Holy chemo, Bat(e)man!

Trigger warning: this post talks more explicitly about God, church and faith than previous ones so feel free to skip if these are not your bag (I won't be offended!).

On the other hand, if you believe God is a magic fairy who waves a wand to make everything better (spoiler alert: she isn't ;)) - you may also want to skip...

Monday was my first chemo session at Burton Hospital, utilising my new PICC line. The session lasted longer than future ones because they had to slowly drip in my first drug, irinotecan, to ensure there was no reaction as it can cause stomach cramps. I had an injection of atrophine to prevent this too, along with a small cocktail of steroids and anti-sickness pills. I probably shouldn't have drunk so much before arrival because I was bursting for the toilet when the drip finally ran dry 90 minutes later. Bladder emptied after I navigated across and back the room with my drip on wheels like a Junior Kick Start trainee, I was by then already 15 minutes into a two-hour drip infusion of folinic acid, which makes chemo drugs work better. This was followed by a short blast of another chemo drug (fluorouracil) and the attachment of a pump which will slowly release the same drug into my system until I have the pump taken off at hospital this afternoon (Wednesday).

Overall, it was a pretty good day. The chemo unit feels a bit like a hairdressers - Smooth FM in the background creating an air of calm - plus regular checks from the friendly nurses who explained everything thoroughly. The main discomfort was the anti-cramping injection which was reminscient of an extended bee sting. I couldn't (and still can't) feel the chemo going in, although every now and then I have a flash of nausea and take another anti-sickness pill which settles me down. Lisa and Macy also noticed that I'd turned a funny shade of light yellow but a pinkish hue had returned by this morning. The weirdest bit has been the sensation of feeling wired, a bit like jet lag, due to the steroids. This kept me awake until 2.30am yesterday as I tossed and turned (trying to avoid strangling myself with my pump line) and my mind wandered to the potential content of this post.

After about three hours sleep, and still feeling wired, I took my pump outside for its debut walk (pictured below) over the local fields yesterday. It was colder than I expected and my decision to give my summer shorts their initial airing of 2023 felt a bit premature. Still, it was a nice way to continue to decompress after a busy weekend and my first chemo session. I had remarked to Lisa that, partly the reason the past six weeks have been so exhausting is because everything has been a new experience, with regular diagnosis hand grenades tossed in to keep us on our toes. Hopefully, three months of chemo will settle us into a rhythm which I can begin to relax into as the unknowns become fewer, for the time being at least.

Almost two miles into my walk, I bumped into two old friends who we used to attend church with years ago. They told me they'd heard about my cancer, I showed them my pump, then one of them asked if she could pray for me there and then, in the middle of the windy hilltop. I said yes, and she put her hand gently on my arm and spoke directly to the cancer, telling it to leave "in Jesus' name". I thanked them and we said our goodbyes and walked on. This may sound a bit strange but it's the church tradition I was raised in and I've even said similar prayers for others in the (fairly distant) past. I had people pray for me - though not quite so directly - when we went to church on Sunday for the first time since my diagnosis. Spending time with my extended church family there was a comforting, if emotional, experience for all concerned.

Fast forward a few hours to yesterday morning, before my walk, I was chatting on WhatsApp to a friend who I went to York University with in the 1990s. He now lives in Scotland but we've kept in touch and reconnected since my diagnosis, him messaging me most days to see how I'm doing. This friend was brought up in a similar (though more extreme) church setting to me and, until a few years ago, held a senior role in a well-known Christian youth organisation. He's been on a tough journey of self-discovery in recent years which has seen him dismantle and move beyond his former faith. I greatly respected his integrity when, upon my diagnosis, he told me he was thinking of me but couldn't pray for me because he no longer believes in prayer. We've joked about it a few times since.

So, which one is it? Do I believe God can zap my cancer and heal me totally here and now? Or do I find more comfort in the thoughtfulness of those who don't identify as people of faith, who I know are standing by and offering all sorts of practical love and support, as well as shoulders to cry on? Not to mention those in between: wise Christ followers who are walking alongside us in prayer and love, without offering any promises or a quick fix? Or maybe a mixture of all these things? Good questions Pete!

There's a quote I keep coming back to which has challenged, comforted and vexed me for many months, even before my diagnosis. It's from American author James Finley, who has faced his fair share of tragedy in a long and rich life:

"If we are absolutely grounded in the absolute love of God that protects us from nothing even as it sustains us in all things, then we can face all things with courage and tenderness and touch the hurting places in others and in ourselves with love."

"...the absolute love of God that protects us from nothing." That takes some taking in. It seems counterintuitive. Surely God, if he is the all-powerful, all-loving one, is our protector (even parts of the bible - the Psalms in particular - claim this)? But, ask the families of those Jews who perished in the Nazi concentration camps if they felt protected by Yahweh. Or the faith-drained mother of a tiny infant who dies from a preventable disease in a refugee camp this week. Where was her baby's protector? Moreover, the bible clearly shows how the Son of God himself was not protected by his heavenly Father. From the beginning of his ministry at around age 30, Jesus was on a collision course with the authorities of religion and empire that inevitably led to his cruel death three years later. Even as he wept blood and asked for that murderous cup to pass him by, Jesus was protected from nothing.

So, whatever the quirks and rarities of my diagnosis, I don't expect God to protect me from cancer, a disease that one in two people will suffer at some point in their lives. I don't ask God for a preferential treatment pathway. That's not the way it works. Of course, I greatly desire with every fibre in my body to be able to enjoy a long stint as a granddad (no pressure kids!). And I don't want to subvert the natural order of things which happens when parents have to attend their son's funeral. I long for remission at some point - or at least a good stretch of remaining years to put to use some of the knowledge and skills I've aquired in recent times; to maybe be able "to touch the hurting places in others". I want these things more than anything else, but there are no guarantees, and nor should there be.

Or, going back to Finley, maybe there are some things we can be sure of, however tentatively: "even as it [the absolute love of God] sustains us in all things." God doesn't promise me, or anyone, a bullet-proof body. But God does offer to sustain me in all things. As I sat in the cancer unit on Monday, I briefly recounted the many times I've recently been told, or sensed, God was at my right hand; holding my hand; holding me in his hand. This sense was so quietly overwhelming, I couldn't focus on it for more than a few seconds in case the nurse opposite thought my watery eyes were due to a chemo malfunction, or another impending toilet emergency.

Of course, Christians believe the Father's sustenance of Jesus ultimately led to his resurrection from the grave. And it's the same hope of resurrection that courses through my cancer-affected cells today. I don't know exactly what that - eternal life, heaven, the kingdom of God, the Spirit, whatever you call it - looks like. But, like the chemo drugs in my veins, I sense it bubbling up inside me more than ever before. Yes, I want to be well, but I also sense God is working a new thing in me that is only just getting started. And that wouldn't have happened this way without this cancer.

So, if it's ok, I want to stay with this a while - on my good days it feels exciting, on my bad days it feels overwhelming. And, through it all, your thoughts AND prayers are a life-force to me, and my family.