Fighting Stage 4

Yesterday was Cancer Survivors Day.

19 years ago today I lost my Mum to cancer. She was 54.

I found a letter from her recently. She was sending me a document and couldn’t miss “the opportunity of an envelope going to [me] without putting a note in it”.

It had small, chatty updates, but she signed off with “we’re fine and the counts were good at the check up on Tuesday”.

She was 53 when she wrote that.

I normally raise a glass of whisky to her on this day, but save a happier celebration for 26 June, her birthday. The day that I would prefer to remember.

Now I’m living with cancer myself. Haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since diagnosis, hoping it will help my body look after itself.

We don’t write many notes these days, and my handwriting is not as neat as my Mum’s was. But I have created email accounts for the kids and send thoughts when they occur to me, focusing on small updates and their life developments.

When I came back to work in January, my counts were good.

They didn’t stay that way for long and I wrote about prostate cancer as a chronic disease, starting my “Whack-A-Mole”.

That feels like a long time ago during which I’ve run the London marathon, learned to surf, faced the velodrome, skiied for the first time with Emma, taught Oliver to ride a bike and celebrated birthdays, trips and time with the family.

But that was just two months.

Turns out I lost Whack-a-Mole in round 1.

So now we’re moving on from carnival games, and I’m getting ready for more systemic treatment.

I’m lucky, we have amazing private medical and they have approved Leutitium 177, apparently better quality of life than chemotherapy. It should help move my numbers.

The major downside is becoming radioactive: I will be a “risk to the public” for a short period of time after each injection. We’re being conservative and I will be distancing from family and friends for a week, taking an even more cautious approach with the kids given they are still so young.

I’m also going to be looking after my immunity more closely during this period, so I can complete the course.

I don’t want to put anyone else at risk so am extending this to colleagues and contacts, taking a step back from in person events during those periods and pulling out of a few things I have planned.

I will be able to focus on some desk work, and that may help provide some distraction from the count-down to hug the family again.

I’ll likely send a few more emails, perhaps practice my handwriting and build to other challenges.

First injection is on my Mum’s birthday, wonder if the oncologist will say a small whisky would be medicinal?

I wanted to share this to make conversations a little easier. I often look healthy and will probably say “I’m fine” if asked, because sometimes it’s best to keep doors shut.

But I also wanted to remind you all to know your numbers, hug your family while you can and to make the most of all the opportunities that come your way.