5th October 2009

The previous day I started The God Delusion by the much talked about, and forthright atheist Richard Dawkin. On reflection, it probably wasn’t the best book to read the day before getting the results that would announce me cancer free, or cancer imprisoned. Any divine intervention would have been welcomed at this juncture. I won’t get into Dawkin’s beliefs, or any of his hypotheses, for they have no place here, least not yet. I mention it because I had taken the book with me to the Outpatients of Calderdale hospital. After my last visit had taken over 80 minutes, I didn’t want a similar amount of time to progress slowly by, allowing more of those dark clouds to gather over my head and force me to reflect negatively on the next hour. Sadly, I couldn’t concentrate on the book. I re-read paragraphs because I couldn’t remember a single word. Every time a nurse came to the front of the waiting area with a brown folder in her hand and called out a name, my heart sank and the ink pressed into the page before me melted away leaving behind only a brilliant white. They are awful places, waiting rooms. The hesitancy and dread is something you can almost taste, and while it borders on the offensive, I can’t help but glance around the room at all the patients and reach unfounded conjectures to their illnesses. The elderly remind me that the body will always fail. The child reminds me that time isn’t always a factor in this. And though we are all very different, of different ages, different colours, different beliefs, different homes, different fashions, different loves and hates, we are united by one thing – hope. We sit there and we hope that beyond the waiting room those brown folders that hold our medical history have no mention of the words, malignant, tumour, positive. We hope that the doctors are cordial, have a good bedside manner, or at the very least, make eye contact when they tell us the results. We hope that soon the weight we’ve been carrying for all those weeks or months will finally lift and we can once again stand straight and look out inside of down. We hope that we did the right thing, and that all the negative thoughts we harvested were silly. We are united by hope, and divided by chance. Today, I was given a second one. The doctor who saw me came in to the small cubicle and glanced up momentarily from the results to say, “We have good news today.” That was all I needed to hear. My weight was lifted, my back straightened, and my heart swelled. In the briefest of time I saw myself teaching my daughter how to ride her first bicycle, saw myself dancing with my wife, and smiling with friends. It is easy to become mawkish when given life changing news, but I didn’t care. I wanted to project ahead and render to my mind clichéd moments, for they were moments I thought I’d never see, regardless if they happen or not. The doctor shook my hand, and said again, “very good news”. He quickly looked over the scars on my back before returning to the sheet of paper in front of him. The medical prognosis was relayed as follows – upper legion (John), benign. Lower compressed legion (Clarence), benign. “Good news, indeed.” I was told to keep a stringent eye on any mole that changes colour, weeps, ulcerates, bleeds, become itchy, or changes size. If I see any of them acting “strangely”, I was to get in contact. He then shook my hand again. Then he was gone.I walked to the car like a man reborn. I had my life back. It was October, but it was a warm day, the sun browning the dying leaves. I saw a father guiding his two daughters home from school. They were much older than my daughter, at least five years her senior. As I passed them I wanted to stop and pull the man to one side and whisper in his ear, “Don’t ever take these moments for granted.” But I didn’t. I went straight to the local pub and ordered a pint of Guinness. I am not a drinking man, least not anymore, but today was for celebrating. I send a message to my wife to meet me there. I then sat down and picked up from where Dawkin was enlightening me on Secularism, the Founding Fathers and the Religion of America. I can say, just as before, those words found it hard to override the thoughts in my head. But whereas before those thoughts were dark and oppressive, each had now turned bright and cheerful, which is the mood my wife and daughter found me in when they arrived half an hour later. My wife said she always knew. She has an inner certainty of optimism, one much greater and stronger than I. And if I may be permitted to make one more syrupy remark before I close this entry; it is because of everything she is that I will always have hope, and it is for her heart, and that of my daughter’s, that I will always be with love.

