The torment of a growing tumour

My swollen wound

Two weeks after removal of the secondary in my chest wall, it is healing well still a little swollen and sore. Next week I face a long session of R/T (radiotherapy), where they attempt to blast to bits the beast on the lung. Facing imminent death is discomforting. Though some may escape taxes, we all know we are born to die, but manage to live most of our lives as though it is of no relevance to us directly; we walk the path of existence with so many distractions we give no thought to the final destination. Now, although I enjoy many distractions still, it looms in my sight and is present in the painful twinges, my weakening limbs, increasing breathlessness, and deteriorating mind as I struggle to remember names or even words that hitherto flooded effortlessly into my brain.

Today, the oncologist at Addenbrooke's phoned again to give the results of the tissue they removed, confirming the tumour was present in the margins of the wound, and therefore still very active. They hope to try more localised beam therapy, with protons or electrons to reduce it, which sounds more like using experimental apparatus in the physics lab than standard hospital care; but Addenbrooke's is a major cancer research centre, so perhaps these treatments have just come out of the lab.

Happier Days in London

As always, it is poor Annie who suffers the raw impact and the burden of my disease, suffering all my moods but without our old distractions of visiting new places, or even going out to anyone more distant than Haverhill or Bury St Edmunds. Edwin cooked a wonderful meal last night, but other than this, we hardly go to a restaurant now, whereas we used regularly to go several times a week and always for Sunday lunch. Now, Annie prepares all our meals, ensuring I get a balanced diet designed to give maximum power to the immune system.  

Gone too are our relaxing weekends away, being pampered in hotels or even visits to the cinema or theatre, although we did enjoy one night away in London to see The Devil Wears Prada, an unexpected Christmas gift from Ed and Andre. We live in hope we may resume some activities once all the treatments are over, but at the moment it is a hope that seems to recede as quickly as the days are advancing. 

Confusion reigns

The familiar entrance to Addenbrooke's Hospital

I am including this picture of the entrance to Addenbrooke's Hospital to share what we are seeing just too often at the moment. The information from the hospital regarding the management of my cancer has changed rapidly like the storms of winter. In my previous post, I was told by the registrar that nothing further would be offered to me (Hope was but a timid friend -), but suddenly a spate of hospital appointments began to come through. On Saturday I was told to attend for a repeat scan the next day (Sunday) at 7pm in Ely hospital; on Tuesday I was given an appointment for 9am at Addenbrooke's for a surgical assessment; at 8:45am came a further appointment for the cardiac unit at 10am on the same morning; then I was to go for yet another blood test. I'm not sure what was found or discussed, but this morning came yet another appointment, presumably for surgery to remove the metastasis from the muscle in my back under general anaesthetic. I am now to attend the plastic surgery unit at Addenbrooke's Hospital on the 22nd of this month at 7am.

Needless to say, Annie and I find this incredibly confusing. I believe the plastic surgery consultant must have overridden the message from the registrar that "nothing further could be done", and in his wisdom has chosen to do something after all. It is not only me that is confused: we told everyone the glum news.  Now we are having to explain suddenly this change in plan. The surgeon himself had said there was only a fifty-fifty chance of surviving the op if it were done, but he looked bemused when Annie and I burst out laughing at each other and said that sounded like tossing a coin to see who lives or dies. I don't think many people laugh in his oncology clinics, where we more commonly see many oldies struggling on Zimmer frames or being pushed by a long-suffering relative, or unfortunate young women in head scarves to hide their hair loss, or cachectic children wheeled by distraught parents from the immunotherapy wards. No, the oncology clinics are not generally places of mirth but we feel that laughter, in the face of such imminent, potentially catastrophic changes, is the only weapon we hold to defend ourselves to defeat morbid speculation.