25 January 2024

‘Sing, O heavens; and be joyful, O earth; and break forth into singing, O mountains: for the LORD hath comforted his people, and will have mercy upon his afflicted.’ Isaiah 49:13

Who doesn’t love a good birth story? Ok so maybe fifty percent of my readership…but hang in there, it’s relevant…

After the trauma of our first born’s entrance into the world cannonball-style, I had the loveliest and easiest second birth. It was also extremely quick but nowhere near as dramatic: just four hours from waking in the night to cradling little Lydia, the birth so peaceful that she didn’t even cry.

I was clearly quite good at popping babies out with not too much effort, and hated the hospital environment, so it was an easy decision to opt for home birth for our third child. When it came to it, however, the doctors were concerned about Ariane’s growth, the rather primitive ultrasound back in 2000 concluding that she would only weight 3 to 4 pounds at birth. We were thus forced to agree to hospital delivery, but on the basis that a named midwife would attend to the birth and then accompany us straight home afterwards. Ariane duly popped out, a pink and very little but perfectly round ball. ‘She is tiny!’ confirmed Coral the midwife with satisfaction before attempting to lift the ball up. You know when you go to grab a bowling ball, but it is much heavier than you imagine? That’s exactly how it was for the midwife. It took some effort to get the ball to the scales. ‘Oh! She’s very dense!’ (sorry, Ariane). The scales confirmed this: the ball weighed a very respectable 6 pounds 3. Drat! We could- and should- have had her at home…

Fast forward 13 years to baby number 4, The Afterthought. When you have another child after a very big gap, you have a chance to do everything differently, and we certainly made the most of that. New technology was available, so we had a wonderful 4D scan, seeing Isaac’s calm little face so clearly. Light years away from our broke early twenties, we were able to buy a Proper Pram and all of the latest baby equipment. And finally we would get our home birth.

All was going well. I awoke two days before my due date and knew that This Was It so Steve the scientist busied in his role filling the birthing pool in our kitchen and keeping constant checks on the temperature, while I did a spot of ironing (yes) in between contractions. When the midwives arrived, they didn’t take over in any way, instead blending into the background, showing total respect that this was our house and our time.

As Isaac steadily made his way towards a watery exit, I began to feel that something wasn’t quite right. ‘Something feels different,’ I kept saying to the midwives. It just felt wrong- more awkward, more painful. They reassured me that everything was as it should be, so I believed them- heck, it was probably just because I was pushing forty, right? Surely it was going to be harder. So I kept going, determined to see this through, my only pain relief consisting of chocolate biscuits (M and S, mind you), stuffed into my mouth as fast as possible in the few seconds between contractions. Well it seems as if I’m good at giving midwives surprises as the first part of Isaac to appear in the pool was a foot. Yes. The atmosphere in the room immediately changed, the midwives now not at all in the background. The observing student looked terrified (not quite as terrified as the young Tesco delivery guy that rocked up with our shopping at a particularly intense point, immediately abandoning the crates full of food at the door and sprinting back to his van with a look of horror on his face).

A foot was not ideal; breech births are not supposed to happen in kitchens, with no pain relief. ‘You are going to have to push harder than you’ve ever pushed before- and NOW!’ urged the midwife (too much detail, sorry…). I’m not sure I’ve ever been more determined; with huge effort and indescribable pain, the rest of Isaac followed his little froggy legs into the water.

Thankfully everything was ok and once the trauma was over there were no ill effects for either Isaac or I. It was, however, scary to think how it could have ended differently. And that Isaac’s breech presentation was completely missed; the one birth we had at home should have been in hospital. Whilst the doctors worried unnecessarily about Ariane, they should have worried about Isaac instead.

