Right lads, here's the deal: Last November I was diagnosed with an incurable blood cancer Stage 4. It's a type of Non-Hogkins Lymphoma. I had 6 rounds of chemo and now I'm in remission and pretty much back to normal life. But, this cancer is coming back at some stage. It's guaranteed to. But for now, I'm good. I'm on a 2 year "maintenance" programme of being administered a targeted cell therapy to keep me in remission (the longest remission recorded for this cancer is 11 years).
Here's some things I've learned that you might (or might not) have an interest in hearing, so settle in on this bank holiday evening for a read.
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Cancer is NOT a journey. I'll start by saying that if you or your loved ones have or had cancer and the word journey resonates with you, by all means use what ever metaphor helps you.
For me, cancer is not a journey. A journey is something planned, something anticipated with excitement and something you choose to do, to create memories. It's walking the camino di santagio, or interrailing through europe with friends.
A journey is not being stripped of your identity, your purpose, your career, your routine and your everyday life. A journey isn't something that if you don't undertake, you will die.
I'm also not brave, bravery imples choice, like running into a burning house to save your child. I didn't choose cancer and didn't choose to go through treatment.I am just going through the motions and treatment required to align myself with health again.
This is by no means pointed at any one who uses the word journey. Because everyone does. It's on every hospital wall, in every medical professionals lexicon, on every cancer charity website. It frustrates me because journeys come to an end and my "journey" never will. I am in remission, but I won't be cured and for the rest of my life, I will worry about it coming back. So my "journey" is my life now. One I'm very grateful for and one I plan to live for a long time.
2. Immigrants working in the HSE I attended St James Hospital in Dublin as they are the national centre for haematology oncology. I was looked after incredibly well and administered my chemo by the kindest and empathetic Irish, Fillipino, Indian, Spanish, Portuguese, and African nurses and doctors, HCAs, catering and porters. They were incredible. I just need to say in light of all the racism, negativity and violence towards immigrants of late that; you are appreciated and thank you for working in our health system. And yes, nurses need their pay doubled to bring some Irish nurses home too.
3. You know your own body. As a fella, i feel like health professionals listen to us more. I have been blessed with an amazing GP who sent me to a&e with my symptoms and blessed they actually did a CT; so I was admitted and diagnosed fast. But, I have heard horror stories from patients and family of people who were simply ignored or dismissed (particularly women) who eventually were diagnosed with cancer. My advice is as follows: if your GP refuses to send you for a scan; go to A&E. Keep going until you you get scans a diagnosis (what ever it is) and answers. As awful as this sounds; you might even need to exaggerate your symptoms to be listened to. Too many people are left to rot while cancer or other undiagnosed illnesses consume them.
4. YOLO - LITERALLY If you hate your job/sector - leave and find something new; upskill while working (courses , microcreds etc) develop an exit strategy and set a deadline and just go for it. If you love your job; remember you work to live; not live to work.
That relationship, friendship is toxic? get out.
Spend (a bit) of your savings; if you're lucky enough to have a mortgage and have a rainy day fund; dip into it; experience those things you've always wanted to now. When I was diagnosed and thought I was dying; I had very little regrets but there was a couple of things I wanted to experience and had the finances to do so and thought to myself "why TF did I not just do it?"
5. PTSD. If you have a love one or friend who has been through chemo; they will need as much support after as they did during. Just because they're in remission; don't pull back your support. I didn't process a thing until after and for some it can be so traumatic that PTSD sets in once you start getting back to normal to the point that more support is need post-cancer.
6. Cancer does not discriminate I saw a sign up in the hospital saying you can cut your risk of cancer in half by not drinking, not smoking, not getting sun burned, exercising and watching your weight. I don't drink, smoke or go in the sun and exercise frequently and I was riddled. ?? take from that what you will.
7. You're gorgeous. Until you see yourself with grey skin, bald with no beard, hair, eyebrows, eyelashes and a face so swollen from steroids you look like you've been punched; you won't appreciate how good you look now. You're gorgeous. Own it.
8. Know the symptoms of hon hodgkins Lymphoma Night sweats; I mean drenched bed and sheets. Like you've gotten out of a swimming pool and lied down in bed. Itchy skin for no reason. Extreme fatigue that doesn't resolve no matter how much sleep you get. Bruising constantly. Lumps on neck, armpit or groin.
9. Funny story to end
I told a person I meet most days walking the dog at the park that I had cancer and was starting chemo; just incase they didn't recognise me. I got the most irish response: "Glad you told me because I would have been wondering who that baldy c*** was walking your dog"
Luke warm regards,
Pup Cup
