Reasons to be cheerful, pt 2

As I haven't posted on here for a month or two, there's a lot to catch up on.

When I trained as a newspaper journalist in the 1990s we were told to always sum up a story in its first three sentences, so here goes:

I'm still off treatment and my cancer remains weirdly inactive. The experts are baffled and I'm having a biopsy next week to find out more.

We had a fantastic fortnight in France with friends and as a family over the summer.

Lisa started a new job this week.

Sorry, that was four sentences but you get the drift. Hopefully, you'd like a bit more detail, so I'll continue...

The title of this post harks back to an early blog entry from April 2023 which found me listing things to be thankful for as we moved in a daze between scans and hospital appointments, still unsure of the extent of my cancer. That list included cloud formations, an encounter with a fox, and a woman taking her vacuum cleaner for a walk.

Now, Part 2 is long overdue. And, as I reflect on this summer, it's been a time to be thankful for how far we've come.

When I was first diagnosed, my no-nonsense (but top class) oncologist, gave us a raised-eyebrow reality check when we tried to talk optimistically about the number of my remaining days.

So, it's remarkable, and sobering, to think I'm almost two-and-a-half years into this unexpected journey with metastatic colorectal cancer (to give it its proper title!).

This was brought home last Friday when Lisa and myself (pictured in a blur above) had a day at the Moseley Folk & Arts Festival in Birmingham. Our first visit to the festival was in 2023 when I was around four months into chemotherapy. It was one of our early forays out after my diagnosis and I was tired, my feet sensitive and sore due to the chemo. That trip, where we saw one of my favourite US groups, Wilco, felt significant, emotional and exhausting.

The fact that Friday's return trip was more humdrum and much less of an effort was not lost on us. Just being there, again, two years later and feeling 'normal' was quietly amazing. We went to enjoy two bands that played a part in our early years together but who we'd never caught live: The Lightning Seeds and The Waterboys (pictured below). Both were great.

One song in particular brought a lump to my throat. Taken from the new Waterboys' album, Life, Death And Dennis Hopper, 'I Don't Know How I Made It' repeats this simple refrain:

I don't know how I made it, but I made it

I don't know how I held on, but I'm here

It's as if I did a deal with an angel

Somewhere back along the line

We reflected on the poignancy of the song the next day.

Now, back to my introductory sentences....

It was lovely to be able to relax with our long-term friends the Cottons and the Findlays as 18 of us travelled to Poitiers together (pictured above including some quality photo-shopping of Dan who left a day early!). We'd cancelled our last trip across the Channel in 2023 due to my treatment, so this felt overdue but also a bonus. In many ways, not much has changed since we first started holidaying together over a decade ago; except for the kids now being bigger and managing to out-drink and out-sleep us. Our second week was a slightly quieter one as a family (minus Dan but plus the girls' partners Nick and Charlie) about an hour further south. The house we stayed in was surrounded by golden fields with plenty of car-less lanes (like the one below) to run down for me, and Macy who joined me on one morning jaunt. Our time away was, metaphorically and literally, just what the doctor ordered.

Talking of which, we've seen my oncologist twice since we got back from France. The first time was to get the results of July's pre-holiday CT and MRI scans. These showed no growth in my cancer apart from marginal increases in the spot in my liver and on my left adrenal gland. This echoed my February scan results where there was similar movement in the same areas. As with then, I was referred to Nottingham hospital for a PET scan (hot toilet and all) which was organised quickly due to a cancellation.

I found the period waiting for the PET scan results tough, experiencing the mental contraction I've had several times when the prospect of a potential return to treatment looms. Just as the cinema curtains of our childhood would draw towards each other to shrink the screen aspect before the main feature began, my view of the future also got smaller. It became hard to see beyond a few weeks ahead, which always makes life more claustrophobic and calendar planning difficult.

Despite this, I woke on the morning of the PET scan results last week feeling positive, with an unexplainable inkling that things would be ok (I don't always get this sense before appointments!). My oncologist had a furrowed brow when we walked into her room at Burton hospital; soon explained by the images on her computer screen which had been puzzling her, and her colleagues. We had a good look on the monitor at the scan's 3D view of my liver - completely minus the 'lit up' areas they were looking for, which would denote active cancer. This isn't how it's supposed to be for a patient in my condition who hasn't had any treatment (beyond monthly bone injections) since May 2024.

We were given a choice: go away and come back in three months for more scans or, before then, have a biopsy on the inactive 1.6cm liver spot. This procedure, where they insert a long needle into my liver through my side to take a sample, may help to explain why this spot is seemingly growing while the cancer cells aren't multiplying. I signed the consent forms for the biopsy and we left, lighter.

In the days since that appointment, the cinema curtains have slowly reopened as I've taken time to decompress.

Some friends referred to my scan results as 'miraculous'. I don't necessarily disagree. But we've also learnt the importance of keeping our feet on the ground; balancing the joy of wonderful news with the necessary ongoing reality of incurable illness. This is the latest in a gradually growing line of reprieves and we're deeply appreciative of it.

Over the summer, I've been wading through the works of theologian Walter Brueggemann, who I quoted following his recent death in my last post. In his book The Prophetic Imagination, he writes of an "energizing hope" which "comes to those who will settle for amazements they can neither explain nor understand." That sums it up, I think.

And, back to my intro, it's been so good to see Lisa start a new job this week. She's taken up a role as a Regional Business Lead with a smaller, and more local, academy trust. You may recall that Lisa was given notice of redundancy in the same week that I was diagnosed with cancer. After two years in another role, this new opportunity seems to be just, again, what the doctor ordered.

Last but not least, we're also celebrating Rosie and Nick buying their first house together. They will only be a mile and a bit down the road so, even though our home will be quieter, I'm sure they will be popping back for meals on a regular basis.

Another reason to be cheerful!