Dad vs. Cancer: My story so far — part 1
I am a new dad. I have stage 4 bowel cancer. This is my story.
So they say writing is therapeutic. Who says this? Well everyone who has suggested that I should write a blog to help. It may prove to be useful or not, but I thought I’d give it a bash. Here is my story so far:
August 2014. Following a lovely holiday in Pembrokeshire with my wonderful wife (who was pushing 9 months pregnant at the time), we headed to my parents house for a visit before our long drive home. During the visit I complained of stomach cramps that would come and go. “Sympathy contractions” we all joked. Sadly they got worse, and more painful. So painful that I was unable to drive home from the visit, and had to pass that duty onto my very heavily pregnant wife. When we got home, the pain was increasingly worse. The next day I went to the GP who advised me it was probably a bad case of constipation.
“Bollocks” was my initial thought.
During the course of the week the symptoms were not getting any better, and the pain was increasing on a daily basis. My wife took matters into her own hands and one night called an out of hours doctor:
“Indigestion or constipation” the diagnosis. Sure.
My wife’s instincts told her it was more than this, and so called another doctor. And another. And another. Until finally one referred us to the hospital. Upon arrival the sweetest shot of morphine was welcomed into my body. Relief, if brief, was welcome. They then sent me for a CT scan, and I went to sleep under the sweet glow of more morphine. When I woke I was pulled into a room with a doctor and the ward nurse. “This must be very serious” I thought, with the understanding that they normally just talk to you in your bed. My wife joined us from the waiting room.
“Your bowel is blocked by a tumour. The tumour is cancerous. And there is also cancer in your liver”.
I was half expecting the news. “We need to get you to surgery immediately. Your life is in immediate danger. We need to get you out of that danger before we can think about anything else.” I will never forget those words. Your life is in immediate danger. I was a 31-year-old man, in good health (so I thought), living a fairly healthy lifestyle, with a wife expecting to give birth to our first born any day now. How had this happened? This was not part of the plan.
The surgeon was outstanding. All of the medical staff were. His clear, zero bullshit, approach to telling me what was wrong was exactly what I needed. I am much better at dealing with cold information, rather than it sugar-coated or dressed in sentiment. It’s easier to process with nothing to decipher. He came to see me following the surgery and told me a few more things I will never forget. “You were about 6 hours away from your bowel exploding and killing you.” “There was over a 25% chance you would have died on the table, but we had no option other than to operate.” “You will have a very long road to recovery, but you are alive now. That’s no small feat”
“So not constipation then.” That was my first thought. “Fuck!” was my second.
I looked down at my body. Unrecognisable. About 2 stone lighter, a huge healing wound down the centre of my abdomen, held together with metal staples. A colostomy bag attached to me for the foreseeable future (a whole different world to get used to). And a plethora of tubes going in and out of me. It was a tough 10 days or so following the operation. Still in hospital, just wanting to be home with my wife. Hallucinations from the painkillers (Batman made an appearance one night). When I was eventually discharged, I led on the sofa in my living room, held my very pregnant wife as close as i could, and we cried for what seemed like hours. Little did I know that would now become a fixture of our relationship during our battle.
Around two weeks later my wife wakes me at 2am. “I think I’m having contractions” she says. “Unlikely” I respond. “It’s 2am” being my explanation. It became more and more obvious that she was in early labour. As the day continued, it became even more obvious that today was the day. Later that night after a textbook water birth, our little girl had arrived. The maternity unit were very accommodating to me, as I couldn’t sit in a normal chair due to my operation; they set up a bed for me to lay in.
9lbs 2oz. A wrinkled little ball of hope.
Another sentence I will always remember: “Go to daddy” as I held my newborn for the first time, while my wife was made more comfortable. I am not ashamed to say that I was a bag of emotions, and I cried more than the baby, she just slept soundly in my arms as i wept.
My baby girl. My new ammunition to face what was to come.
end of part 1