How is this relevant to my current situation? Well, just like the three births which were all played safe in hospital, I have had three cancer checks over the last few years which have not shown anything. Just like anyone else, I get any unusual or worrying symptoms investigated immediately, so I have had mammograms which have shown benign cysts, an MRI on my brain due to severe headaches, and a skin check on some dodgy looking moles. Nothing. All clear. But at the time that at least two of these checks were taking place, I would have already had very active cancer inside me- apparently this has all been brewing for at least 2 years. But the one time when I really needed a check, there was nothing to warrant it and everything went unnoticed, until the ovarian tumour got so big that it was forced to reveal itself. At least one of the tumour crew had the decency to admit that it was guilty of squatting in my body without permission; the others are all still hiding with their hands over their eyes.. for which I should be grateful I suppose as no symptoms must mean some kind of stability.

This was indeed confirmed by Count Onc in our phone consultation yesterday evening: the tumour markers are stable (I was hoping they might be down but I’ll take that), and there has been a positive clinical response to chemo so far. That was the good part. He then said that he wants to scan in a few weeks’ time-eek-not at a particular stopping point but whilst chemo is still happening, which I suppose makes it slightly less of a big deal as it is just to give a current picture. Onc then revealed the most likely plan for moving forward… (drum roll)…

One less drug. Yes. That’s it. He is clearly of the opinion that palliative chemo is the only route- there won’t even be a team of specialists looking at my scans to consider whether doing anything else would be beneficial- and what’s more, one of the drugs will need to be stopped before it gets to the point at which it causes irreversible neuropathy (nerve damage). Oh. Cue just a little deflation. We were told at diagnosis that they would ‘throw the book at me’ because of my age. Well so far we have seen just one page of said book, which is why we have been so busy writing our own.

We are currently drafting the next chapter, the main theme of which will be move to a new oncologist. The wonderful Doc Brains has recommended that we do this and has given us a name. On paper, this guy looks perfect. He specialises in colorectal cancer, aiming to improve outcomes and offering a long list of therapies. ‘I’ll just need to check that he’s covered by our insurer’, I told Brains. ‘Oh, he will be, don’t worry,’ came the reply… but a quick Google revealed that our insurer, Axa PPP, is one of only two not accepted. Ah, nothing is ever simple! But a bit of liaison back and forth with the secretary and we progressed from ‘we might be going back on Axa’s books by the end of of March’ to ‘the Doc is going to talk to them in a couple of weeks’, so hopefully something might change sooner rather than later.

In the meantime, we are adding something a little different to the crazy regime… fasting. Experiments on mice have shown that fasting for 36 hours before chemotherapy makes the cancer cells more vulnerable and gives better results, so in chemo cycle no. 6 next week I am going to cast myself in the role of Mouse and conduct my own experiment. I shall publish the results here along with a little sciencey conclusion and everything.

Steve and I have also begun overnight fasting, which is where you have a period of at least 13 hours with no food. We are aiming for 14 hours, and longer where possible. This is supposed to be extremely good for general health as well as metabolism and insulin etc, and puts you in ketosis without having to eat a Keto diet, which is the missing piece of the puzzle, having had to abandon Keto eating due to the imminent threat of starvation…

What do you need after a slightly scary consultation with the Count? A nice one with Doc McLovely. As promised, she called this morning to follow up. She sounded as disappointed as us when I related that a team of specialists is unlikely to be discussing my scan, and totally behind us getting another opinion at this point. When I mentioned the consultant who isn’t covered by the insurance, she immediately replied that she would do what she can to to get me on his NHS list. This may or may not be possible but her ready willingness to try means such a lot.

McLovely is definitely good at pulling out stops: she has managed to get me a cancellation to see an NHS physio later today even though the waiting list is months long. Apparently it will be good for me to see him as he can refer to another team that may be helpful: no idea who or what- I’m saturated with so much info that I’ve rather lost the plot- but go to the appointment I shall.

So a few rather exhausting swingboat rides up and down, bringing with it a very great need to remember that God is in control and there is no uncertainty with Him. We will do whatever we can to help to keep me healthy, but the burden, thankfully, is not ours.

‘These things I have spoken unto you, that in me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.’ John 16:33