We've come a long way, baby

I'm facing a wall mirror as I type this in Macy's downstairs bedroom, and catch a glimpse of myself.

It's surreal and a bit surprising to stare at my normal, routine face.

Two years ago this week a 4 cm tumour was found in my rectal colon. Of course, the tumour had been quietly hiding for a year or two before that Maundy Thursday colonoscopy. It had even, using my blood, spread its spores into adrenal glands, lymph nodes, a seminal vesicle and my spine; already an incurable killer before we met. Then, five weeks ago we found out its latest excursion eastwards had left a new mark on my liver.

But still I stare at my normal face in the mirror. "Pete's doing really well, he looks so normal," is a common remark Lisa gets when talking to people we know. It's interesting how much our faces do - and don't - give away.

A year ago, my reddened face reflected the chemotherapy I was on; a fortnightly carpet bombing that attacked the cancer but also my immune system, skin and other healthy body parts. Twelve months, or 24 cycles, of chemo took its toll while keeping me alive. The numbness in my fingertips as I tap the keyboard now is a reminder of its lingering side affects.

After ten months of chemo-free stability, the liver spot was a sign that the cancer was on the move again. All of March was spent in a fresh, but familiar, kind of limbo, our Lenten waiting. An MRI scan led to a PET scan last Friday with a view to targeted radiotherapy to zap the liver mark, along with what seemed to be an expanding lesion on my left adrenal gland.

The PET-CT scan at Nottingham hospital proved an eventful outing - catching the train to Nottingham, then a lift from my sister Ruth for the three-mile journey from the station to the hospital's imaging centre. I had to fast until the lunchtime scan and was injected with a radioactive tracer dye an hour beforehand. In this hour I was not allowed outside an enclosed room where I sat alone, except to go to the 'hot' toilet reserved for radioactive patients, pictured above. Back in my room, perched on a slippery reclining plastic chair, I listened to a live BBC Radio 6 Music interview with one of my favourite bands, Mogwai, on a dusty hospital DAB radio.

I began to doze off during the silent scan which took only 15 minutes or so. Warned not to get within a metre of children or pregnant women for a further five hours until the radioactivity wore off, I tried to keep my distance from any youngsters on the bus back into town. I met Ruth and we retreated to a safe cafe space in the city centre before a quick visit to Rob's Records and the return train home.

On Wednesday, my oncology consultant rang with the PET scan results. After hearing me take the call, Lisa came into our bedroom and we switched to speaker phone. I was hoping we'd be told the scan showed the liver and adrenal gland were both zap-able. This would mean that I wouldn't yet need to switch to option two: restarting chemo, or option three: re-exploring clinical trials.

Instead, she told us that something strange had occurred. The scan, which shows whether cancer cells are active or not, revealed that my cancer cells were not multiplying at all. They were inactive. This surprised my consultant and her colleagues. It was not normal cancer cell behaviour. "Carry on with your monthly bone injections and you'll have more scans in four months," was the outcome. Lisa and myself fired off a few questions as we tried to digest the news. "Just keep doing what you've been doing - it's working!" my consultant encouraged us.

Somehow, my slow-moving cancer has totally ground to a halt, almost a year since I last had treatment.

While others have been rightfully over the moon, often tearfully so, my emotions have been a bit more belligerent and only now - two days later - are starting to settle.

We've spent the last five weeks with one foot back in Treatment Mode, where things like summer holiday planning were put on hold. Emotionally and mentally, it's been tough as I've switched lenses and braced myself for what might be coming. I was as prepared and as ready as I could be.

Now it feels like the table's been flipped over (again). I've said before that the most helpful definition of suffering I've found is of not being in control. And this is that. I was ready for a planned course of action to tackle the cancer over Easter (and possibly into the summer) and now everything is wide open again.

I was talking this through with Lisa last night. The best analogy we could think of was preparing and training for a 400-metre sprint, only to get to the starting line and be told you're actually running a marathon. The sprint requires a lot of energy and focus but is over quickly, whereas the marathon is a slower exertion of energy over a longer period of time.

Although I'd much rather be running a marathon at this point, with the longevity of life it suggests, the constant change and readjustment does take its toll.

Then I felt bad for feeling ungrateful. And frustrated because I can't explain - or fully understand - what's going on. How can my cancer seemingly have spread five weeks ago and now suddenly be inert? Is it playing dead? We don't know why this has happened, and it doesn't seem the experts do either.

Is this a miracle? An answer to thousands of prayers and kind thoughts by hundreds of people? Maybe. I'm reminded of a line in Christian Wiman's Zero At The Bone where, over many years with still-there cancer, he talks of "my dire illnesses and miraculous recoveries." I can sense God's gentle hand in many small ways: in the little wins and laughs; in the tears and the anger; in the slow, silent rebuilding of shattered hopes and plans. The "miraculous recoveries" are brittle, yet still beautiful, within the ongoing boundary of incurable illness.

I guess, while the micro view of things seems to confuse, the macro view of the past two years is massively encouraging. It's been a long journey since me and my tumour first met on a giant hospital TV screen on Maundy Thursday 6 April 2023.

To quote 20th century sage Fatboy Slim (himself quoting 70's soul singer Carmille Yarbrough): "We've come a long, long way together/ Through the hard times and the good/ I have to celebrate you, baby/ I have to praise you like I should."

It is a miracle that I am feeling as healthy now as I did two years ago. Watching the tragic story of a dad who died from colon cancer aged 45 on Wednesday's Celebrity Bake Off (Stand Up To Cancer) put my journey into some perspective.

It's ok to be a bit dumbfounded - the joy will follow. Lent and Easter are well-worn seasons to carry us through this.

In fact, as I write I'm listening to my Lent playlist. Soaking in these reflective songs, I realise, for the first time in weeks, that I'm not feeling weighed down. I'm relieved, peaceful and thankful. And that, along with my normal face in the mirror, is more than enough for now.