13 September 2024 

Scan Results

At that moment

When you walk into that room

You are not the adventurer, climbing, running, swimming, riding on the crest of a wave.

You are not the dreamer, the seeker of joy, the one who finds beauty in everything. 

You are not your abilities, your achievements, your vocation. 

You are not the music in your head or the voice of song. 

You are not the words of love you say to your family.

You are not the laughter that disippates tears, or vice versa.

You are not the hopes for your children, the concerns for your parents, the bond with your siblings.

You are not your home, your surroundings, your community. 

You are not you.

Instead, you are a document, a file. 

You are a map

Marking the boundaries of enemy lines.  Will they have advanced or retreated?

You are numbers. Quantities.  Measurements. 

You are statistics.

You are probability. 

Suddenly he speaks, the one with the knowledge, 

And you listen, vulnerable, at his mercy.

‘It’s good news again’.

Faces break into smiles, pulses slow,

Waves of joy, relief and thankfulness  Swirl and dance through minds and hearts.

You are not a fact.

You are not predictable. 

You are unique.  

You are you.  

Ok, hands up: who scrolled through my Deep and Meaningful poem to find the actual news? Yup, I would have done the same. Read it again, though: there is a lot of truth in it.

Well, quite a lot. I wrote most of the poem before yesterday’s consultation, having been thinking very much about how difficult these meetings are: the news you get quite literally determines your life yet everything you are as a person cannot be a part of it.

But in reality, it was so much easier than expected, thanks to Steve and I bumping into Nurse Kristine in the lift on our way to SuperProf’s consulting room. She was very smiley and whispered to us conspiratorially: ‘It’s all good.. I’ve had a peek’.

So we went into the room feeling happily relaxed, and the meeting which we had been naturally apprehensive about turned out to be a rather cosy chat, in which SuperProf confirmed the wonderful news that there were no new areas of spread and that enemy lines had retreated further in all areas (sorry, still in Poet Mode).

‘So, more chemo!’ declared the Prof merrily.

‘The same kind? More Folfoxiri?’

I couldn’t quite believe it.

I’ve already had 12 cycles of Folfoxiri, which is generally considered to be the limit. It’s the badass chemo: a lot of people don’t even manage that many and a significant proportion will be hospitalised with infections, or at least have cycles delayed because of low blood counts. By the grace of God, my bloods have been spot on every time.

SuperProf also commented that extreme tiredness is also usual at the 6-month point, and I was able to reassure him that I feel amazing and that tiredness is definitely not an issue outside of chemo crash days. There’s too much life to embrace to accommodate tiredness…

The Prof and Kristine were also flabbergasted to hear that I managed a 10k walk on Monday on the tail end of chemo crash: not just any walk, but a full-on power walk with people very much on a mission. I joined the middle part of a staggering 34k route that my wonderful and brave friends were undertaking as a dress rehearsal for the London Shine night marathon on 21st September for Cancer Research UK (thank you SO much to those of you who have sponsored them, it means such a lot). Actually not a full dress rehearsal as I have a feeling that a lot of purple will be worn on the night…

Despite the great news we still have our feet very much on the ground: no chemo can cure me and at some point Irene will be hanging up her dinner lady’s apron and hobbling to the Post Office to draw her pension… However, in the absolute goodness of God we have been given more time: amazing, wonderful quality time in which I can enjoy so many normal things and, so importantly to me, can continue to be useful and supportive within our family. Little things like being able to plan and cook meals, do school runs and oversee homework mean so much.

Back to the meeting… You would think that when you get scan results they would be specific and precise: not quite so. The radiographer’s report only highlights any areas of change and conclusions are stark and blunt, confirming either progression or shrinkage in specific areas with ‘before and after’ measurements, a bit like a Weight Watchers advert. I wanted to know more.

‘How are things in my peritoneum?’ was one of the questions that I asked (as you do).

‘It doesn’t say…’ mused SuperProf, peering at the screen. ‘The cancer there may have disappeared along with the ascites last year.’

‘May have?’ Had the Big Five reduced to four way back and no-one thought to mention it? (‘No-one’ being Count Onc, for that would have been on his watch…) To think I missed the opportunity for a glass of bubbly somewhere along the way…

‘And what about my bowel tumour?’ I continued to enquire.

‘Nothing about that either…’ Prof said. ‘That’s kind of irrelevant anyway as you have metastases…’

What a surreal world this is… I still had more questions:

‘And exactly how many tumours do I have in my liver?’ I was scared of asking this, but had resolved to do so today.

‘Oh, quite a lot,’ came the casual reply. ‘Although there was no mention of the fairly big one that was there before… that’s strange…’

And this is science?! We are feeling very glad that my scans are going to be discussed by a whole team of experts in Professor Murphy’s MDT next Monday: not just the most recent scan, but the whole box set going right back to last October. We are not expecting any big surprises, but it will certainly be interesting.

In the meantime I have plenty to focus on when not being poisoned/needled/drugged/oxygenated. I’m loving playing the piano and am getting my numb fingers around Schubert’s gorgeous Impromptu in G Flat as well as my other GCSE composition, a solo piano piece, with the aim of recording it. In quite exciting news, I’ve listened to my readers and am editing and expanding this very blog to make it into something resembling a book. Doubt it will make the shelves of Waterstones, but that’s not the aim.

We still have front row seats on the perpetual rollercoaster: the only thing that ever fully stills it is the Word of God and the promises within, and this alone is where our comfort lies.

‘Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.’ John 14:27

‘Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort; Who comforteth us in all our tribulation..’ 2 Corinthians 1:3-4