A growing concern?

It appears the cancer may have finally woken from its nine-month slumber.

Lisa and myself went to Burton Hospital on Wednesday for my latest, three-month, CT scan results. At the same appointment three months earlier, I'd felt positive that the scan results would show my cancer hadn't grown; which turned out to be the case. I didn't have the same confidence this time. I'm not sure why but, as I reflected in my last post, the start of 2025 has been a bit of an emotional see-saw.

It was good to see my regular oncology consultant for the first time in many months, even if some of her first words after our initial greetings were: "Now, there's been some growth."

She showed us my scan pictures which, despite the main rectal tumour remaining stable, revealed a few millimetres growth in my left adrenal gland. The tumour in that gland has fluctuated in size previously, so this wasn't a major surprise. However, my consultant then pointed to a small shadow spot on my liver, explaining it may or may not be cancer. Either way, I would need an MRI scan asap to check it out.

The bypassing of major soft organs (liver, stomach etc) by the cancer on its way to my spine from my colon has been unusual, and a blessing, so far. So, this liver news obviously set a few mental alarm bells ringing.

After the 20-minute appointment, which also included routine stuff like weighing me, I had to hang around as my monthly bone-strengthening injection was scheduled for the hospital's chemo ward later that afternoon. Lisa went off to work remotely at a nearby school in her Academy Trust's network, and I found myself with five hours to kill.

Taking a chance on the rainy weather forecast, I wandered down the local canal towpath, past the famous Marston's Brewery (see bridge above) and, after almost an hour, arrived at Branston Water Park (see below), which I'd never visited before. A tasty toasted sandwich at the lakeside cafe, a wander around the nature reserve and then a walk back to the hospital; I clocked up 20,000 steps (around eight or nine miles in old money), cried a bit, prayed a bit and noticed quite a bit mentally and emotionally.

Despite the disappointment of this latest potential cancer growth, I was aware of a sense of feeling grounded again. I don't think I've fully realised how mentally tiring the liberation from treatment has been. It's felt, sometimes, like I'm a balloon buffeted high in the sky, light and free but also not sure how to get back down to earth; knowing that I could pop at any point. I don't regret for one minute the decision we made last summer to come off treatment and the last nine months have been a wonderful reprieve, allowing a much-welcomed sense of 'normality' to return. But, even though my mind tried to convince me that the reprieve could become a permanent reality, deep down I realised I was living on borrowed time.

Having a new way forward will give us parameters, something to work with, rather than a sense of waiting for the inevitable crash to happen. We're not sure exactly what form this could take yet. Depending on the MRI results, it could mean focused radiotherapy on my adrenal gland (and possibly the liver spot), or a new form of chemotherapy which has become available since my last treatment, or fresh exploration of clinical trials. Or a combination of these. I hope to have the MRI scan in the next week or two and then we'll have another oncology appointment to discuss options.

It's also interesting to notice how my focus narrows as a new period of treatment looms. Planning reverts to days and weeks rather than months and years. Yet, almost two years since my diagnosis, this seems more manageable and less engulfing than before. There's hope that, even if Tragic Time does hold more sway for a while, a new, workable, normality may emerge.

I feel physically fine in the midst of it all, which is great. January's neck and back pain has eased; I ran 70 miles in February and enjoyed a lovely, sunny, extended Parkrun at Chasewater with friends yesterday - where it was somehow just three degrees AND t-shirt and shorts weather!

I've started US poet Christian Wiman's latest book 'Zero At The Bone: Fifty Entries Against Despair'. One entry focuses on the poem 'Prayer' by former Poet Laureate - and self-confessed atheist - Carol Ann Duffy:

Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer

utters itself. So, a woman will lift

her head from the sieve of her hands and stare

at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift.

Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth

enters our hearts, that small familiar pain;

then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth

in the distant Latin chanting of a train.

Pray for us now. Grade 1 piano scales

console the lodger looking out across

a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls

a child's name as though they named their loss.

Darkness outside. Inside, the radio's prayer —

Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.

(Carol Ann Duffy 'Prayer')

I particularly love the "piano scales" reference, remembering Macy hammering out scales in her bedroom beneath ours in our "Midlands town". Macy was home from uni this weekend, which together with a family takeaway and games night, and Jack Black's 'School Of Rock' and darts on TV, has helped restore equilibrium.

Wiman writes of Duffy's poem: "'Prayer' ends with those place names from the shipping forecast, as if the very earth cried out to God, as indeed it sometimes does in scripture. Which is precisely the point: some days, although we cannot pray - because we are too busy, or because we are in too much pain, or simply because the words will not come - a prayer utters itself..... the world and the soul, our existence and God's, are far more permeable - and much more possible - than words like "faith", "truth," or even "prayer" can suggest."

Both in the ups and downs of hospital appointments and the words and acts of kindness we've already received from friends and family this week, there's a sense of being held by something, or someone, bigger - of permeating a larger reality. We might not know what's next, or what exactly it will mean, but this definitely helps.

Before this latest twist in our story, I had vowed to myself to post on here more regularly. So, during Lent in particular, you may see a few more blog entries. You have been warned ;)