“I have cancer”. “I am affected by cancer”. “I have the Big C”. “I am dying from cancer”. “I am living with cancer”. “I got, you know, cancer”.
Doesn’t matter how you say it, it’s pretty shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. And then some. I can honestly say that it is quite possibly the worst thing to have happened to me in the entire 49 years of my never-ending mid-life crisis except for diabetes, which is shit with the stench turned up to 11. Really. It’s a living nightmare. Cancer is but just a mere flesh-wound.
And that last sentence gets straight to my issue.
Since I found out I had cancer back in November 2017, I have maintained a rictus grin and ever-present kind word for any casual cancer socialite I come across to make sure they feel better and don’t leave my company feeling sorry for me. I couldn’t bare that. So, I have adopted a benevolent look and a smart turn of phrase with, “it is what it is”, which I believe, over time, will help others more than it is currently helping me. Because I don’t think I have actually processed the basic fact that I have cancer.
When the Gastroenterologist told me, I kinda shrugged my shoulders with a yoda-like, knowing acceptance because I really was not surprised. No, really, I was really not surprised. I felt like it was inevitable. What with everything else I have health-wise: diabetes, hyper-thyroidism, graves disease, uncommon good-looks; I saw the punch coming in super slow-motion and took it on the chin with zen. “Yep, if anyone is going to get it, it’s me”. And that was the last time I really thought about it until last weekend.
Have I mentioned that I have diabetes? Ok, I have diabetes and it is much more shit than cancer. Everyday I live – literally – because a little computerized, mechanical device pumps insulin into my body through a plastic needle, a cannula. Every 3 days I have to change this cannula, which means I have to measure the insulin, load up the pump and stab the shit out of myself to insert the cannula; like doing serious Class A’s without the overwhelming sense of fun. Still, it’s better than those poor others that have to inject with a pen 5 or 6 times a day. I used to do that, it’s awful. The pump is like the Rolls Royce of diabetic care.
Anyway, on Saturday, I had a Diabetic Ketoacidosis (DKA) episode, which the NHS describes as follows:
“Diabetic ketoacidosis (DKA) is a serious problem that can occur in people with diabetes if their body starts to run out of insulin. This causes harmful substances called ketones to build up in the body, which can be life-threatening if not spotted and treated quickly.”
I admit I made the font for the “life-threatening” bit much bigger but I didn’t alter the words. Scary shit. I was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit at Charing Cross Hospital in London sometime on Saturday evening. I arrived home yesterday, Wednesday, after 5 days in hospital. Not really sure what happened in between, except the brilliant staff saved my life, which, it would seem, was in the balance for a bit. Just a bit.
The relevance of all this diabetes stuff in a piece about cancer? Well, the chances are the DKA was made much more likely because I am having chemo. Have I mentioned yet that I have cancer? Chemo, to use my turn of phrase is, “fucking brutal”. I will save the pleasure of explaining my particular take on chemo for another time but, in sweet summary, it makes me really sick and completely depletes my physical resources and that for a diabetic is a little bit shit. Like a tsunami of shit rolling inevitably up the beach of no-hope. Being so physically knackered only increases the risks of getting sick in other ways. So, cancer almost killed me without it being directly to blame. Brilliant. “Neil [edited by Admin], the guy that got cancer but died of something completely different. What are the chances, eh? That guy…”
So, in a haze of painkillers and delirium at not being dead yet, it seems I felt the need to send this nonsense out on FB:
I really did just intend to highlight my absolute joy at being serenaded through the most difficult of experiences by 2 highly-skilled nursing professionals but the only thing that my FB friends picked up on was “Intensive Care”. I could have just been visiting someone else, but I guess my less than healthy track record pointed people to the “OMG!” end of the worry-scale. I was inundated with posts from lots of lovely, well-meaning people concentrating on the “Intensive Care” bit with only 1 person actually referring to the strange hilarity of me being serenaded by 2 nurses singing “Islands in the Stream” whilst in ICU. “Dolly and Kenny, ha ha!” One FB friend even had the insight to let me know that the song was written by the Bee Gees. It’s now in the Pub Quiz answer bank (b/t/w I work in music so I already know but thanks all the same). It totally shocked me to have so many kind, caring enquiries about my well-being. It really did and that worried me because I had clearly worried people with my post. And that made it worse because all these lovely people were now clearly worried for me without actually knowing what was really going on because I had kept the news of my cancer thing to quite a tight group and they all knew not to publicize it, certainly not on FB or any other social media. So, I made the brave choice (doh!) to let the world know why I was in ICU at CXH being serenaded by 2 highly-qualified ICN’s. This is how I did it:
To be perfectly honest, from where I was sitting – well, laying prone in bed - I was quite pleased with myself: charming, witty, catchy, inspiring even. What a beautiful, uplifting, smiley way to deal with things? How funny? How mature? Yep, that’s me.
And then I actually read the bit at the end. The last 3 lines. The bit about cancer. The clarion call. And then it hit me, really hard. I have cancer. I might over use the phrase, “You do know I have cancer?”” as a joke but that is just fluff. Hadn’t really thought about it before.
And I had the first little cry I have had about the fact that I have cancer.
I cried in my hospital bed. I cried with the nurses. I cried outside my local pub on the way home from hospital – because it was closed – I cried all the way from the Western Eye Hospital at Edgware Road to the Cancer Centre on Harley Street. That’s about 20 mins walk passing hundreds of other people giving me the look that said, “WTF is wrong with that idiot?” And that is how I felt, like an idiot. I really didn’t cry that many real tears because I didn’t want to look like a nutter on the high street but, for the first time, I actually cried a little inside because I have got cancer. On top of diabetes, which nearly just killed me. And big, boggy toad eyes because I have Graves Disease (yeah, great name!). And everything else.
And that just doesn’t seem fair…
Right, now I have that off my chest, I am planning to do more of this. Given that my life-span may become slightly truncated, I think it’s my duty to let you, my nearest and dearest, know what my version of cancer feels like. So, next up will be:
“The Cappuchemo Socialites. 10 things NOT to do as a chemo-buddy”.
It might help someone like me.
Neil [edited by Admin]
Thursday 22nd March 2018
