The Road to Recovery

The day has come again…. attending the CT scan at the end of phase one of treatment. My last scan was at the half way point after 6 chemotherapy sessions, at the end of February, and produced good results. My tumour had shrunk from 3.2cm to 2.1cm, my tumour markers had come down considerably and the tissue around the artery was looking ‘healthier’. It was positive, but I struggled to allow the news to settle in as we left the consultant’s office. Anna cried immediately. I suspended any positive feelings I had. I’m not sure if it ever sank in fully. The results were then taken for review at the MDT meeting, a cross-functional meeting including those all-important surgeons, who still determined that I wasn’t surgery ready. It felt disappointing at the time. It wasn’t disappointing, though. I haven’t spoken to anyone who has had their chemotherapy interrupted because they were surgery ready. I’m sure it happens, but if the chemotherapy is working, why not continue? It wasn’t the reasoning that the oncologist gave as he relayed the decision to me at the time, but it is the bright-eyed-bushy-tailed interpretation that I decided to translate it into. That argument for continuing with the chemotherapy could be applied ad infinitum, I guess. Perhaps I shouldn’t suggest to the oncology team that I am happy to do chemotherapy forever. They may class it as a clinical trial and keep me in a cage to observe me. “He seems a bit distracted today and he hasn’t showered in 6 days. It’s quite disgusting,” they’d say. “I understand you, you know. I’m not a rat,” I’d respond, laying in my wheel like it is a hammock. They’d give me a funny look, write something in their report and walk off together in their white coats.

I find myself starting to write this post in the CT Scan unit (Department 11) of The Christie, drinking my dye drink every 15 minutes and acting like I own the place. It’s funny how much bravado you can bring on only the second time you visit a part of the hospital. I caught myself showing off that I knew the process. The nurse took me into a private room just after I arrived to do the introductory survey. Before she got to the questions, I said “I asked the district nurse to leave my line in yesterday, so you guys don’t have to use a new one.” What a hero I am. I’m sure she’ll be telling all of her friends about me for the rest of the week. “What a forward thinking-gentleman,” I imagine her saying to the team later, out of earshot of the rest of the room. Perhaps I should tell her about my blog, too. Although, I’m sure she doesn’t want to read about cancer to unwind from her job where she stares cancer in the face all day, every day. Maybe I’ll just tell her I’m a writer; that’s a cool thing to say, right? I can even say I’m published! Ok, I’m not going to say any of this, but it’s fun to pretend. She’s probably already forgotten about me in reality, and that’s the way it should be.

The nurse asks you what flavour dye you would like after you have completed the induction questionnaire. I go for blackcurrant, but the aniseed flavour easily cuts through it. Why are 95% of oral medical consumables flavoured like aniseed? (Please Note: statistics are not accurate and have been made up by the author). You are instructed to drink two cups of the dye straight away, then have one more every 15 minutes until you are called for your scan. It works out as approximately 900ml of liquid in one hour. I made a bit of a fool of myself as she handed me my bottle and cup. “It’s just one cup every 15 minutes, isn’t it?” I only phrased it as a question to hide my confidence; showing off was my prerogative. “Yes, but you need to drink 2 cups straight away too.” Damn, Daniel – you forgot about the initial 2 cups. She’s not going to read your blog now – any cancer clout you had, you just lost.

That wasn’t the end of my over-confident adventures in department 11. A woman asked a gentleman next to me in the waiting area if she needed to take off her jewellery. He responded saying he wasn’t sure but he thought so. I then cut in, confident as an ox and ready to dish out more knowledge on the lucky souls who happened to be in the waiting room with me that day. “Yes, you take it off and then leave it in a locker around the corner. They let you do it before you go in for your scan.” This wasn’t my first rodeo. She smiled and thanked me. “No problem, I responded.” BatDan strikes again. Just an ordinary man with an extraordinary appetite for helping others.

The nurse called me about half an hour later, once all of the dye had been consumed and I was ready for the scan itself. I followed her to the next waiting room, which is situated outside of the room where the CT scan takes place. A few minutes later, she calls me into a private room to flush the line that is attached to my port, and ensure it is working. The nurses flush the line using a syringe with a saline solution inside. They attach it to the end of the line, and then push it into your bloodstream to ensure that the device is working properly. Once they have confirmed it pushes in, they use another syringe to pull out some blood. It is unusual at first, but you get used to it. The saline solution is usually cold, and you can feel it as it makes its way into your body via the port in the chest. Watching them then pull blood out of you makes you feel awfully human. All of those lessons in science really told the truth – we’re just skin, bone and organs with blood circulating around us. Who knew? I was sure I was above it all. Maybe I’m not indestructible. I mention to the nurse that I need to take off my ring, watch and bracelet. “You’re only having your chest, abdomen and thigh scanned so you will be holding your hands above your head. You can leave all of your jewellery on,” she said, to my dismay. I seem to be full of bad advice today – I need to learn to keep my mouth shut.

