How life can change in the blink of an eye
I lie in bed alongside the love of my life on a beautiful Sunday morning. The shutters on our quaint French village house are open. The sun radiates its glorious light and the promise of a magical day through the window. Suddenly, a lion appears at the foot of the bed, majestic and beautiful, looking like it’s ready to pounce on us.
I wake from yet another bad dream. I try to scream, but no sound escapes my throat. My mouth is wide open, everything around me goes black. Suddenly I am aware I am being shaken, not mauled.
I wonder — if this dream is the manifestation of my thoughts of this demon we battle?
COVID then a cancer diagnosis for my love, and my world crumbled in the blink of an eye.
I am now in the midst of a fight for the life of the most critical person in my life — stage four colorectal cancer with metastasis in the liver. The impacts of COVID make our world smaller and smaller and exacerbate the feelings of fear, helplessness, and dread.
Cancer takes everything from you, not the least of which is control of your life. After this diagnosis, you have none.
The feelings which bubble to the surface on hearing the C-word are indescribable. It’s like crawling into a dark hole. Disbelief, fear, anger, anxiety — I run the gauntlet of all those feelings in the weeks leading up to the first oncologist appointment — the desperation to start doing something about this beast lurking in my husband’s body is real.
How are we here in rural France
After a housesitting gig in an incredible rural village in central France, over a bottle of red one night, he turns to me and says. “Let’s buy a village house in the country. We can continue to travel and explore Europe but with a base to come back to”. As if the stress of cancer isn’t enough, we have just established ourselves in France for the foreseeable future.
Our post repatriation housesitting days are over. It was a marvellous adventure, but it was now time to move on. So, here we are nestled in our gorgeous 200-year-old historic house in rural France, facing the greatest challenge of our lives.
I feel robbed. Robbed of good health, robbed of enjoyment of life, robbed of the man I have loved and shared my life with since I was 18 years of age — just downright robbed.
Schoolgirl French is ok to get you by as a tourist, however, thrust into the minefield of hospitals, doctors, medical professionals, and it’s quite a different story. Stress brain allows little room for learning new skills, especially a new language, so I have no choice but to muddle along.
The diagnosis and treatment plan
The first meeting with the oncologist seems to take an age to come around. I worry I won’t understand what she tells us, what we face.
Finally, the day is here, and it is almost a relief in a way. My caregiver instincts kick in, and my role in this journey is defined. We have a plan to take this monster on.
This first 12-week cycle is brutal. I spend time online scouring websites for information and real-life stories of managing the treatment to “Kick Cancer’s Butt”. It’s a well-known fact in the cancer community that the treatment is worse than the disease and often unsustainable. The role of the caregiver is a critical part of the cure.
The side effects of nausea, fatigue, neuropathy and acne are distressing. The acne is the worst. It spreads from the chest up to the top of the head and into the mouth and throat. The pain is excruciating as hundreds of tiny white pimples appear — no medications impact or soothe the discomfort.
I can only watch as the chemo does its thing, and my strong, healthy, vibrant man becomes a shadow of himself at an alarming rate. Unable to eat or drink and completely bedridden, the weight falls off his body.
I am relentless in my ministrations, but sadly to no avail as he becomes weaker and weaker by the day.
By round five of the cycle, the oncologist chooses to modify the protocol to prevent death by starvation. The weight loss of 25 kilos is shocking and seems impossible to claw back. Our medical team cancel the final round of chemo, and we are sent home and told to expect a call from our oncologist once she has met with the team to reassess the treatment options.
I am devastated by this news. So many thoughts fight for space and swirl around my head, threatening to derail my mental health.
- Is this enough chemo to kill those lousy cancer cells?
- What will happen next?
- Will we be able to recover enough strength to continue the fight?
The results are unexpected
A few days later, as I sit staring into space through the picture window in my living room, I am jarred out of my thoughts by the trilling of my mobile phone. I hesitate to answer, not sure I can cope with what is to some. Finally, I muster the courage to answer. “Bonjour”! I glance at the screen, and my heart sinks — the oncologist.
The plan is good — hospitalisation for a week to establish intravenous nutrition to stall the weight loss. Introduce and encourage solid food with the hope of some increase in weight and overall well-being. Then a reassessment of treatment.
I feel a certain sense of relief at the impending respite — for both of us. Time to recover a little, to face the next chapter?
After a week of separation, he is home, 11 kilos heavier and feeling strong. We’ve got this!
Onward and upward with hope
The scheduled scan to assess the efficacy of the first chemo cycle looms, and I succumb to sleepless nights and feelings of dread interspersed with feelings of excitement. What if the chemo has worked its magic despite everything? The sheer brutality of it could have sufficed to shrink those lumps to within an inch of their lives. Or, the worst nightmare of all — no movement at all.
The day of our post-chemo meeting with the oncologist is finally here. The 50kms drive through the stunning French countryside is silent. We are both lost in our thoughts and barely notice the prolific fields of gorgeous sunflowers that make France famous along the route.
We leave the meeting feeling numb. The oncologist’s English is excellent, but much is lost in translation.
I sit alone in the back seat of the ambulance taxi, going over and over the conversation. I understand that the tumours in the liver have shrunk significantly (great news); however, there is little or no movement in the colon tumours. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to break something.
The next step in our fight against cancer
A revised plan sees us facing a further cycle of six rounds of fortnightly chemotherapy with a modified protocol to reduce the side effects hopefully. Plus, the team schedules meetings with a colorectal and a liver surgeon.
I feel gutted, angry, helpless, sad, lost, but also a little hopeful of the surgery. I know from my research that surgery is always the best option if it is possible. Remove the queen bee and mitigate the possibility of further metastases.
But, how can we possibly repeat the past three months? The tiredness, the exhaustion, the uncertainty.
My reading and research of the brutality of this treatment ring true. The adrenaline courses through my body. Throughout the journey home, I have a surreal feeling of not being connected to my body. I don’t know how I can face this.
Seeing the love of your life reduced from a big, strong and vibrant man to an emotional and broken shell is taking a considerable toll. My energy is dissipating, and the exhaustion is absolute.
But, what choice is there? Cancer is in control.
We keep fighting.
On to the next challenge in this fight for life.
