12 months (off and) on....

Tomorrow will be the first anniversary of the discovery, and confirmation, of my cancer.

It was my debut (and only so far) colonoscopy that revealed this. I still can't believe I lay staring at my rectal tumour on the big TV screen, as the colonoscopist was taking biopsies; me still not believing the 4cm ulcer-like lump in front of me was anything serious. But it was only an hour or so later when Lisa and myself were led to a quiet side room, and told that our cancer journey had begun, that the news slowly began to sink in.

The next few weeks were a bit of a blur as what was initially thought to be Stage 2 cancer upped with each follow-up scan into Stage 3 and then Stage 4. These CT, MRI and bone scans showed that the cancer had spread to other 'local' areas including my lymph nodes, a seminal vesicle (and later my adrenal glands) and, most surprisingly, several places in my spine. The incurable part of this took months to sink in as the early fortnightly sessions of chemo whizzed by. Here's a photo from my first chemo session last May when I was still, awaiting the bone scan results, unaware of the true nature of the worrying shadings on my spine:

In those first few weeks I remember having a lot of energy and desire to 'do stuff'. April is Bowel Cancer Awareness Month and last year I was thinking about magazines, websites or podcasts I could contact to see if they were interested in my story, switching back into my old journalist mode. Twelve months on, that early adrenaline has well and truly seeped away as I've wisened to the cancer and its attritional manner, as well as the thousands of other people in a similar, if not identical, condition to me.

Despite this, the whole of the past year has continued mostly to be a speedy blur, although I've never spent so much time in comfy seats in my life. The initial burst of concern from others has understandably calmed a bit, as is to be expected, but not by much! I'm still amazed every week by the messages and practical offers of support we get. The most precious of these recently have included several gentle reminders from others that my condition and the treatment I'm receiving - and the emotional and physical adjustment needed - is brutal and tough. As I don't always feel very 'ill', I often fail to acknowledge this, putting pressure on myself to do more, so these messages have been a nudge to be kind to myself.

This has been needed in a frustrating Easter fortnight where my platelets (the blood clotting agents) have played up. I was due chemo a week last Monday only to find my platelet levels were at 74 - one short of the acceptable level. After three hours waiting on the chemo ward, I was sent home to return the next day, enjoying a family games night and pizza takeaway for Reuben's 16th birthday in between. The next day my platelets had rallied above 75 only for my neutrophils (white blood cells) to have dropped to well below their acceptable level. Another three hours passed on the ward and I was sent home to self-inject Filgrastim which helps boost neutrophils by stimulating bone marrow production. The self-injection went fine but left me initially with back pain (a common side affect) and then mild flu-like symptoms which took three days to wear off. So, three days to and from hospital, then three days of feeling rough - and still no chemo!

This finally happened this Wednesday - although it was touch and go again. We spent a lovely Bank Holiday afternoon with my sister (who brought delicious homemade pumpkin pie) and her family, plus lunch at Barton Marina the next day courtesy of Nick and Rosie, before I drove to Burton for fresh blood tests. These revealed my white blood cells were sufficently boosted by the injections, while my platelets had again dropped to 74! But the following day, fresh blood tests showed they'd risen to 77 which meant - nine days later than planned - chemo cycle 22 could commence at 2.45pm. This was a bit of a race against time with the busy ward emptying when I finally left at 5.15pm, to be picked up by my parents who'd taxi'd me there and spent the afternoon at a nearby National Trust attraction while patiently waiting.

Amidst all of this, Easter's themes of death and resurrection buzzed and nagged in my mind. It was Maundy Thursday 2023 when I had my colonoscopy, and the build up to the same day this year, not helped by the injections, felt heavy. But things felt a bit easier on Good Friday and for the rest of the weekend. Unsure of whether I was going to have chemo or not this week, I was still wrestling with this (and God's place in all of it) when I went for a walk locally on Tuesday morning before that day's blood tests. I came across this lamp post which was still blaring its light four hours after sunrise (and remained jammed on when I went on the same walk yesterday):

Despite walking past without noticing it the first time, this grabbed my attention as I returned home from Tuesday's short muddy walk. The lamp cut through my anxiety mind-fuzz, as it reminded me of me - switched to 'on' when I don't need to be. It was a gentle nudge to drop my constant vigilance and trust the light around me, trusting the bigger picture, trusting the nurses treating me even when my blood's playing up, trusting the divine without needing to understand everything. This felt like a (light) switch flicking deep inside, giving me permission to turn off and relax; allowing myself to be carried rather than having to carry everything.

Or, as Richard Rohr put it:"We decide not to push to the front of the line, and something much better happens in the back of the line." This resonates with the recent sitting around at hospital which has givien me time to talk, or just listen, to other people. On Tuesday I had the encouragement of chatting to an older woman in the waiting room who has lived with incurable cancer for three-and-a-half years. She was there to have her PICC line taken out for a break in chemo and talked about being thankful for every day she had. While finally having my chemo on Wednesday, I sat in the back corner of the ward which is next to an area that's often curtained off for people to be privately examined. Sat in my padded recliner (imagine nursing home meets Lazyboy), my feet and ankles would poke under the drawn curtain, as several patients were brought in for checks or injections. My feet became a running joke as I promised that I wasn't able see under the curtain, I didn't have eyes in the back of my head or on the top of my feet for that matter! The final patient made me jump as she shouted at the first of her injections; saying 'Bye, Pete' as she left following some through-the-curtain banter, although this was our first ever encounter.

One of the biggest areas of grief and heaviness over the last 12 months has been anticipating the pain my early demise will cause Lisa, the kids, my parents, siblings and close friends. I think I've realised over Easter that this is too heavy for me to carry and, moreover, is not something I can carry alone. Those I love share this burden - often in unspoken ways which occasionally spill over into conversation and concern as we stumble through this together. It's out of our control and the best we can do is make even more everyday memories together now, trusting that there will be some sort of resurrection of hope and joy to follow, or mingle with, the inevitable sorrow. Taking one day at a time...

Talking of which, before Easter, I enjoyed a couple of evenings out. One was to see The Smile (featuring Radiohead's Thom Yorke and Jonny Greenwood) at a sold-out Birmingham Academy with Macy, her boyfriend Charlie and Charlie's dad Steve (who took the picture above). Packed in like sardines, we managed to get close to the stage. The initial blasts of electric guitar sent an energy-burst through my chest that I didn't realise I'd missed so much.

Two days earlier, I enjoyed the pub quiz at The Star near our home with a couple of old friends from my days in the late 90s on The Chase Post newspaper. One of them, who now edits the region's weekly Chronicle papers, showed me a comment piece he'd drafted about me for last week's edition. This took me aback and was a kind, thoughtful gesture. It's taken a year, but I guess I appeared in the newspapers after all. And I didn't even have to lift a finger!