4. Home - For A While

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 carrying an unexploded ordnance. So, in the end, it’s just me, a mirror, and a razor — negotiating terms. Thirty minutes or more for one shave. A brand-new life experience. With no feeling on the left side of my face, it’s less like grooming and more like stone carving. Imagine shaving a rock, very carefully, and hoping you haven’t missed a bit, or worse, gone too far. In the end it’s a success, but I can’t say I’m looking forward to the next time.

Looking in the mirror after surgery has been… complicated.

It’s me. And it isn’t. I recognise the person looking back, but I’m not the same.

There’s no doubt the surgery was remarkable. My surgeon is a genius — I don’t debate that for a second. But the reality is simple: half my face was removed and stitched back on again. That changes how I look. No amount of reassurance, however well meant, can alter that fact.

Adjustment is going to take time. I know that. Some days I manage it better than others and I have at least stopped swearing at my reflection.

For now, I try not to linger too long.

First photo, the day before the operation. Second photo, post-op and post shave.

That Photograph

That family photo from the holiday has taken on new weight.

At the time it was just another picture — the four of us, squinting slightly in the sun, smiling because I always insist. Now it’s something else entirely. The last photograph of the four of us in which I’ll ever be able to smile.

It’s incredibly precious. I wouldn’t part with it for anything.

And yet, every time I look at it, there’s a sadness there too. A quiet one. The kind you don’t need to explain.

Next Step

I’m due back in London in the next few weeks for follow-up appointments with the surgeon and oncologist, where the next phase of my treatment will be confirmed: radiotherapy, and everything that comes with it.

The tumour is gone — or at least most of it is. The pressure is relieved. The pain is quieter now, and manageable.

For the first time in months, I’m not reacting to what’s happening to me. I’m recovering, and I can honestly say, that despite its drawbacks it is a very special place to be.

What I didn’t expect

One thing I wasn’t prepared for was just how resilient the kids would be.

Mel and I have been away more than we ever wanted to be — hospitals, appointments, long stretches of absence that can’t have been easy on the girls. And yet, somehow, there have been no complaints. No resentment. Just quiet acceptance and an ability to get on with things that puts me to shame.

Their schedules at the pool have most definitely helped. Training, routines, early mornings, tired bodies. It gives them something else to focus on, somewhere to put the energy that might otherwise turn into worry. Normality, of a sort.

We’ve also been incredibly lucky to be surrounded by some very special people. Friends, family, coaches — all stepping in without fuss, eager to help in whatever way they can. Aunts and fairy godmother’s moving in. Swim runs covered. Meals dropped off. Lifts given. Life kept moving.

It’s easy to feel overwhelmed at times like this. But every now and then, something else becomes impossible to ignore.

We are surrounded by kindness and our girls are stronger than I ever realised.