the workings of the NHS but tomorrow morning? I am a little anxious. Here cometh the bombshell.

My GP tells me that I must be prepared that this may be cancer. Oh.

I leave the surgery with a few small questions unanswered. Does this mean that I'm about to die then? Who will look after my (very) young children? How do I tell my wife who lost her father to cancer when she was a teenager?

All in all, not such a good day.

Who on earth writes blogs?

2010-05-02T21:20:40Z

Hi Everyone,

I decided to start writing a blog of my experiences after taking great comfort from the words of others on the website. To all of those who have taken the time to detail their highs and lows, thank you.

My story is that of 'never smoked, hardly drink, happy 40th birthday, surprise! you've got cancer'.

My particular ailment is a squamous cell carcinoma of the right tonsil.

Over the next few days I will blog my escapades that have got me to the start of my radiotherapy in the hope that they may be of interest to somebody.