Normal Pete, meet Cancer Pete

There's been a slightly longer gap than usual between posts but, don't worry, I'm still here and, to again quote man-of-the-moment Elton John, still standing.

I started my fourth fortnightly chemotherapy cycle yesterday. There was a slight delay as I needed a fresh blood test because my neutrophils (white blood cells that fight infection) were a bit low last week, so they had to check they'd risen to a safe level for chemo, which thankfully they had. It seems nuts that I'm almost two-thirds through my first three-month chemo stint. Roll on the end of July!

Last week, I was laid low with a nasty blast of acne which gradually spread across my face, head, chest, shoulders and arms - a not unusual reaction to the extra chemo drug I was given on my last (and current) cycle. My skin was painful, dry and tight to begin with but, after emailing some unflattering selfies at the request of the oncology nurse, I was prescribed antibiotics which are slowly working their magic. This knocked me off my stride for a few days due to the discomfort of reliving my teenage years with avengeance - dozens of pustules popping up and making a mess of my nose (and pillow) in particular. I still look like I've had a fight with one of the cats but the pain has gone and the spots are slowly subsiding.

I realised that this was probably the first obvious outward sign of my cancer treatment. My (admittedly already thin) hair has stopped growing but not fallen out, my voice can be croaky, and despite losing about a stone in weight and occasionally turning a pale shade of yellow, or accessorising with a pink-lidded chemo pump, I don't look much different to before. The spots coincided with Macy's birthday meal last Friday where over 30 relatives gathered at a local Indian restaurant to jointly celebrate Macy and her cousin Mads' 18th milestones. In recent months I've grown unused to such big family occasions, and this meant seeing many people for the first time since my diagnosis. The meal was great fun and it was lovely to catch up with family, but, especially with my scabby appearance, I did feel like Cancer Pete, self-conscious and slightly uncomfortable.

This was the climax of a journey I've been on in recent weeks where, due to necessity and, at times my choice, people have not been seeing me at my best. It might be the district nurse arriving earlier in the morning than expected and a bedraggled me pulling on my clothes in a rush and not having time to tidy up the lounge. Or friends popping around unexpectedly while I'm recovering from my weekend slump, meaning my chemo brain is forming words five sentences behind what I'm trying to express. These are not experiences the former Normal Pete (and I use the term 'normal' loosely!) would have easily allowed to happen - making sure I was prepared and presentable before seeing anyone. The spots are just an extension of this unguarding.

The way Normal Pete handled himself in relationships in the past was more cautious. He was often initially quiet, dryly humourous (even if I do say so myself), slightly guarded and prone to opening up slowly before becoming someone who others, hopefully, saw as loyal and relatable. Now, Cancer Pete's mostly done away with the reserve, and my barriers are down because I no longer have the energy to keep them up. I'm still slightly protective about who I see and when, but I am also learning the positives in relaxing about others encountering me at my worst, being honest about my struggles and needs (hence this blog), and allowing that to lead to deeper and more meaningful conversations when my brain is in gear. As an introvert, this is not easy but Cancer Pete's openness is also ensuring I get to hear other people's news (rather than just focusing on me) which also lifts my spirits when despair is tapping on my shoulder.

I've also reflected on how my personality sequence is reversed when I go into hospital. I enter as a patient, Cancer Pete, but after ten minutes of chat with the chemo nurses, talking about our weekends, families and holiday plans, it feels like the old me, Normal Pete, starts to emerge. I'm beginning to see the gentle value of this re-humanisation process, nurtured by the care and dedication of the nursing staff at Burton. I even got a free chocolate cupcake and some non-alcoholic fizz this week as one of the nurses turned 50. And, just now, Lisa pointed out there's a third Pete, Stinky Pete (my Toy Story alter ego and sometime nickname at work), who occasionally emerges in a chemo and laxative cloud ;)

My trip to our local hospital, Samuel Johnson in Lichfield, to see the physio last week was not all I'd hoped for. I knew walking through the door to ask him to help me with my ongoing neck pain was like turning up at the garage asking them to fix a dodgy headlight when your car's steaming motor is leaking oil. He had a look at my bone scans and said there was nothing they could do physio-wise because the pain was caused directly by cancer lesions in my upper spine and right scapula (shoulder blade).

A few days before this (dis)appointment, I'd listened to a podcast by Tara Brach and Dr Judson Brewer called Unwinding Anxiety With Awareness. This looked at how to navigate life when a 'weather system' of anxiety takes a prolonged stay in our midst. The last three months have, at times, created a climate of fear with the rug being pulled from under our feet, due to my diagnosis and the gradual escalation of my condition with each medical meeting. This saw an almost overnight switch from a normal routine of work, family life, exercising and socialising; to a fight against cancer which requires me to basically stop everything, rest, and work with treatment that throws up a conveyor belt of side effects.

Brach and Brewer suggest trying to cultivate a reaction of curiosity and kindness rather than fear when these new things happen. Believe me, Stage 4 cancer really is conducive to fear; but curiosity feels more interesting. So, I'm going to try being curious with my neck pain, which actually is pretty low-level at the moment. What makes it better or worse? What exercise can I try that doesn't aggravate it? And what other areas of my treatment, or life in general, can I apply curiosity and kindness to instead of just fear?

Curiosity can also lead to a greater awareness of the 'enchanted' world around us. Walking down the canal near Fradley early on Sunday morning, after the normal Macy work drop-off, I was stopped in my tracks by a solitary male mallard hurtling past my head in flight like a green-and-yellow-necked missile. I also came across some trees which not only shaded my sensitive skin from the sun, but fanned out elegantly beneath the clouds (pictured above). Just wonderful. And then there's the reassurance and joy at everyday achievements as simple as a 'normal' bowel movement sneaking past my rectal tumour, or the deep connection and peace I feel as Lisa holds me when we're both unexpectedly in tears during one of our weekend catch-ups. I'm not sure I should've put those two unrelated things in the same sentence...

The truth is, less than three months in, we're still in cancer kindergarten. My disease may be clinically advanced but we're in the initial stages of learning its ways, and the rhythms of treatment. Speaking to chemo comrades who are many months or years into this - or reading people's stories online - I realise how much I've still to experience, both good and bad. Every day remains a school day!

Meanwhile, I'm continuing my life education by getting through some new books. Up next are these two:

I've been looking forward to the Nick Cave one for a while. My appetite was whetted further when I listened to a new Radio Four interview with Cave by Archbishop of Canterbury Justin Welby today. Both spoke tenderly and insightfully about how losing children has helped them become larger and more compassionate people. And Cave compared his former daily heroin habit to the CofE ritual of morning and evening prayer, which made my ears prick up! Dr Bruce Greyson's book maps out decades of his scientific research into near-death experiences, which tend to leave survivors with a transformed purpose in life and deep changes in how they relate to others. I ordered it after catching up on an illuminating Nomad podcast interview with Greyson, who professes no particular faith background, at the weekend.

So yeah, Cancer Pete may be spotty on the outside but he's filling his insides with some new and thought-provoking stuff. Embracing fear by encouraging curiousity - let's give it a go...