It’s been two years since I thought a woman was going to put a camera up my arse – two long years. Back then I was naive to the ways of the NHS and thought that if a doctor’s name appeared on letters then they would be the ones involved in a procedure. Instead it was a man who had the pleasure of inserting a small camera on a stick into my rectum to see what was going on. It was a colonoscopy.
People later asked me how it felt when the camera moved along the sections of my bowel. I explained it didn’t get far because the camera couldn’t get past a massive tumour. I can’t remember the size but it was the biggest one I’d ever seen. One of the medical team described it as “sinister” so I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised when a day or two later I was told I have incurable bowel cancer.
The sinister nature of the tumour showed me the difference between two hospital teams, just a few miles apart.
The team at the hospital where I was diagnosed did not seem to shy away from the fact that the cancer is likely to kill me. The team at the hospital where I’m treated love to focus on the prolonging life aspect and don’t mention how long I might have left.
But yes, this week marks the two-year anniversary of when I was diagnosed with cancer. At the time I was pleased that I would be getting my prescriptions for free. I was also focused on a couple of exclusive stories I wanted to write – they never got written.
I remember messaging a friend to share the news, because a problem shared is attention gained, and saying that I hope it won’t take up too much of my time.
How naive I was. The constant cycle of having appointments and then resting after appointments while wondering when the next ones will be takes up most of my life.
Officially this time is short. The stats suggest I have just three years left to live, with only 11% of people with my condition lasting longer than five years.
But no-one medical has ever given me any kind of date by which I will need to sort out my online passwords and book an ice cream van for my funeral party.
Instead I’m doing the best to fight the disease by eating lots of packs of Mini Cheddars on treatment days while nurses put chemotherapy and immunotherapy drugs into my body.
Last summer, taxpayers will be delighted to learn, they stopped giving me the really expensive drug which contains platinum. It was a dangerous beast which led to my liver being close to failure a few times and gave me the gift of osteoperosis.
Instead I now just have the pricey drugs while drinking orange squash and trying to pretend the chicken mayonnaise sandwiches are nice.
Also last summer I did actually meet the doctor I mentioned at the top of this article.
She walked into the room where I was lying, announced she was my consultant and said something along the lines of “I’m now going to stick my finger in your bottom”.
After that she then put a camera up there to see what was going on. It was a sigmoidoscopy and the room was a medical treatment area in hospital.
I remember the pain because I wasn’t sedated. And I remember the massive tumour I had seen the previous year had been replaced with scar tissue, as my body fought to kick it into touch.
Now I face a new battle as a recent scan has detected “unspecified activity” at the top of my spine.
This is miles away from the site of my original main tumour so it might be cancer on the march or it might be something completely different.
I had another scan to try and see what the first scan was saying and, fingers crossed, should get the results next week.
What a way to commemorate my two-year cancer anniversary.