Eight biscuits, and a slice of life

It's been many months since I've felt the urge to capture a day in words before it fades into a sea of memories. Wednesday was one of those days.

Wednesday was biopsy day. A new experience to tick off the cancer list, I was offered it (the NHS equivalent of a Virgin Experience Day?) by my oncologist a fortnight ago to try and get to the bottom, or more accurately the middle, of the slowly expanding 1.6cm lesion in my liver. The lesion looks like cancer but isn't acting like cancer, its cells dormant on my recent PET scan.

I received a call last Thursday - while in a church communion service of all places - from Burton hospital to book the biopsy.

Good news - it was scheduled for the same day I was due at the same hospital for my monthly oncology appointment and bone-strengthening injection, killing three birds with one stone. Practical treble-twenties like this mean more than you'd imagine in cancer diary planning world.

As I sat in the oncology waiting room on Wednesday morning, this small win was an echo of a conversation in the chairs opposite between a young (well younger than me!) couple and a nurse. The man had recently being diagnosed with cancer, a white PICC line cover on his arm, and was filling out a lengthy form on the small round table beside him. The nurse was explaining the fortnightly rhythm of blood tests, oncology appointments and treatment cycles which have to follow in a strict chronological pattern to allow chemotherapy to be administered. The man's eyes lit up as he realised he'd understood, and cracked, the code.

I remember well how this felt early on; getting on top and ahead of cancer admin was a pleasing achievement for us and those who rallied around our family. I was also sad, knowing that this man's mobilised spirit had little idea of the upcoming chemo crater that would steal a chunk of his family's life in a bid to save his.

My next waiting room conversation brought this home. A woman was wheeled in by her partner. After a brief exchange about how inaudible some of the nurses' appointment summons to patients were, this woman, a bit older than me, reached out her hand and introduced herself. I think it was the first handshake I've received in a hospital waiting room, as unexpected as a Hollywood handshake on Bake Off. Before we could share much more than that we were both at Stage 4, I was summoned (in a very clear voice this time) to my oncology appointment.

An hour or so later, I returned to the chemo ward for my bone-strengthening injection. "See you next month," I remarked to the nurse who'd administered it as I wandered towards the exit, before hearing a shout from the ward's other bay. It was the woman I'd been chatting to in the waiting room. She beckoned me over and began to spill out her 12-month battle to get a cancer diagnosis and the toil her treatment was now taking, including hair loss which made her self-conscious in public. Another woman was sitting next to her, wearing a chemo 'cold' cap designed to limit such damage. They both tried to explain how horrible treatment left them feeling: "you feel like shit but it's not a shit anyone else can understand." I agreed. It's amazing how instant solidarity can arise with people you've never met before, some of whose names you may never know.

After driving into Burton town centre for a visit to HMV and Greggs, I reported for duty in the x-ray department for my biopsy. Double-gowning (to stop gaping back reveal) I had a cannula inserted in my arm and, for the third time in 24 hours, a blood sample taken for testing. I waited for the blood results - which took about 60 minutes - in a quiet bay, along with the nurses who were also waiting for another biopsy patient's blood work. We began to talk about their lives and mine, including my cancer story to this point. As I laid it out, I found I was trying to reassure the nurses (and myself?) that actually things were in a good place for me at the moment, and I was thankful.

One of the nurses said a colleague had told her to ask me to close my legs because I was flashing passers-by. Even though I was man-spreading, the colleague hadn't realised I was wearing cargo shorts under the gown, and far from flashing anyone! The nurses also advised me that my biopsy consultant was highly skilled and the procedure, which involves taking a small slice or sample from an organ or growth, would be no worse than having my cannula put in. And that the consultant was called Dr Jaber (pronounced 'jabber'). Brilliant!

The nurses' encouragement and the continuing air of light comedy helped with my jangling nerves as I was taken in for the biopsy. They asked me which artist I'd like to hear over the imaging room's speakers; the previous patient's Beautiful South songs still playing. This stumped me - who did I want? Rather than plumping for someone obscure or impressive, I reached into my teenage recesses and asked for U2. Of course, the first track that played, as I was prepared for the ultrasound to locate my liver lesion, was 'I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For.'

Dr Jaber was thorough and clear, explaining that the lesion was high in my liver near my lungs but he hoped, with some careful ultrasound guiding, to be able to reach it. After a minute or so of discomfort as the local anaesthetic needle dug between my ribs, the biopsy itself was painless. A large staple gun-like click accompanied the taking of two samples as the biopsy needle pierced my lesion. Dr Jaber said that it appeared the lesion might be hollow, potentially a good sign. The samples were syringed into small jars and labelled up to be sent to Derby hospital for examination. I should get the results in a few weeks.

As the nurses left the room, one of them, who had been at my side throughout the procedure, squeezed my hand, drew near and looked into my eyes, saying "all the best", or something similar. She meant this and it moved me. Another connection.

I was then wheeled on the same bed to Ward 30 on the hospital's top floor for rest and observation. My maiden voyage on a hospital bed up lifts and along corridors, another thing to tick off the list.

As I was settled in my own room with ensuite, the sister from the x-ray department explained that, over three decades ago, Ward 30 was used exclusively for private treatment. Apparently, the floors were carpeted and patients were served wine with their hospital meals. I wonder if they were allowed to smoke in their rooms as well?

It was a peaceful space although the flickering light bulb above my bed was a reminder that these were different times. I was offered a cup of tea and, fairly famished by this point, asked the ward nurse if they had any biscuits. Three packets (pictured below) duly arrived followed by some vegetable cottage pie and a small tub of ice cream.

I had to rest for four hours and have my blood pressure taken regularly to check there wasn't any internal bleeding from the biopsy, which would cause a pressure drop (maybe that would've been a good song for the biopsy room? Maybe not). Initially being told (or mis-hearing) that I'd be ok to drive myself home, this wasn't actually the case, and Lisa got a lift with her brother Mark to the hospital to pick me and our car up. However, as the four hours' observation became six, I turned to watch some cricket and Alan Partridge episodes on my iPad, while Lisa chatted outside in the car with her brother and his wife, also called Lisa. I'd managed eight of the nine biscuits on offer, Lisa polishing off the last ginger nut after she emerged into my room.

The quiet of Ward 30 - which I joked, maybe unwisely, to a nurse reminded me of the opening scenes of zombie thriller 28 Days Later - was soon broken by the trail of people waiting in corridors outside A&E, as we walked through the chatter and lingering cigarette smells. Eventually, Lisa escorted me off the premises just after 10pm, exactly 12 hours after I'd arrived.

Despite being knackered, my mind was wired and I lay in bed past midnight reflecting on the day; reminiscent of my steroid sessions during chemo which would keep me awake into the early hours.

Days like yesterday, anchored in meaningful human interactions, remind me that life isn't only found in periods of activity and achievement. It's also found in days of waiting, resting, being looked after and 'done to' rather than doing. Entrusting yourself and your wellbeing into the hands of others, however vulnerable you feel. Remembering that life is fragile, and more precious because of that fragility.

The instances of eye contact, hand shakes, smiles, stories shared and multiple biscuits were unexpected gifts that cancer unintentionally threw our way. These are the days that cancer cannot destroy. And that, today, is worth writing about.