An incredibly busy six weeks. The recovery from session four of chemotherapy is ongoing. Water retention and the advent of swollen ankles is not something that I had experienced with the previous sessions and almost immediately on returning home I am walking as though some one has slashed both my Achillies tendons. It is very, very painful. The ease with which the barely-existent side effects of previous sessions had been dealt with, and my now clearly misguided nonchalance

Firstly, an apology for the delay, it seems my adoring public cannot get enough. I’ve had several requests for the next update, but the truth is I am an incredibly busy man. Unlike myself, you’ll just have to show a little patience. Round Two Each chemo sessions means having to be in London the day before treatment, so that my bloods can be taken to ensure that I am fit to undergo the treatment, this somewhat inefficiently, means a three-night stay for each visit. The fli

Aggressive. Adjective. 1. Very angry or hostile. 2. Too forceful. It’s a word we have heard much too often since this diagnosis. Never comforting, but nothing new. The cancer continues to grow, building empires where it is clearly not welcome, but unfortunately this isn’t a democracy. At the outset we were told that chemotherapy might not necessarily be on the cards. Adenoid cystic carcinoma doesn’t generally pay much attention to plans, advice, or polite suggestions.

Camden Town, my home for the next four weeks. Busy, vibrant, and full of tourists. I arrived a day early, hoping to avoid the travel disruption that tends to accompany island life in the middle of winter. A sensible decision, as it turned out. Flights the following day were indeed affected. One small, rare victory. The company responsible for my treatment, offer a selection of apartments as part of the package. This made securing somewhere to stay much easier and came with a

Christmas at home felt like a luxury — one I was acutely, almost painfully grateful for. Watching the girls open their presents was easily the highlight; simple pleasures, now carrying a little more weight than they once did. The girls had also decided that I should be in charge of Christmas lunch this year. Apparently, they were hoping for a little more “flavour” than their usual daily fare. Their words. Entirely theirs. Unfortunately, I’ve seen some regression in the move

Just as things began to settle down a little, my back started to complain. At first it was a little stiffness, then pain — the sort you try to ignore unless you’ve just had surgery for cancer. A conversation with the team in London quickly led to a decision: I needed to see them again earlier than planned. That meant another scan. This time a PET scan, which involves an injection of radioactive “sugar” — an unsettling phrase that sounds deeply ominous. You lie very still whil

On Tuesday 2nd December, I arrived home to continue my recovery. Home felt special. I was still fragile, still sore, still very much in repair mode. There were exercises to do, movements to relearn, strength to slowly claw back. This wasn’t a bounce-back situation. It was going to take time. And that was okay. The consultant, meanwhile, has decided that my stubble must go. Immediately. The local barber takes one look at my still-healing wound and backs away as though I’m carr

Sunday morning arrived quietly. Too quietly, really. I don’t remember much about it beyond the essentials: a hospital gown that didn’t quite understand the concept of dignity, and a pair of hospital-issue underpants that should come with a formal apology. Then there was theatre, bright lights, and the calm, reassuring voice of the anaesthetist — the last person you ever meet who sounds like they genuinely know what they’re doing. And then nothing. Waking Up Is the Hard Part T

The scan showed a tumour in my left parotid gland, over five centimetres across. Big enough to explain the pain. Big enough to require an urgent referral. Honestly, I’m not sure what I expected walking into that appointment, I was just trying to remain positive, hoping for some good news to finally relieve the pain. Cancer, though. Fuckity Fucking Fuck. I don’t remember much of what was said immediately after that word. I doubt I’m alone in that. When I did regain some cognit

“Adenoid cystic carcinoma of the left parotid gland with invasion into the infratemporal fossa and lung metastases.” Sounds made up to me. A sentence of words I’d never heard before, arranged in a way that nonetheless felt deeply worrying. I didn’t fully understand it; o ne thing was for sure though, it didn’t sound good. Cancer is like that. We all know the statistics — one in two of us will get it at some point — but it remains reassuringly at arms length. Something that ha