29th September 2009

I arranged to have my dressing removed and the wounds cleaned by the local nurse. The surgeon had covered the scars well, and despite all attempts at making the process painless, I can say having the protective plasters removed was more uncomfortable than have the moles taken off. The nurse informed me the scars were healing well. I was told to keep the area clean, and still be mindful of lifting or overstretching. I then left and returned to the waiting room. My wife and I had made an appointment for my daughter to see the doctor. She had developed a slight rattle in her chest, and we wanted to make sure anything was okay. When they arrived, I took our daughter into see the doctor. It was same doctor who referred me to the dermatologist all those weeks back. He must have been checking up on the paper work because as soon as I entered he asked me if I’d been to have some stitches removed. I told him it was more the removal of dressing because the stitches were soluble. This led into the reasons for having the stitches to begin with. He seemed pleased I’d had Clarence removed. He then added that if doctors are concerned enough to refer a patient to see a specialist, then surely this would be justification enough to warrant having a mole removed in the first instance. The bureaucratic red tape one must undertake in order to have this procedure isn’t something he agrees with, least that’s what his comment implied. And, as I have found out, going through the necessary experts means time, which could be a crucial element in battling cancer. I couldn’t comment on this at the time, but I did say I had a week left before finding the results. He then said I’d be fine, but in any case, at least I’ll know for sure and the treatment can begin. I can safely assume any marriage vow involving a doctor must take a lot longer than a normal person, for commitment is a responsibility they do not take to lightly. I can hear the priest now, “Do you take Jennifer Bloggs to be your lawfully wedded wife?” Behind a dead pan stare and feigned compassionate smile, the doctor replies, “That really depends on a number of factors, all of which will have to be measured independently and with due care and attention. But if you’re asking me do I love her, of course, but that’s not to say I will remain in love forever and ever because no person can truly see that far. But yes, for the short term at least, I do, but who knows what tomorrows brings.” And so the rug was once again pulled from under me. Later that night I watched a news report on breast cancer, now the most common cancer around. A woman who had checked her breasts twice daily, and had felt no lumps during any of these checks, had a routine breast scan and was later diagnosed with the disease. I didn’t get the full story, but she appeared healthy in the interview, so I can only assume she beat it. But the one thing I remember her saying was that people are more afraid of getting cancer than actually having it. I can say that’s pretty damn accurate at the moment.

