Tunnel of love

Well, in the words of the well-known physician Ron Burgundy, that escalated quickly!

My first reaction to the phone call from Burton Hospital on Tuesday to say I’d be seeing the consultant surgeon on Wednesday to discuss my scan results was excitement. At last, I could find out what we’re dealing with and begin preparing for treatment.

Sitting in a warm hospital waiting room for over an hour, my gaze flicked between the game show Lingo on the wall-mounted TV and the apostrophe-less ‘Nurses station’ sign a few feet away, smiling about how my grammar-pedant friend Neil’s blood would simmer at this.

When my name was called, we were greeted at the consultant surgeon’s door by the same nurse who sat with us in the colonoscopy unit two weeks before. There were three other people in the room - the consultant surgeon (CS), a nurse from the ward and a medical student.

As with my Maundy Thursday appointment, it felt like everyone took an intake of breath before the conversation started and, despite the smiles, the room felt heavy (it was roasting hot too!). The CS began by remarking how young I was, suggesting surprise that this was happening to me. He asked me what I did for a living and how long I’d been aware of my symptoms. Then he began to go through my scans, explaining that the tumour in my rectum was indeed cancer. But then some other news. The cancer had spread to the seminal gland in my abdomen between my rectum and testicles on the left-hand side (there are two of these glands or 'vesicles', which secrete fluid that becomes semen). This explains the ball pain I’ve had on and off for a couple of years, I shared. Plus, cancer had also been found in some lymph nodes in the same area.

If this was a fair bit to take in, he then explained that there were also some small, shaded areas of concern – three ‘markers’ – on my spine, which we looked at on the PC monitor. These were unusual but could simply be wear and tear from exercise (stress fracture/s?) or some gradual spinal degeneration. A bone scan next week will explore this further. This maybe explains the on-and-off back and neck pain I’ve had for the last 12 months, including a neck spasm I had post-Covid three weeks ago.

It’s stage three cancer (or stage four if the bone marks are cancerous). Lisa was sitting next to me taking notes, which was a good job because this was all washing over me.

But there was some good news too. It hadn’t spread to my liver, as bowel cancer can, or any other vital organs. An impromptu, and thankfully quick, on-the-spot physical examination by the CS revealed the tumour is quite far into my rectum, which means they may be able to save some of the rectal passage during surgery.

After the bone scan, I have an appointment with the oncologist on 3 May (what a way to celebrate my 49th birthday!) where we’ll discuss the next step which is chemotherapy. This will start soon after that meeting and be once a week for three months, before surgery to remove the, hopefully shrunken, tumour.

Despite the seriousness of the conversation, it was pragmatic and positive, us joking about the hair loss that may come from chemo (I’m pretty bald already). “They do good wigs,” the nurse winked. The level of care, concern, urgency and laser-like focus on my needs, again, put me at ease. The CS is phoning me next week and said I could email him anytime with follow-up questions. Another big plus is that the tests showed I don’t have a lynch syndrome gene which means the cancer shouldn’t be passed on to our kids (another thing Lisa remembered to ask about!).

On the way out, I had a further blood test to inform the oncology meeting. I found myself wittering away to the nurse as she took my samples. I was wired.

I was supposed to be going to a concert in Birmingham that evening (sorry to miss you Dutch Uncles!), so Lisa messaged my friend Paul to say this was off. She then messaged all the kids to rendezvous at home at 5.30pm so we could update them. This, again, was tough. I felt calmer than a fortnight ago but couldn’t hold back the tears as I started rambling through the results. There’s nothing worse than making your children cry. And nothing better than the wet hugs that follow. There are more tears just thinking about it.

I sat back and watched in wonder as Lisa managed to go through ALL the details but also convey reassurance, positivity, and care for our kids in the same explanation. It felt like a tender, galvanising battle brief. We then began to update others before eating, followed by our current box set binge, the LA police procedural Bosch. As kind messages flooded into our phones, Bosch wasn’t quite as distracting as normal, although I did manage to stay awake for two whole episodes, which isn’t always guaranteed.

I wrote all the above after waking at 4.30am yesterday (Thursday) morning but have sat on it for a day or so while my emotions settle down.

I’m now signed off work – which feels weird as I’m still physically ok. So, I made the most of the sun yesterday by hopping on a train to watch some county cricket at the picturesque New Road, Worcester. This has become a regular once or twice-yearly pilgrimage for me in recent times. There’s something about sitting anonymously in a half-empty stand surrounded by old chaps gently wittering about LBWs and ladies’ pavilion cake that puts me at my ease – hopefully a taste of things to come! I found it harder to focus yesterday as inner waves of emotion quietly lapped in and out. As wicket after wicket fell (17 in one day!), the game itself became a reflection of my current state; in particular Worcester’s innings. They started serenely, reaching 58 without loss, then collapsed to 115-7, their lower batting order exposed.

I feel like my lower order has been exposed this week – in every sense of the word! In the days after my initial diagnosis, I felt galvanised, calm and up for the fight; in control. But Wednesday’s more detailed results left me feeling unmoored, unsettled and out of control. I guess this is natural, but it’s not nice.

I know in this unmooring, this insecurity, we are floating on a sea of love and support – the influx of kind and thoughtful messages has been amazing. But, as an introspective who often needs to retreat to recharge his batteries after social interactions, I find this overwhelming at times too. I don’t (most of the time at least!) like being the centre of attention. So, maybe this is another lesson in letting go and just receiving from others, as well as recognising when I need to step back and protect my (and our family) space and privacy. This is a steep but rich learning curve!

Before all of this, on Tuesday, I went for a lunchtime walk in the sun which ended up lasting six miles. I passed through the tunnel pictured below which begins the McClean Way (a nature trail on the disused Lichfield-Walsall railway line). The tunnel, under the A5, is one of my favourite places to run and walk through – still, shaded and full of echo.

Tunnel imagery has come to me again and again recently. I’ve had a strong sense that I’m being gently led into one. But as this picture shows, there isn’t just light at the end of the tunnel, there’s light in the tunnel too. As I take my first steps into the dark, I am apprehensive but the light is there. The light of God to lead me and the warm light of all who love us to accompany me – including many of you who are reading this. Thanks for bearing the load with us, carrying us and allowing us to retreat when we need to.

Yesterday, I felt low. Today, after writing this and spending time with treasured friends, I feel hope. Tomorrow is another day and, to wring out the cricketing analogy, there's still a lot of batting to come in this long season ahead!