A lot has happened.
P’s last round of chemo was in early August. He then had to have scans to establish one of two outcomes: the first was the most positive – that the “Stormtrooper” chemo had shrunk the cancers in his liver sufficiently that they could operate and still leave enough liver left to function. And the other was palliative chemo – essentially, keeping him alive for as long as he had the quality of life to bear it. Even before chemo had ended, P was saying he really didn’t want any more – he was unfailingly stoic about the side effects but it was relentless. It was only me bursting into tears and begging him to do anything that would keep him alive and making him promise, that made him back down.
We saw the oncologist just before his final round of chemo who said we should hear the end of that week or beginning of the next week but that he hoped he wouldn’t see us again – that he hoped the next appointment would be with the surgeons as it would mean that P could have the op. And we waited. The end of that week went, the next week went – and then we got an appointment with oncology for a fortnight’s time. I tried to think of any way this could be interpreted positively and came up with nothing. My birthday was in the middle of all this – it was not a good birthday anyway, but I had no interest in celebrating anything with the prospect of terminal cancer hanging over us. I couldn’t help but wonder where we’d be next year – whether I would be ‘celebrating’ alone. I got to the point where I practically begged P to speak to the specialist nurses. No, not “practically”, I did. They kept saying they’d call back and then they didn’t.
Three days after my birthday, I got a text message from P. I’d been in a meeting and he hadn’t been able to get me. I found it incredible hard to read and had to call him. But what I thought it said, it did say – that, despite best predictions, the Stormtrooper chemo had not only reduced the cancer lesions, it had destroyed them. There was no sign of any cancer left in him. My legs went to jelly, I thought I was going to pass out, that I was going to cry, that I was hearing things. The euphoria of relief was overwhelming. It felt like winning the lottery – except this was so much better than winning the lottery. No sum of money could be better than the prospect of having a future with P back.
I have been touched by others’ reactions too: several of our friends cried with relief. Others desperately want to celebrate with us – we’ll be celebrating until Christmas! People we barely knew were jubilant – my new colleagues, two of whom flung their arms around me (not simultaneously), my hairdresser (who also cuts P’s hair (although he’s lost a lot during chemo))
The next week P was due at the GP as his current sick notice was due to expire. She offered to extend it, but, with his usual phlegmatic level headedness, he’s actually back at work. Only working a half day, in the middle of the day, so that he doesn’t have to travel in the rush hour (with all the germy people). His immune system will be depressed for another 6 months. And he gets very tired. But he’s hurtled back to normality. And we go on holiday at the beginning of next week for 10 days to Marrakech, so he can have some rest and some sunshine (although hopefully not a dodgy stomach as he’s had quite enough of that). And then we’ll see. I know I will be terrified again in November when he has more scans and then an appointment to check it’s not come back/popped up elsewhere. But I’m determined to deal with that terror then and enjoy the blessed relief of now. Now we can properly celebrate his birthday on Friday ahead of our holiday.
And then, after Marrakech, I need to get properly back on the wagon. Over the last month and a half, I’ve put on a stone and a half – which is mind-blowingly appalling. And that’s with me getting so terrified I couldn’t get food down me sometimes.
