Thanks for that

Sitting on the sofa with a warm cat on my lap, Mogwai slow-marching through the speakers and grey drizzle dropping outside, I'm searching for a word to summarise my dominant feeling since I last posted.

And that word is 'gratitude'. My last post left me in a slightly uncertain place with my chemotherapy treatment about to change, to try and better counter the 'progression' of the secondary cancer in my adrenal gland. Since then, I've had a restorative short break from treatment and, last week, I began my third, three-month, chemo stint.

The time off ended up coinciding perfectly with a two-day getaway that my friend Paul W had planned several months before. This wasn't my usual Premier Inn break but an overnighter in a five-star luxury hotel nestled in an extensive and beautiful rural setting not far from Solihull. The hotel is owned by one of Paul's friends who offered it to us when Paul explained my circumstances. I couldn't compute it as I settled into my large, under-floor heated, mini-fridged room - or later as we dined in wood-panelling with a front-seat view of the kitchen. It felt like every need was pre-empted, and then met, by the extremely attentive yet unintrusive staff.

This provided the perfect backdrop to time laughing, crying and talking with Paul (we go back almost 40 years!) as we caught up on family, life, faith and more. On the second morning, I explained how I was finding it hard to take in, to accept, this gift - feeling that I should DO something to merit it, or pay for it, which, of course, I couldn't. This eventually dissolved as I wandered around a picturesque fishing lake nearby, pondering why it's so hard just to accept good things with no strings attached.

Circling the large pool, a sense of gratitude began to settle on me. I'm sure the inquisitive ducks following me across the water from one side to the other also helped. As I was leaving, I found myself on a path surrounded on both sides by water - the expansive lake on my left and a narrow brook on the right (pictured above). This reminded me of an inkling I've had, since my diagnosis, of the parallel life - possibly the eternal life of my faith - that runs alongside (rather than ahead of) the everyday happenings of our lives. I'm not sure if this sense of something larger is represented by the spacious lake or hinted at in the harder-to-spot brook. But I do increasingly sense a bigger story that outstrips cancer and its consequences, that quietly persists and beckons.

Four days later, I was lining up with thousands of other mad-heads to run the annual Alton Towers 10k. This was something Dan's girlfriend Georgia had announced she was doing earlier this year in aid of Bowel Cancer UK. Since she told us, I'd harboured a secret desire to join her but had no idea what state I'd be in or whether my treatment would prevent it. As the day got nearer, Dan, Rosie's boyfriend Nick and several of their friends - plus Georgia's mum Mel - signed up. With my chemo break (again!) coming at just the right time, and me completing a couple of practice 10ks, I eventually threw my hat into the ring a few weeks beforehand after consulting Georgia and Dan.

In the end, 12 of us stepped up to the starting line in our matching bright blue and yellow charity t-shirts. The twisty run around the theme park was pretty surreal - especially being waved at by life-size Teletubbies as we bounced over the CBeebies Land astroturf. It didn't matter that my finishing time was almost 15 minutes slower than my 10k best; I really enjoyed the race. As others headed for the rides afterwards, I wandered around the park and its gardens alone, soaking in the gratitude I felt for those who ran with me (raising over £3,200 in the process - thanks in no small part to the many of you who sponsored them). It felt - and still feels - surreal that a group of people would do something selfless (and knackering) in my name, to show solidarity with me. The only thing I could do was accept it, and run alongside (or behind!) them, humbled and grateful.

I was also thankful to my body for its resilience and bounce-back-ability. This had led to a gradual increase in physical energy, to levels I'd not experienced for months, during my short treatment break.

Two days after this, I headed back to Burton hospital to start my third lot of fortnightly cycles of chemo, which will run until the end of January. I'd taken thick gloves and a snood to cover my face upon exiting on the strong advice of the chemo nurses. This was due to the potential side effects of the new chemo drug I was due which can damage nerve endings, causing electric shock-like feelings when touching cold things, along with throat constriction from taking in chilly drinks or air. So, I was a bit apprehensive beforehand, but also curious as to how it'd go.

The good news was that, even though the new drug (Oxiliplatin - part of my new Folfox mix) takes two hours to drip through, it could be taken at the same time as my infusion of Fluorouracil, which also lasts two hours. I'd found out since my last treatment that the drug that was causing my skin rash, Cetuximab, would not continue, which was a relief after more than four months of red spots on my face and chest. All in all, this simplification of my chemo means it takes half the time to take and, as I found out, left me feeling less out of sorts during and afterwards.

So, despite my apprehension, I strode pretty spritely back to my in-laws' waiting car when I was done, looking like a bank robber with half of my face covered to keep out the cold and my black gloves on. Over the next few days I tested out the electric shock theory - growing increasingly brave by reaching into the fridge, then freezer, with uncovered hands. Apart from some finger tingling when raiding the Aldi cooler compartments during the weekly shop, and the occasional odd sensation in my throat when drinking, it's all been very bearable. More cause for gratitude!

I was hoping to see my chemo buddy P when at hospital but, for whatever reason, he didn't appear. I'm not sure what this means - it may just be that our cycles have un-synced - but I hope he's ok. It was nice, therefore, to have a visit from Sharon, the hospital's Colorectal Cancer Navigator sponsored by Macmillan, who is a vital link between the medical staff and patients, often answering my queries when I'm in a tight spot. We chatted about the local support group set up for bowel cancer patients and I asked Sharon about a fellow incurable cancer patient whose contact details she'd given me, with his permission, some months ago with a view to us possibly meeting up. When I suggested I might now be ready to get in touch with this man - also a dad in his 40s, though further along in his treatment than me - Sharon shook her head. He had recently passed away. This is the very sad reality of the fragility of life that surrounds - and somehow gives more value to - the positive stories of hope and restoration and healing.

Despite only managing the usual few hours sleep (thanks steroids!) on the night after my chemo, I felt relatively lively the next day (thanks steroids!) - more so than usual. My singer-songwriter brother-in-law Brookln (or 'Dekker' as he's known on Spotify and other streaming services) was playing a concert at one of my favourite venues, the Hare & Hounds in Kings Heath, Birmingham, that evening. I'd semi-convinced myself that, due to my chemo pump being in full flow, I wouldn't be able to attend. So, it was wonderful to be well enough to get along to the show with Lisa and four of the 'kids' and to chat to Brookln and his skilled (and friendly) German drummer Stefan (both pictured below by Macy). I would've taken a weeknight trip out to a gig for granted any other year, but the gratitude I felt as I slumped into bed just before midnight made this one extra special - as did the fact I still had enough energy to see one of my other brother-in-laws for a lovely, impromptu lunch the following day.

I've listened to Dekker's tunes many times before, but, for the first time, heard a line in his song 'A Better Way' where he exclaims "I'm a miracle":

Here I lay it down

Here I, here I’ll lay it down

Let my fear dissolve

Let me shed it and evolve

Let my feet be planted

Let me stand up really tall

I’m a miracle

And that's my simple takeaway from this past four weeks of rest, treatment and recovery. Life itself is a miracle. Tragic and tearful at times, but still a miracle. I’m a miracle. You’re a miracle. We’re all walking (or sitting or laying!), talking miracles.

Miracles can't be earned - they are pure gifts which we can choose to receive in gratefulness. This can mean pushing aside the at times awkward spotlight undeserved kindness can shine on us, and learning to just accept the love and support of others.

Thanks for that.