19th September 2009

Clarence has been removed. Yes, I named the mole after Clarence, the guardian angel in that old Jimmy Stewart film, It’s a Wonderful Life. I thought it appropriate considering Clarence was sent down to stop Stewart’s character George Bailey from killing himself, something he did by showing George what the world would be like if he wasn’t in it.
Today my wife, baby daughter and I, travelled from our home in Ripponden all the way to Bradford Infirmary. After parking up the trusty Rover, we took the four flights of stairs to ward 19, an Out Patients department that deals with minor surgery. Bradford infirmary is one of those pre-war hospitals that as soon as you walk into it you begin to feel ill. The colours are military blues and greys, and the corridors are long and stark. A depressing place makes you look more favourably on death. We were told to wait outside the small operation room. Through frosted glass, I saw a figure dressed in blue scrubs float around in a brilliant white room. A few moments later, a nurse came out dressed in surgical attire and made funny faces at my daughter. She smiled and the nurse returned it with a bigger smile. Babies do that, don’t they? They make you feel better when you’re feeling down. I can say my daughter’s smile has been a blessing these past few days. A young oriental man followed the nurse a few minutes later with sheets in his hand, which he then put in a medical bin beside me. I was told to follow the nurse into another room. My wife kissed me, and told me everything would be okay, and strange as it sounds, I knew it would be.
After changing in a gown and placing blue protectors over my shoes, I was ushered into the OR. There were four people in that room, which wasn’t very big to begin with. There was the nurse I spoke about, the oriental man, a plumpish girl with thick glasses, and a very tall man. The tall man was the plastic surgeon (not the same I saw previously). He took me through the procedure and mentioned skin cancer a few times. I then had to sign a few consent forms which absolved the hospital should I get an infection from surgery. I remember thinking how well I was taking it all, considering the surgeon had mentioned the “should” word every other sentence. He then asked me to get on a long operating table in the centre of the room. I asked him if he would be using soluble stitches, because I didn’t fancy the thought of having them out in a week’s time. He said that shouldn’t be a problem. The tall surgeon was very considerate and told me everything before he did it. The injections to numb the area were, surprisingly, not as bad as I thought, and was, as described, like a small sting. He then asked for a blade. I tensed, and remained that way during the whole procedure. And maybe this was why conversation came around to my daughter. He asked how old she was, a technique no doubt to help keep my mind from the fact he was slicing my skin off. It turns out he too had a daughter, roughly the same age. We exchanged a few resigned acknowledgements to broken sleep patterns, and upturned world, and then he removed the first mole. One of his assistants asked what he would like to call it, and he named it the lower legion. I then told him I had named the mole Clarence after the Guardian Angel. This amused the group and the oriental man began a conversation about angels, and that there were many different types; Guardian, and Arc were the only two he could bring to mind. He then opened it up to the room to name an Arc Angel. An uncomfortable silence began to descend, so I piped up with Gabriel. He agreed, and because there were no other takers, he called out the name Michael Angelo. No one corrected him. The surgeon then removed the upper legion, and he asked me if I had a name for that one too. I told him no, and without deliberation the oriental man suggested we called it John. Nothing else was said about angels after that, but as I lay there, with all my trust left in the hands of these four people, I hoped the oriental man’s main role stretched only as far as official sheet remover.
The operation took around thirty minutes, and nearly all that time I spent with clenched arse cheeks and the words, “This is for your family” running through my mind. The only other conversation that took place fell again to Clarence, and how long I had it. As before, I took the surgeon through the days leading up to this point, and made reference to what the dermatologist had said, and in typical fashion, his response was to say, “Yes, but sometimes we get it wrong.” Non-committal to the end! After the surgery, I was brought back to the room where I had changed and was taken through a few post surgery measures. I was told the biopsy would be rushed through, but I was still looking at two weeks before receiving the results. I thanked the nurse who smiled at my daughter and told her to pass on my thanks to the team.
My wife was waiting in the canteen. My daughter was in a highchair eating a few strawberries. I must admit, I felt drained, most probably due to the nervousness that had crept in during the surgery, which I must declare now, was not painful in the slightest. My wife saw this, and gave me a warm smile. I looked to my daughter, and she too gave me an equally loving smile. As I joined them and told my wife what had happened, I felt relieved: relieved the surgery had gone well: relieved that Clarence had gone (well, one hopes), and relieved that I have a loving family who will help me through the next few weeks, and should the news be bad, whatever the following months may hold.

September 3rd 2009

Since my meeting with the dermatologist, and up to the meeting with the plastic surgeon, I have been in good spirits, which is strange considering his diagnosis is not final. But I have been happy and enjoying time with my family. Nevertheless, yesterday I visited the plastic surgeon and now I feel back to square one. Those dark clouds have gathered overhead again, and I’m beginning to measure my life in increments of months, not years. It is not that I received terrible news, but after the 80 minute wait in the Out Patients department (yes 80 minutes!), I was directed into a small cubicle where I had to give the history of my mole again, and my own medial history. After which the surgeon had a look at my back, and concluded it was probably benign, but it warranted removal. He was upbeat. But what I took from the meeting was a sense that he wasn’t in full agreement with the dermatologist. He spoke about the procedure, the scar tissue that will be left behind, and should after laboratory tests the results come back and the mole was melanoma, then they a further 1 cm of tissue would need to be cut away. One can assume this would confirm how far the cancer had spread. It was all probably procedural talk, yet I couldn’t shake off the fact I was again facing the prospect of cancer, something that had all but escaped my thoughts for a large proportion of the past few weeks. I think this can be partly contributed to the fact that when I asked how long I would need to wait for the surgery, he said, due to the potential risk of cancer, I would be classed as urgent, meaning I only had to wait a further two weeks (evidently two weeks wait is fast). I am trying desperately to hold on to the positive stuff, like how he believed, based on my assessment and history, that there should be nothing to worry about. But Jesus, it’s difficult.

