Back in November 2011 I started a blog, www.pastthirteen.com . I was still in the “phoney war” phase of my treatment. The tumour was gone, and I was pretty much recovered from the operation. I had time on my hands. There was the matter of a clot, nestling deep in my Inferior Vena Cava; but by then I was on regular Fragmin (anticoagulant) injections and close to having a filter fitted. The prospect of a Pulmonary Embolism just was too difficult to comprehend – so I buried those thoughts as deep as I could.
I buried lots of stuff back in November, took hold of that metaphorical spade and fashioned one enormous hole. There I could shovel in the long preamble to my diagnosis; the day I ambled innocently into the Urologists Consulting Room and the heady week of scans, blood tests and pre-op tests.
Thud or is it more of a thunk; whatever sound I choose – that’s the sound of my orchiectomy (testicle removal to the layman) hitting damp clay. God knows what sound that first meeting with my Consultant Oncologist would make. But even at that stage of the proceedings, everything significant, important, emotional – went into the burial pit.
Maybe not facing up to my Cancer was some survival mechanism to keep me sane. Maybe, but I don’t have to look very far to find a role model for this type of behaviour. Some two hundred and fifty or so miles north as it happens. Like most men my dad for better or worse was a primary childhood influence. He may have been supplanted years ago, but during those formative years his likes and dislikes held sway.
Dad appeared to have been carved out of stone like one of those Easter Island statues, and he seemed to be impervious to pain. His stock answer when questioned by a doctor was “I’m fine,” which became a running family joke. But the problem is , he’s too old to bounce back the way he could – so the joke wears rather thin.
I learned from him that men never talk about things like pain or frailty, or the way a serious medical condition impacts on friends and loved ones. What I got was the mythology; the blood and guts ; war stories. In Seventy Nine he had a heart bypass operation – a brutal affair way back then . So his boast was that he emerged as the lone survivor, a John Wayne figure limping out of hospital into the sunset. And I don’t think it will ever occur to him that people were worried that he may have ended-up like all those other men – on a mortuary slab .
November was quietly coming to a close and still there was no fixed date for my chemo. Everything was fluid as they say. I managed a few nights out with friends and spoke quite freely (after a few drinks) about the technicalities of my procedures. By this stage I’d clocked up numerous hours at the hospital; clinics, blood tests, scans , the insertion of a filter into my Jugular Vein and two chemo false alarms.
But this charmed existence came to an abrupt end at my final clinic of November. I’d sat in the waiting room chatting quite happily to a medical student; She was studying the impact of treatment on a patient’s emotional wellbeing and for a brief while shadowed my hospital visits. November the Thirtieth felt no different. I was relaxed and lucid, although I have no recollection of my conversation that afternoon. As usual my name was called by the Consultant taking the clinic that day and I was ushered in along with my shadow. Whatever was said came very quickly , and without warning. I’d grown complacent, maybe a little cocky. I’d buried the Cancer so deep in that hole, it was virtually invisible.
So to be told that my AFP (Tumour Marker) was on the rise and that I would begin chemo either Tuesday or the following day , somehow had a much bigger impact . The news had the same force as a punch to the solar plexus – I felt it physically; winded and unsteady on my feet I gathered my coat and bag. And I’m certain my exit , although swift, was also a little dishevelled. I was followed out by the medical student, who asked me if I was ok , so I lied – what could I say.
On the street outside I felt like a changed person. The person Id always been but suppressed, the person with Cancer. I can’t say this understanding helped , or assisted during the treatment that followed. Because what happened next tapped into all the inner strength I possessed, and the treatments not over yet. But what I can say is there is no simple epiphany , rather I’ve come to terms with my Cancer again and again. I’ve had to accept the loss of many things, some I thought fundamental to my being. Yet I remain the same person as before, my inner core remains as solid as that Easter Island Statue.
Two hundred and fifty miles north, dad still clings onto life. He’s in hospital at the moment , having one of his numerous waltzes with death. I hear he’s become difficult and somewhat confused. And when he gets the chance he says “I’m fine,” regardless of his circumstances.
And the funny thing is I understand now why he uses that stock phrase. Its not because he’s brave and impervious to pain, it’s because he fears the consequences of being ill. Of his condition worsening. During the weeks that followed my end of November clinic I would go to the same dark place. I found myself saying, “I’m fine,” when calling an ambulance was the logical, life saving, option. I nearly died.
But that’s where dad and I differ; he continues repeating the phrase like a mantra, whereas I will never, ever use it again. You see I’m not fine I have Cancer , I’m undergoing Chemotherapy and I feel rubbish half the time . The other half I have some semblance of a normal life . I can eat a meal (although most of my favourites are off the menu until I stop chemo) , I can venture out for short walks , and see friends. Pleasures like the Cinema, beer and Spicy Thai food can wait – I’m patient, I have no choice.
