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I have these questions in my head. Why do I write these posts? Why do you read them? It’s a bit of a mystery. I think I write them as a form of therapy. I’m sure you read them for a myriad of reasons. You might even read them for the macabre, that’s up to you! But from the get go I honestly felt that if one, just one, person gained a little bit of benefit then my efforts are justified.
I’ve tried to be cheerful throughout, not least aided by my bright socks and shirts. I’ve used this blog to help raise money and to find excuses to meet with as many of you as possible.
I’ve written about my family, now and about growing up. I’ve written about some of the antics I’ve got up to as an adult and a child. My career has had a bit of the treatment. Some of my opinions have been aired. I’ve written of the topical and historical. I’ve written about the people I’ve befriended along the way. I’ve been humorous, sometimes downright silly. But have I told you how frightening having cancer can be?
Today I’ve woken up scared. Scared I’ve not done enough, Scared I’ve not told people how much I love them. To be absolutely honest I think I’ve woken up scared to die.
When I was first diagnosed I knew the odds were stacked against me. The chances of me living for more than another five years were remote. Luck hasn’t completely neglected me. I’ve already lived much longer than many others with similar odds. My issue for the last year has been my liver. Bowel cancer has a nasty habit of hanging around then striking when you least expect it, a bit like the Taliban. Before settling in my liver it tried to get me by settling behind my stomach next to my spine, the nasty bugger. That was hacked out leaving a nasty eight inches of scar. A small price to pay.
When the cancer was found in my liver I was clearly told that ultimately it would be the cause of my demise. Last year on the 4th September (Dad's birthday) I started a gruelling course of chemotherapy which had no impact. Usually they save the super nasty chemo for later. But after two months of the first treatment I started a course of treatment of the far more brutal stuff. I was treated until the point arrived when the chemo would kill me even if the cancer didn’t.
On the 19th April, 4 ½ months ago, after almost 8 months of treatment it was time to stop. Such is the way with cancer treatment. Nothing more could be done. As far as I can tell my cancer companion is doing it’s stuff. I’ve started to experience a new pain, it’s in my liver, I'm taking painkillers which means my palliative treatment has begun. Is this the end game? I think it might be. I’m completely unaware of what to expect and for how long. Being cheerful has become a bit more of a challenge and my dark humour is becoming darker. At least it’s still humour.
So how am I feeling? Well today I may well indulge in some misery until the grandchildren arrive. No time for misery then.
I’ve posted over 220 times. Is 300 a realistic target? Probably not. But hopefully for the next post I’ll find something a bit more happy to regale you with.
N.