And so the reprieve continues - five months since I last had chemotherapy, I'm still off treatment.
Following my last post (apologies for the big time gap!), I had a fresh CT scan to see if my cancer remained stable or had grown further. Although the oncology appointments that deliver the scan results seem pretty routine, there is a significant unspoken release of tension when the consultant gives us positive news. He smilingly informed myself and Lisa that, despite me having had no chemo for months, the cancer had not 'progressed'. The decision to remain off treatment is also endorsed by the consultant, who we had not met before. This is important in terms of managing anxiety about what can sometimes feel like a dormant time-bomb inside me. Lisa's and my relief is felt physically as we hug on the pavement back to the car park. "Thank you," I silently repeat again and again in the coming days.
To be honest, I've stopped trying to work out why my incurable cancer has gone into hibernation. Yes, I'm aware it will yawn, stretch its arms and wake up at some inconvenient point but, in the meantime, we're making hay while the sun shines.
Making hay at a leisurely, steady pace. In September I ran 60 miles to raise over £1,200 for Refugee Action as part of their Race For Refugees. Alongside the many of you who kindly sponsored me, there were several donations from people I've never met. This was in response to my story featuring in an email sent to Refugee Action's supporters. These gifts and messages from strangers were particularly moving as they encouraged me in my cancer journey. My relationship with the charity continues, with it set to issue a press release about my fund-raising in the coming days. It's been nice to return to my old communications working environment, even if a bit surreal to be the subject of publicity rather than the person writing the PR.
Meanwhile, I've started volunteering at our local Oxfam Books branch in Lichfield. My eyes were drawn to an ad for a 'vinyl enthusiast' in their shop window and, after a chat in-store, I submitted my application and completed my first shift a couple of weeks ago. It's amazing how many record drop-offs the shop receives and, after my induction, I got to pricing up a bunch of especially tasty discs, including a Morcheeba LP worth £75.
It was interesting to notice the nerves that jangled the night before my first Oxfam session. My 'work' muscles hadn't really been exercised for the previous 18 months as the demands of treatment dominated, with me usually in a necessarily passive state. Having a sense of responsibility again - albeit in a friendly, low-pressure environment - feels like an old window of my life cracking open. Although, I'll probably need to get a paid job to cover the cost of the extra vinyl tempting my wallet during my weekly shifts!
Talking of music, my treatment respite has also meant a few days away with my singer/songwriter brother-in-law Brookln (or Dekker as he's known to his fans). This is something we've talked about doing for years, so when he asked me if I wanted to hop aboard the tour van for some of the latest UK stint of his solo shows, I gladly agreed. We spent four nights on the road together, covering hundreds of miles with back-to-back concerts in Manchester, Birkenhead, Leeds and Glasgow, before heading back to the Midlands.
By day Brookln and myself drove, walked and talked about anything and everything. By night Dekker, who wears a wide-brimmed hat which covers his face on-stage (pictured above by James Keane), performed to audiences who varied in character and volume. In Manchester you could hear a pin drop, whereas in Birkenhead one punter exclaimed loudly in deadpan tones: "I am impressed", cracking up both singer and crowd.
It was great to chat to Dekker's support artists and gig organisers - most of whom were half my age and clad in the type of baggy clothes I used to wear as a teenager - and to hang out with daughter Macy at the first gig (she's at university in Manchester) and reunite with long-time friends at each of the other three shows. I also enjoyed an early-morning run around Liverpool's Royal Albert docks, wandering around Glasgow's West End, and witnessing swarms of students in fancy dress on the infamous Otley Run pub crawl in Leeds. By the time we stopped off at a service station in the Grampians on the ride home (photo above), I was pretty exhausted but felt satisfyingly full-up from such a rich trip, and thankful to Brookln - and his wife/my sister Ruth who sorts the tour logistics - for a wonderful time.
The next morning, Lisa and myself hopped aboard a plane to Malaga for six nights at Torrox Costa near Nerja on the southern Spanish coast. Lisa organised this at short notice after my positive scan results meant I could remain off chemo. We stayed in a beach-front apartment owned by generous friends who let us have the full run of it. It was lovely to spend time unwinding together, having meals out, walking, running and relaxing on the beach or roof terrace when the sun came out. There were also some amazing sunsets like the one below.
After almost a fortnight away at home and abroad, it was back to normality with a bump this week with three hospital appointments in as many days. The first was a routine blood test, the third my monthly bone-strengthening injection. In between those two, I met the oncology consultant again to discuss the results of an MRI scan which he requested following our CT scan results meeting. The scan was to check my spine after I noticed mild pain returning to my neck and back, near to areas of cancer. The consultant, turning to the scan results, reassured me that the cancer in my spine had not grown. The likelihood is that my increased exercise, plus the lack of chemo which may have masked the pain previously, has caused the discomfort, which a bit of yoga seems to help manage.
After the hospital visits, I felt my mood dip for the first time in a while. This has happened enough times on my cancer journey to know that the best response is to allow it to play out until equilibrium gradually returns. After a month of so many highs, the lows are inevitable but still surprising when they emerge.
At the moment, I seem to be a student of the interplay between suffering and joy, with this theme surfacing in a lot of stuff I'm reading or listening to.
One example is the new Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds album Wild God. The Aussie songwriter's 15-year-old son Arthur died in tragic circumstances a few years ago. One track, 'Frogs', pictures the little green creatures leaping from the gutter as Cave walks home from church.
Asked if joy is a choice, Cave told The Big Issue: "You can point yourself in that direction. No one’s able to be joyful all the time. Joy is a sort of euphoric spasm, like a frog jumping into the air. Happiness is a different emotion altogether. Joy is dependent upon our suffering. Otherwise we’re not jumping from anything."
For me, joy seems to arrive in glimmers or glints, rather than spasms, but I get Cave's point.
US poet Christian Wiman, who has his own walk with cancer, explains it like this: "There is some inexplicable connection between suffering and joy. One of the greatest graces of this existence is that we are able to experience joy in the midst of suffering. We might not be able to experience happiness. You can’t in the midst of suffering, but there can be moments of great joy in the midst of the worst suffering. I take that to reveal that these two things are raveled up in ways that we don’t understand, but which are essential to our existence."
This "raveling" (the opposite of unraveling!) of pain and joy feels increasingly focused in our lives. The lows may be lower but the highs are so much higher, brighter and deeper. I sense that I've been led into a wide, open, spacious field; but I also acknowledge the dark river of grief and death that runs along its edge. This sense of grief is heightened by the death or life-threatening condition of several people we know with cancer in recent weeks. An awareness that my cancer will eventually get me has me pondering the 'what-ifs?' but also leaves me grateful for every day of normality and newness. I never anticipated these days would come so will siphon the life out of each one - whether running for charity or relaxing in front of Bake Off with the kids.
If you haven't seen the film Inside Out or its recent sequel, I'd encourage you to give these Pixar animations a try. They highlight in simple, funny (yet somehow complex) ways the interplay between our emotions - including the way Joy can't win if she doesn't lean on Sadness for support, or the valuable role of characters like Anxiety, Fear and Anger.
Our moments of pain are eased, and our life normalised, by the ongoing loving support of many of you who read this blog. Thanks for standing with us, keeping us sane and making our joy more complete.