Fifteen minutes later, I was called into the scan room. The reason that you need a line in during the CT scan is so an additional dye can be used during the scan. I’m not sure what the difference between the two are, I just do whatever the doctors tell me like a good student. The dye that is provided intravenously carries a warning – it feels warm around your genital area as it is pushed into your body. You are usually put through the CT scanner once without the intravenous dye, then the second time you receive a warning that they are issuing the dye and you may feel an ‘unusual sensation’. What they are referring to is the feeling that you may have wet yourself, but you haven’t. It is just a strange feeling of warmth around that area. It is quite disconcerting the first time – you get used to it by the fourth (I’m showing off again, aren’t I?) I’m unsure if it happens to both men and women, actually. The whole thing is very unusual, but over very quickly.

That was it. Another progress scan completed. I met my mum and Anna in the M&S cafe in the main part of the hospital. Our number 1 cheerleaders were waiting there with them – Nigel the Pancreatic Cancer Killer, his daughter Julie and his wife Mary. They all read the blogs (perhaps not Nigel, but I forgive him), send me lovely presents regularly and even come to the hospital to support me, like they did today. Not a bad group to have onside when you’re going through something as traumatic as this. We sat and chatted for an hour and a half before deciding to give the rest of the customers some peace and quiet, and go our separate ways. It was a nice way to round off the afternoon.

I’ve been feeling unusual today if I’m honest. It isn’t nerves, I don’t think. The scan itself is almost irrelevant – you have to show up, follow the instructions and then you’re on your merry way. The letter scheduling the follow up appointment where I will receive the results came through this morning, though. Thursday May 26th. I thought I had more time to enjoy the bliss of ignorance. The oncologist said it’d be 2 weeks which would have been the following week, but he probably meant within the next 2 weeks. It should have gone to the MDT meeting by then at least, so what I will learn in that meeting will really determine the next phase of treatment. It may have thrown me, though, as I wasn’t expecting it to be next week. I’m glad it is – the sooner I know, the better.

The other thing is that it is early in the cycle for me to be being so active. I usually have a few days before I have any time constraints or commitments, such as hospital appointments. My chemo-fog brain feels like it is operating on auto-pilot. It may explain my inexplicable ramblings about the nurse at the start of the post, but I’d probably do that anyway if I’m being honest with myself. I’m now sat at home reflecting on the ongoings of the day… all I need to focus on now is pushing through the cycle and getting to that results appointment.

Before I finish the post, my Fiancee Anna and her best friend Sophie are running their first half marathon this weekend. They are raising money for The Christie, the incredible hospital that is providing my treatment. I’ve always been fond of the below lyric ever since I first heard it, and it feels relevant here. The band is a christian metal band that you are unlikely to enjoy, but you don’t need to enjoy the music to appreciate a well-written lyric. Those of you who have followed the blog for a while have likely experienced the breadth of my musical interest – I will listen to almost any genre to find something new and interesting.

“The walls of a church don’t make it holy.

It’s what’s authentic that completes the sum of it’s parts”.

The intention of the writer is to give credibility to his religion, I believe. The sheer act of building a church doesn’t make it a special building, it is the value that is then applied to it by the people who believe that it is of greater meaning than another structure. They use it as a place of worship and it represents something more to them – these practices elevate its status and create authenticity.

I feel the words are so applicable to The Christie, too. There are many things about a hospital that provide it with authenticity – the qualifications required to work there, the complex equipment used inside and the knowledge that you went there that time when you broke that bone, and you left with a solution that ultimately fixed it. The Christie adds another layer of authenticity, though. The staff, and the way that they talk to you and treat you, is unlike any other hospital I have set foot in. You feel that they care about you, and it doesn’t seem like an act. I’ve had so many deep, interesting and meaningful conversations with the staff at this hospital. They’re always ready to support you, whether that is having a laugh or sitting down and digging deeper into what is upsetting you. Sometimes, you just want to be treated like a human, not another roadblock to someone leaving work. At The Christie, I’ve never been made to feel like anything but a valued customer in a complex ecosystem, which is full of charged emotions, tough revelations and, sometimes, utter despair. It is an incredible place, and I’m so proud of these two for raising over £1300 for them already.

I will raise money for them myself eventually, when I am healthy enough to do so. For now, I will include the link to Anna and Sophie’s fundraiser here. If you can donate, please do. If my requests to donate to fundraisers is preventing you from turning your gas on this month, please do not. I don’t want to carry the weight of that burden – I’ve already got pancreatic cancer, didn’t you know?