29th July 2009

The day has finally arrived: my appointment with the dermatologist. Since my last entry, I have been able to block most of negative thoughts…well almost. There were times when I’d look at my baby daughter and wonder about the what ifs. But by in large, I had quelled the fatal imagery that has haunted me since my doctor referred me to the dermatologist. That’s not to say the last day or so hasn’t brought all those thoughts flooding back, which they have.
I was very quiet that morning, and every time I looked at my wife, or daughter, a great weight pressed upon my chest. At one point, I was alone with my daughter. Having mastered it a week or two ago, she was supporting her frame against a few stacked pillows. I was on the opposite side of the pillows looking at her. We were engaged, for a moment at least, in silent conversation. It was then I whispered to her that I was scared. Hearing those words said aloud, and knowing she was too young to understand, made it seem all too real again. I told myself I was being too soft and paranoid. I decided to test fate. The television was on showing the morning breakfast show. I had fifteen minutes before I needed to leave for work, so I said to myself, if there’s any mention of cancer, or a cancer advert presents itself during the break, then I’d take it as an ominous sign. I then sat back in the chair and waited. Five minutes passed before the presenter introduced a section on the dangers of sunbeds (no mention of Zeta though). The government have proved using tanning beds increases the chances of getting skin cancer by 75%. Things were not looking good.
I left the house well in advance, and arrived at the hospital in good time. I made my way to the information board and looked for the dermatology section. A woman asked if I needed help. She was middle-aged, and dressed in hospital uniform. I told her I was looking for the dermatology department. The woman said she would take me. I’m sure it wasn’t her job to guide people around the hospital, and I’m also sure she had better things to do, but it was such a welcomed and kind act that I thought (and you can see the state my mind was in at the time) that she was an angel sent to make things easy for me. Once we arrived at the dermo department, I thanked the woman and before I could ask her name, she turned away disappeared down the corridor.
I handed in my appointment details at reception, and then took a seat in the waiting area. I had ten minutes to wait. I tried my best not to project ahead. I tried not to imagine the doctor scratching his head, teeth-sucking, and then furrowing his brow to indicate his concerns. But it was hard.
Surprisingly, I was seen at the time of my appointment, and was directed to a small cubicle for examination. In the five minutes it took before the dermatologist arrived, I had absorbed the surrounding and pondered on what all the medical looking equipment did. All were black and sinister looking, and I wondered which of the pieces were used to lance, and which were used to cut. I contemplated picking one up, but didn’t get the chance. The doctor who entered had dark skin, and spoke with a strange foreign lilt. I assumed he was Moroccan, or possibly Egyptian, I wasn’t too sure. He knew why I was there, and asked me to sit on a chair. He then picked up one of the sinister looking tools and went behind me. During the examination, he asked the same questions my GP had. I told him I didn’t know how long I had the mole, or if I’d noticed a change in its size. I shown him a print out of a picture I’d taken of the mole back 2006. Next to the mole was a ten pence piece for reference. He seemed happy I’d done this. He measured the mole and said it was 9X6mm. He then took a large magnifying glass, added a little oil to its lens, and pressed it against the mole. He then turned back to me. This was it. I’d imagined this moment over and over for the past few weeks. Every time I put my head to the pillow, I saw this faceless man turn me and say, "I’m sorry, but it’s melanoma". Now the man had a face, a strong masculine face with dark skin. He opened his mouth, and the words he said bore no similarity to those I imagined. Instead, he said, "It doesn’t look anything to worry about." I was sure I’d misheard. I asked him what that meant. "It’s a benign mole." I thought I was going to faint. He added that it was a little large, so he wanted to have the hospital take a picture of it and then make another appointment in 3 months to see if it had changed. I asked him again, if he thought it was serious, and he asked if I had been worried. I didn’t go into the finer details, but said I’d had a baby recently and something like this makes you evaluate your life. He told me not to worry and then we sat down in his office where he filled in details of my medical history onto official looking paper. He then asked if I wanted to have the mole removed. As it stands now, the mole in benign, however, things could change in the future. That’s what he said. I asked him about the procedure, and he said a plastic surgeon would numb the area and remove the mole leaving a small scar. It was a lot to take in, and I was still reeling from the good news. I told him I’d have the picture taken, and then in 3 months I’ll let him know. We shook hands, and I left. I phoned my wife and told her the news, and then told her about the offer of removing the mole. She said I should, which is why, when I got back to work, I rang the doctors and rearranged to have the surgery.

