Standing on the scales for the first time since being discharged from hospital, I was delighted to discover I’d lost two stone. It was May 2023 and I’d spent 12 days at the NHS’s pleasure thanks to meningitis. The almost constant diarrhoea and vomiting were not a lot of fun, but the scales told me it had been worth it. This was until I mentioned the drastic weight loss to one of my GPs, while at an appointment for what was thought to be a urinary tract infection.
She was a lot less enthusiastic about my weight loss than I was and suspected it might have been caused by something worse than “vomiting from both ends” (as my old maths teacher used to say). And – spoiler alert for anyone who hasn’t read any of my articles this year – she was right, and the weight loss turned out to be cancer. Cancer, which had started in my bowel and then spread to my liver, my bladder and the edge of my stomach.
I’ve spent two years kicking the tumours in the face as hard as I can and know I’m left wondering whether I’ll ever be sexy enough for all the Tinder ladies.
Before cancer, I had a plan to lose two stone so I would be thin enough to have a girlfriend. Now I’m wondering whether I’ll only lose these two stones when I’m dead in a coffin and my body is rotting away into the ground.
And now, thanks to eating all the pies and the steroids I’ve been given as part of my cancer treatment, I have far more than just two stone to lose.
My target is to lose as much weight as I can by next March, so not every weighing in at my cancer hospital feels like I’m being judged for tipping the scales at a small hippo level.
To be clear, the judgement doesn’t come from the nursing staff. They are happy that my weight has remained fairly constant over the past two years. The judgement comes from me as I send a birthday present list to my family specifying clothes should be XL rather than the M of old. The judgement comes from me as I wonder how I got to such a rotund figure. I remember the days of Britpop when the Teletubbies were on TV, but instead of looking like them, I had a lot of skinny-fit t-shirts.
I wonder if I need a Fat Fighters-style boot camp, especially after seeing the recent pictures of me taken by a Daily Express photographer. As you’ll see, from the image accompanying this piece, I look like a sausage bursting out of its skin, and not in a succulent, full English breakfast good way.
Not to turn this into too much of a Bridget Jones-style piece, especially as I’ve never met Colin Firth, but I might touch on my efforts to ditch my moobs occasionally as the months go on and I wonder whether an extra mince pie is worth it.
He’s not Colin Firth, but my efforts so far have involved a physiotherapist giving me lots of exercises, including pulling resistance bands while they are connected to the tops of doors.
It’s too early to say whether it will make me sexy enough for Tinder ladies, but it has made me feel slightly better in myself. The physio sees me as a person rather than a list of blood test results.
I’d like to see this from all medical staff working in cancer hospitals across the country. Blood tests are obviously necessary when fighting cancer, but just focusing on them neglects the fact that everyone diagnosed with the disease is a person, with hopes and dreams for their future.
Mental health issues are the most significant side effects that they’ll face while battling cancer. They must get mental health support both during and after treatment, and I won’t stop fighting until this is standard across the country.