50 not out!

By the time this post goes online on Friday I'll have hit my half century.

I'll be also hitting my fortnightly chemo slump so it will be the weirdest, and possibly quietest, birthday I've ever had. Myself and Lisa both turn 50 this year. We were discussing this last weekend and saying how we feel, understandably with all that's happened, quite ambivalent about reaching our milestones. I guess I'm just happy, relieved and thankful to get there - I think it was the first goal that I had in mind after my diagnosis just over 12 months ago.

My energy in recent weeks has been focused on keeping going as the chemo's cumulative effects have drained me, with my treatment dates also being knocked out of whack when my platelets (clotters) and neutrophils (white blood cells) took it in turns to take a dive at Easter. So, I felt demob happy as I left hospital on Monday after the final of my current three-month batch of six fortnightly chemo cycles. My white cells were a bit down last week so I needed fresh blood tests before Monday's chemo started, but they'd more than replenished themselves by then so all was well.

The other issue has been the ongoing, and gradually increasing, numbness (neuropathy) in my feet, fingers and mouth caused by the Oxaliplatin in my chemo mix. To be honest, the relentless nature of this had started to get me down (although not as much as the painful red rash I was getting last summer with my previous chemo drugs). The main issue is my feet which, at times, feel like two house-bricks when I walk (or run) while the mouth-tingling means eating cold things, including my favourite ice cream, can be a pain. However, I noticed this had started to ease last Thursday as the side affects wore off. Two days later, I enjoyed my first Parkrun of this year with my friend Adrian - a trip to the Battlestead Croft venue in Branston; basically a pleasant three laps of rugby pitches and a bit of canal towpath near Burton. It was windy and cold and I foolishly ran in just shorts and t-shirt, but it felt great to get around the 5k course without stopping.

I now have a month off chemo to allow me and Lisa to get away to Crete to celebrate our 50ths, with my three-month progress CT scan scheduled for two days after we return. This should give the tingling a chance to subside further, helped by the fact my oncologist cut my Oxaliplatin dose by 50% on Monday, a one-off reduction to try and give us a better holiday (she's a good 'un!).

It feels counterintuitive to reduce chemo levels, my fear being: "Won't this give the cancer a chance to gain the upper hand?" But the balance between people having to pack treatment in - because the chemo's toxicity has finally pushed their bodies and minds over the edge - and allowing treatment to continue for longer by reducing the chemo's strength, is an ongoing negotiation with many patients.

Twelve months and 24 cycles in, though chemo is a drain mentally and physically, it's keeping my cancer under control which we're ever-grateful for. While there is some security in my usual fortnightly treatment routine, I'm not sure I'll miss chemo for the next month and I'm confident we'll be happier to see each other again after our temporary separation.

Last week I also managed to get my inaugural fix of the county cricket season when I went to see the first day of Worcestershire's four-day match against Somerset (this was before the immensely sad death of their talented 20-year-old spin bowler Josh Baker this week). Worcester's picturesque river-side New Road ground has been under water, so the match was switched to the smaller Kidderminster Cricket Club. I love going to games at Kidderminster as most of the spectators are separarated from the fielders only by the boundary rope like at any other local club match. I also got to see the juxtaposition of the giant former West Indies captain Jason Holder celebrating his wickets against a backdrop of nearby semi-detached homes, which seemed in constant danger of having their windows removed by a mighty shot for six.

While at the match, I got talking to another fan sat next to me who originally hails from Northern Ireland. We chatted on and off for seven hours (where else does that happen for that long with a stranger except for in a broken lift or maybe on a chemo ward?!) as the day's play unwound in freezing conditions. Despite exchanging tales about our various sporting experiences, our respective dodgy knees and his wife's new job in Glasgow, I didn't once raise my cancer. I think this was a deliberate, or maybe subsconsious, choice. Unlike usual conversations like this, I didn't ask him what he did for a living as I knew the question would likely bounce back to my career. I'd then have to explain I'd just (the day before in fact!) received my last sick pay check and was now officially out of work, due to my illness. This would then have probably dominated our conversation which was in close earshot of a group of other people (including the man the other side of me who somehow managed to fall asleep despite the chilly conditions). I didn't really want to kickstart the cancer chat and, in hindsight, it was nice just to have normal, surface conversation for a few hours. In true bloke fashion, although I offered him a mini pork pie, I never asked his name, so it felt apt when the anonymous photo of his woolly-hatted head appeared on the Worcester X/Twitter feed later that day (see picture above courtesy of Worcestershire CCC).

A year since my diagnosis, I'm still never quite sure when or if to raise my cancer with strangers because I can't predict, or control, their response. A few times, like at the pub the other night when I explained to a staff member that I was having a cup of tea rather than another pint at 10pm due to my chemo, it draws no reaction whatsover (which is fine - I'm not sure what I'd say if the tables were turned in my pre-cancer days!). But then the other day I explained to our chirpy postmaster that I was clearing his shelf of pork crunch due to it being one of the few things that counters my chemo tastelessness. He stopped what he was doing, looked me in the eyes and repeated, in the most devastated tone imaginable: "I'm so sorry....I'm so sorry." This lasted for what felt like 20 seconds or so before I posted some parcels, paid for my snacks, and left the Post Office. I was the speechless one that time, though when I saw him again this week to restock on snacks and send a letter it was comfortingly back to business as usual.

I'm not sure I've fully processed my newfound 'retirement' at 50 yet, or even what that word means. I know that I couldn't have received better support over the past 12 months than I have done from my employers, the Diocese of Lichfield. It may be something I return to in more detail in a future blog when I've got my head around it...

Meanwhile, I was encouraged by a recent podcast by Rob Bell (who keeps popping up in this blog) where he talked about how, just as we need time to process grief, it can also take a while to process, and 'imprint', new experiences of goodness. After my Easter chemo upheaval, it feels like things have started to settle again over the last week or so. Whether it's a blustery day at the cricket, lazing on a beach in Crete, or a cider-Earl Grey chaser in the pub; soaking in, rather than taking for granted, these blessings - and enjoying the encounters with others that they feature - is something I'm trying my best to do.

And with yesterday's local elections fresh in the mind, it would be rude not to finish with this classic photo of ex-PM David Cameron on a school visit some years ago. They say a picture tells a thousands words..

(Courtesy of Stefan Rousse/PA)