11th July 2009

Since leaving the doctor’s surgery, not one hour has elapsed without my mind wandering to thoughts of the big C. Back in 1998, I found a lump in my neck. It was just before Christmas. In what was my old flat at the time, a thick medical encyclopaedia of illness and disorders sat beside the toilet. I would read the symptoms of nearly all diseases, and then convince myself I had those diseases. I was a borderline hypochondriac when that lump presented itself. I knew, just by its size and feel, that it could have been lymphoma, or Hodgkin’s disease. I was referred to a specialist at the local hospital. He took a full history with a couple of chest X-Rays thrown in. There were no other symptoms, and the lump was still fairly small. The specialist wanted me to wait a month, and then return to see if the lump had grown. That Christmas, there was very little cheer. Then, in the first quarter of 1999, I was given the all clear. I had dodged the bullet that is cancer. So here I am, some ten years on, facing that same pistol.
Only those who face the possibility of cancer, or those, like me, who have an overactive imagination and a disposition that leans toward the fatal, become embroiled in the detail of life: what we have right now, and what we have left. In the darkness, or even while watching my favourite TV show, my mind begins to render images of a hospital bed, myself lying there, no hair, body frail and limp under a soiled hospital gown. I see myself vomiting, crying, and wondering if the suffering is worse than the end. With every lull of normal life, I picture every single minute from receiving the test results, to the point where I’m writing letters to my family and friends, wishing them my love and happiness for the future. I know, it’s all very pessimistic and morbid, but I have always been a pragmatist, and a realist, both of which have served me well, but with issues concerning health and wellbeing, they have been nothing short of a pair of insolent little children, mocking me with every second that elapses. So this has been my life for two days. My present, and my future lived out. My past reflected upon. I can say now, while my stomach churns with the possibilities that lay ahead, if I can’t outrun that bullet once more, I will not go down without a fight.

9th July 2009

Her name was Zeta. She lived in my hometown, and my father knew her more than I did. From what I remember, she was pretty, you know, a real head-turner. Her hair was golden blonde, sun-kissed they would say. Her skin was the same. Regardless of season, she always looked like she’d just left the beach. The golden tan complimented her, and made her slender legs hypnotic. For years, I only knew her as the attractive woman my dad would, on occasion, talk to. If I was in the car with him, and he passed on her on the street, he’d open the window and shout something that would make her laugh. It wasn’t anything more than banter, cordial and innocent. Not that I minded because it allowed me to look at those long legs and exotic looks. A couple of years ago Zeta got skin cancer and died. It made the news after her parents began boycotting tanning salons, and encouraging people to not use sunbeds. Her advantage over those paler women had cost her life, and that was the story.
She died and left behind two young children. She died and left behind a loving family and friends. And why, so she could stand out in a crowd? So men would gawp and slow their cars, and women could look on in envy? She died because she used a sunbed every day for many many years. Zeta went through treatment, and probably fought that cancer with every bit of energy left in her. The news never showed her in the hospital bed, but I’m sure in those final days her skin colour was not sun-kissed. Like any tan, without continuous exposure to the sun, it fades. Its beauty is short-lived, but as Zeta realised, the consequences were permanent. I used a sunbed for a while. Not years. I would say it didn’t go further than six months, at best. But I have fair skin, and that, couple together with a few too many days under foreign skies, and a nasty bout of sunstroke when I was in my teens, I’m wondering if Zeta’s story will soon be my story.