A year ago I sat in a chemo chair for the first time. I was told about the side effects and how to get press my emergency button, given some steroids, anti-nausea tablets, and more than one pack of Mini Cheddars.
Then I entertained myself while being hooked up to several infusions of chemotherapy drugs before feeling very sick with an injection of fluorouracil.
Since then I’ve done 23 cycles of chemotherapy and, although I’ve tried to make it fun, it hasn’t been a laugh a minute.
Here are five things I’ve learned since the beginning:
Cancer has destroyed the way I look
Looking in the mirror is now more of a struggle than it has ever been. I was hoping chemotherapy would help with weight loss so I could be beach body ready but instead I’ve got a big round pink face with far too many bits of neck and chin.
The scales show I’m approximately 20g away from being classed as obese and I can’t run like I used to because I’ve got a massive hernia.
Supposedly these are some of the blessed effects of chemotherapy and the steroids I’m taking. That’s fine when I can explain this to people but doesn’t help me when I’m walking down the street looking odd.
If only I’d realised I looked almost okay when I was 19 and still had the face in the above photograph.
Non-alcoholic beers taste of sadness
With tumours in my liver as well as my bowel, giving up alcohol after being diagnosed with cancer was an easy decision to make.
I’ve perfected my look of discontent when a publican asks “Is Pepsi okay?” (Spoiler alert: It never is okay) and have supped more than my fair share of pints of lemonade, and Coke.
I’ve even strayed into the world of mocktails, including one that tasted a lot more like meat than I was expecting.
And I’ve regretfully had to stray into the world of non-alcoholic beers. People who say they taste the same as alcoholic versions clearly don’t have a refined palate.
They also don’t realise that, for me, alcoholic beers represent a time when I was well and could go out without worrying whether I would be too tired to stand up.
They also represent the days when being awake at dawn was a good thing instead of being awake to deal with chemo side effects, when I wasn’t wondering whether the pub would make a good location for my wake.
This is why non-alcoholic lagers taste of sadness (as well as not being as nice as their 4.8% to 9% friends).
It’s okay to sleep if you’re tired
When I was first diagnosed with cancer I messaged a friend to tell him the news and mentioned that I hoped it wouldn’t take up too much of my life.
I had hoped to have been able to continue working apart from when in hospital and shrugged off a warning from a colleague that chemotherapy would make it difficult to work.
But instead fatigue, tiredness, and other chemo side-effects have meant I’ve spent more time sleeping in the past year than ever before.
This means I’ve missed so much of the news cycle, and so many events outside work, but have had to learn that while I’m sleeping my cells can do their best to fight the cancerous tumours.
It feels odd to look back at the last year and think all I’ve done is have cancer but I’ve done my best to try and beat the statistic that says only 11 percent of people with my cancer survive more than five years.
It’s difficult to prepare for death while still alive
When people are told they have an incurable health issue they often put together a bucket list. My bucket list is just a list of buckets which I hope to one day exhibit in a plastic bucket in a gallery before I kick the bucket.
So far there are more than 45 types of bucket on it and I’d love it people want to email me with their suggestions.
And so far all I’ve done in a “last time before I die” style is go to the newsagent at the bottom of the hill in the village where I grew up. I also went to Pizza Hut for the first time in years, and visited a burial site where I might be laid to rest.
Now I’m trying to plan a fantastic funeral party, which will be called Fiskoff, but how can someone consider booking an ice cream van for a funeral without knowing what the weather is likely to be when I eventually pop my clogs?
I’m a lot happier than I was before
This is according to one of my esteemed GPs so it must be true. During the filming for the Daily Express documentary I did earlier this year my doctor was asked how my health has changed since she’s known me.
She replied that now I’ve got cancer I’m a lot happier than I was before.
For most cancer sufferers it is undoubtedly the worst thing that will happen to them. It destroys lives, causes fear and uncertainty, and kills people before they have achieved their dreams.
I know that my cancer will kill me in the end but I’m enjoying the battle and will do my best to be as happy as I can while I’m still alive.
