Doing Cancer Wrong

For whatever reason, I never seem to cop on to the right ways of doing things - socially I mean - especially if there isn’t a written set of instructions. I have an innate tendency to do precisely the opposite of what society expects from me. If I am supposed to smile and be sweet, I scowl and swear. If I am supposed to frown and shake my head, I tip my head back and laugh.

Most of this is unconscious, but then I also accept that I engage in deliberate divilment quite frequently too.

I just can’t help it.

It has been dawning on me over the past 11 years (slow learner) that I may be approaching the cancer patient lark the wrong way.

Let me try to elaborate:

• I never wore the wig/turban/headscarf. Even when my hair looked like something you’d find at the end of a very manky plughole, I still persisted in convincing myself it was grand. I assumed that bald cancer patients waited until they had actually lost all of their hair before they reached for the expensive headgear, but I have now surmised that they in fact shave it quite a bit before that, thereby looking less like an electrocuted mountain goat and more like a demure, stoic, and oh-so-brave beacon of strength.

• I didn’t complain much (I can hear my family guffawing in disagreement, but bear with me). I kept my public discussions about the misery of cancer treatment relatively sparse and tried to have a good ratio of 3:1 of positive to negative posts.

• I failed to big up the amount of chemo and other treatments I was getting. Triple, quadruple, high-dose chemotherapy; I never really got into the numbers. I took a load of drugs, they worked (mostly) - super.

• The biggest mistake, probably, was the failure to cash in. Not a single free #gifted experience in a luxury spa, not one complimentary cashmere scarf, no community fundraisers to pay for my Leonidas addiction. It goes without saying that I got some absolutely gorgeous and heart-wrenchingly thoughtful gifts from friends and family, and even from people I didn’t know very well, but the bleeding dry of commercial entities with a huge corporate social responsibility budget passed me by.

• I could have thought of all the ways my cancer could have been prevented, and then gone after the people who failed to prevent it. Hot dog manufacturers. Sir Henrys. Murphy & Sons. Surely one of them should be held responsible? And pay up?

• I could definitely have milked the social media market and got myself a squillion followers, and then sold them tiny packets of curcumin to cure all their ills. If only I had seen the Belle Gibson documentary sooner.

• I could flog a badly written book.

The possibilities are endless and I have walked right past them.

Dumbass.

Speaking Up

I'm about to do it again. 

Parade myself and my cancer-ness around the place. 

Flaunting my flaws. 

Dribbling on about myself, my wellness, my illness.

Exposing myself to accusations of bravery, or resilience, or miraculousness.

Exposing myself to the possibility of no one caring less, or throwing their eyes to heaven.

Would she ever shut up. 

Yeah yeah we know we know, stop going on about it. 

Oh well.

Too late now. 

I have cancer, you know. 

 

Still Working

I tell people I am getting chemo every two weeks, but that is not entirely true. 

I am often tempted by my innate tendency to divilment, to write things that are not fully veracious, just for the giggle. I could tell people I have been cured by angels, or that I take ivermectin every second day, or that tequila slammers have been the key to my recovery.

None of those things is true. And in the spirit of full disclosure, I am not actually getting chemo. I am getting cetuximab, which is a monoclonal antibody and therefore known as a targeted therapy, rather than a chemotherapy. 

Collectively, the various gunks that they administer to knobble cancer are called Systemic Anti-Cancer Treatment, or SACT. 

As in, your cancer gets sacked. Out on its ear. (Unless you have ear cancer, in which case out on its something else).

Redundified. Severanced. Forcibly quitted. 

Or, if you are of a more medieval mindset, pillaged. Ravaged. Destroyed.

That is the plan anyway. 

"Medieval" comes to mind when I feel the teeny but acutely painful paper cuts around my fingernail as they greet an unexpected drop of lemon juice or try to press on an unyielding remote control button. Persistent, consistent, insistent shoots of pain all day and night, from pathetic little scars that look so insignificant. 

This is the main side effect from the cetuximab. Other little joys include ridiculously long eyelashes which brush off the inside of my glasses, and a lovely pustular rash on my face, back and chest. I may have mentioned this before, but don't at me, as they say. 

It doesn't cause my immunity to drop or make me particularly tired. It takes about 4 hours to administer and I pop into the lovely "chemo" ward people every two weeks where they sort me out. (I think the chances of them changing the name to the SACT Ward are small). 

I had scans before Christmas which show a sustained improvement in my liver tumour and nothing new anywhere else, so all is good. 

I have come to accept the likelihood that I will need to stay on some maintenance treatment into the future; like, looonnnggg into the future. I was ferociously lucky to get away without it before. Nearly every other Stage 4 bowel cancer patient I know has needed some kind of ongoing therapy to keep them ticking over. I was special but now I am definitely not.

It's fine, like. 

It messes a bit with my thoughts about returning to active duty as a GP.  I will have to ponder that. 

For the moment, I am delighted to keep working with the wonderful people in the National Screening Service, while the wonderful people in the Mercy University Hospital are still working to keep me alive and well.