2. The Answers Came Quickly

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 cognitive clarity, my first thought wasn’t about treatment or prognosis — it was about how on earth I was going to explain this to my family when I didn’t quite understand it myself.

There was no leaflet to take away. So I asked them to write it down.

It wasn’t an easy conversation when I got home, I mean, honestly where do you start?

Mel was fantastic that night, as she has been on many, many days and nights since. Whatever it is we are dealing with, we will meet it head on and beat it! 

We’d tell the girls a few days later, upon returning from Liverpool with a confirmed diagnosis.

Cancer is a scary word, especially for kids. But it is just a word. Nothing had really changed since the day before. The girls obviously knew I was ill; they had seen the marked difference in my face over the course of the last few weeks and were aware of the pain I was suffering. There were tears, and clearly no one wants to see their children upset, but as we explained, now we know what we are dealing with I can get the treatment needed to do something about it.

Worse News

Further tests followed. Biopsies. Scans. Multidisciplinary team meetings. The language became more precise, and the news became worse.

The tumour was extensive and inoperable. The scans showed multiple nodules in my lungs. Stage IV cancer.

Which, medically speaking, is not ideal. Double Fuckity Fucking Fuck.

Adenoid cystic carcinoma, it turns out, is rare. Incredibly rare. About 60–100 cases a year in the UK. Accounting for roughly one percent of head and neck cancers. I always knew I was special.

The internet, as ever, was both helpful and terrifying. After all, Google the common cold for long enough and you’ll eventually convince yourself you’re dying.

What mattered more was this: there had to be another option.

Research led us to London, and to a surgeon who looked at my scans and didn’t immediately shake his head. He talked about debulking the tumour. About relieving the pressure that was causing the pain. About facial reconstruction. About quality of life.

For the first time in weeks, something shifted.

Yes, the surgery would be long — twelve to fifteen hours. Yes, it would be brutal. Yes, the cancer in my lungs would still be there. But suddenly we weren’t just managing decline. We were doing something.

I’ve also had a referral to the local hospice for palliative care and pain management, which sounds ominous until you actually get there. In reality, they’ve been nothing short of wonderful. Thoughtful, practical, and offering support for things we hadn’t even realised we were going to need. I’ve also learned something. Palliative doesn’t mean giving up, it means having an entire team with you making your life easier.

Where This Leaves Me

The tumour, as it stands, measures somewhere between the size of a golf ball and a tennis ball. It has wrapped itself around things you very much want unwrapped: nerves, arteries, airways. The good news? It hasn’t reached my brain. I’ll take that.

Left alone, the prognosis isn’t great. Possibly 12 months. With surgery, radiotherapy, and whatever else modern medicine can throw at it, there’s time. And time, it turns out, is everything.

As I write this, surgery is booked. Bags are packed. We are no longer rushing from appointment to appointment — there’s a plan and that is something to hold onto.