Seasons change

This week has had that in-between season feel: I'm peeling open chocolate Christmas coins while the roofer on the house opposite works in a t-shirt.

Recently, on a favourite running route, I've taken to rescuing shiny conkers from the road and carrying them in my hand, enjoying their smoothness. One travelled with me for eight miles on Monday, the longest run I've done for some time, in the autumn sunshine through local woods, fields and canal towpaths (pictured below).

Deer also seem to be everywhere in the fields and footpaths near us as rutting season continues, often locking me with a hard stare as I walk or jog by, like the one below.

Meanwhile, a new season of treatment is about to start for me. It feels strange typing these words after almost 18 months away from the chemotherapy cycle which dominated the first year of our cancer journey.

But, yes, all being well (!), I will once again take to the chemo chairs for an infusion at Burton hospital a week on Monday.

This follows the results of my recent biopsy at the same hospital. Two 'cores' (samples) were extracted during the biopsy and, as my oncologist explained, the second had what appeared to be a metastatic carcinoma on its tip. This is assumed to have caused the recent growth in the small lesion on my liver, along with the growth on my left adrenal gland.

Within a few minutes of getting this deflating news, I was signing up to a new course of treatment. My 18-month freedom sojourn over, just like that.

As usual, the list of possible side affects (which always finish with 'death'!) were detailed and appointments made for blood tests and other pre-treatment checks; a dental exam and Covid/flu booster jabs also carried out this week before it begins.

The drugs themselves - a combination of Bevacusimab and Lonsurf - have only been available on the NHS for 12 months (click here for a helpful news story about them). Bevacusimab is a targeted therapy drug (similar to immunotherapy) which starves the blood supply to tumours, while Lonsurf stops the growth of cancer cells. In a 28-day cycle, I'll have an infusion via cannular of the former on the first and 15th days, take Lonsurf tablets during the first fortnight, followed by rest during the second. There will be three of these monthly cycles before progress scans. This will be my third 'line' (or type) of treatment, following the two successive lines of chemo before.

Of course, I'm thankful that this tiny bit of new cancer was detected before it spread further, after my curious oncologist suggested the biopsy when scans drew a puzzling blank. I'm also very grateful that a treatment which wasn't available before is on offer now. And there is the added galvanising sense of 'doing something' about my cancer.

Yet, the novelty of chemo has worn off. This time I'm going in fully aware of the toll it could take on me physically and mentally; plus the times I will, no doubt, ill-temperedly deflect this onto Lisa and the kids.

While I've never thought that cancer is part of some kind of warped divine plan for my life, if I take things slowly, and keep my eyes open, new opportunities and purpose will appear. It's too early to say if I'll be able to carry on volunteering or doing my weekly freelance work, but there will be some sort of fresh vocation for me, I'm sure.

This vocation may simply be to learn afresh to receive from others, whether it's the chemo nurses treating and keeping an eye on me, or the family and friends who pick up some of the practical load. Receiving is often harder than giving because it bursts ego and any sense of personal usefulness, but can be more satisfying once you 'give' in to it.

As I write this, I've also had copies of clinical trial re-referral letters land in my email inbox. My oncologist, at my request, has updated the Royal Marsden in London (where I was lined up for a clinical trial before my cancer stabilised last summer) and the Christie in Manchester about my current state. Putting me back on the radar of these specialist hospitals potentially provides an extra, experimental, future option beyond what's currently available locally.

But, for now, I feel like a caterpillar about to enter a cocoon. There's a sense of safety, of stillness and preparation, along with an awareness that I'm in good hands. I'm not sure when exactly I'll come out of the cocoon but I can hope that new life, of whatever sort, will result. A new adventure perhaps?

I subscribe to The School of Life app on my phone and each day there's a photo under the title Reasons To Be Resilient. Last weekend it featured a picture of a ship buffeted in the dark by wind and high waves with the caption: 'Contrary to what it can feel like, we're built to withstand storms.'

If nothing else, the capacity and resilience we've grown individually and as a family over the past two and a half years will count for something as treatment re-starts. And the support of others will continue to play a huge part in this, exemplified by this classic Bob Mortimer image sent to me by my amazing pal Paul the other day:

What a perfect way to start this new season ;)