4 posts tagged with "recovery-diaries"

Let me preempt what I'm going to write by saying this: it's good news my friends, it's good news. Much that I've written recently hasn't been. This is. I may yet experience bad news again. Or not. Either way, right now I want to tell you about some good news.

Six of the best​

You find me on the morning of July 13th. It's the long hot summer of 2026. The time that will be looked back upon by future historians as the moment we realised the environment was past the point of no return, and that humanity was doomed.

Whoa. This guy has not honoured the whole "this is good news" commitment has he? Let me start that again.

It was the morning of July 13th, another hot summers day that future historians will look back upon as "1976 part 2". (Look it up, that year was an exceptionally hot summer - I wasn't born but I'm told this was a year everyone remembers as unrelenting from a sun / lack of rain perspective.)

Lisette and I found ourselves orienteering our way to various hospital appointments in the fine city of London. And why? Because I'd now done six rounds of chemotherapy and three of targeted therapy. They'd been dealing me the medication cards every other Wednesday for three months. It was time to see what cards I was left holding. I was going to be scanned again.

Over the course of the day, in two hospitals, I was due to be:

1. Injected with dye and have my brain scanned with an MRI machine
2. Injected with different dye and have my lungs and colon CT scanned
3. Injected with a nuclear isotope, left in a room alone for an hour whilst the radioactiveness got all up inside of me, then PET-CT scanned. Lungs and colon again.

Oh and I couldn't eat all day. Nothing but glamour this cancer lark, I think you'll agree.

The scans were done. I was scanned. I went home. I have had jollier days. I feel for Lisette. I was not great company that evening.

An unexpected visit​

So how was I doing at this point? I'd had quite a boost just a couple of weeks before. On July 2nd a cohort of my colleagues had come to lift my spirits.

About a month before this, I'd had a call from Lauren and Janice at work, and they'd suggested the idea of their running club doing a sponsored walk / run from my office in the City of London to a pub called The White Swan near my home in Twickenham. By the sound of it, about five or six people would take part. I'd get to see them down by the riverside at the end for thirty minutes or so. The prospect of spending a little time with five friends in person, instead of on a screen was entirely delightful. Just chatting to folk on a screen was getting tedious.

My colleagues surprised me. On the day of the run, at around 3:30pm, my phone pinged to tell me that they were here. I hastened down to the river. It wasn't five people. It wasn't six people. There were more. Quite a lot more. And as the afternoon progressed more arrived. Then more. Then more still. I don't know the actual numbers in the end, but I know it was headed in the direction of seventy Investec people. I was amazed.

This is some of us:

Together the "Rough Road Runners" (as they had called themselves) raised about six thousand pounds for the charity Maggies.

By 10:30pm that night, there were still Investec people down at The White Swan. It helps that it is a lovely pub and it was a gloriously warm evening. But still, I was very touched. These wonderful people had taken time out of their lives to raise some money for charity, and with that, to raise my mood significantly. I was bowled over. The people of Investec are magnificent; and this tells you more about them than it does about me.

Being poorly, sucks. However, it does give you a chance to appreciate how good and kind the people around you are. They step up, they really do.

The darkest hour is just before the dawn​

And then things went South again.

When I was a teenager I had epilepsy. Quite badly. Then, unexpectedly, when I was 22 I stopped having seizures. This was good. In years to come I got a driving license and I came to regard epilepsy as a memory. On the day before New Year's Eve in 2025 I'd been struggling with insomnia. And after a night of not sleeping, I had my first seizure in 26 years. I found myself in Kingston Hospital, I lost my driving licence. All in all, it was a bit rubbish.

Still. It's probably a one off. That's what I thought. I'll get the driving licence back in time. It'll be fine. So I was disappointed on the morning of July 7th to have another seizure. I'll spare you the details since they aren't super interesting. But it knocked the stuffing out of me.

I found myself spiralling. What is wrong with me? Is this a different problem surfacing? Something they haven't picked up yet? Is this where they tell me it's brain cancer? Please God, no.

I promise this will lighten up; stick with me folks. Soon we'll skip to the good part. It's coming. Pinky swear.

So yeah. I was a bit down. But you can see why. Up until now, it's only been bad stories. You know how you read the news and it's 100% negative generally? Well, that's what all my medical news had been for a while. I was rather doubting that any other kind was possible. So when I went for the scans on July 13th, a bad vibe was rumbling through my head on a loop.

Many people sent me encouragement. They were all far more hopeful than I found able to manage. My aunt that's a nun sent me this message:

I read Psalm 91 following my aunt's recommendation. It's a banger. The third verse in particular popped for me:

For he will protect you from every trap and protect you from the fatal plague.

What's cancer if not the plague? I wanted to believe this verse. I want protection from this plague. But that felt impossible to me on the evening of July 13th. I couldn't see a future. I was lacking hope.

I know it's alright​

The results were due on July 15th. I awoke that morning with a song running through my head: "Whatever" by Oasis. This song had passed me by when it was initially released. As "guitar music is for losers" - John Reilly, aged 17.

My mind has broadened since I was a teenager and I will now accept that music that isn't East coast hip-hop may have merit. With that change in perspective, I've grown to love this song over the years.

The best songs allow you to bring your own meaning to them. "Whatever" has some nonsense lyrics, but ends with Liam Gallagher singing plaintively "I know it's alright". For whatever (pun most definitely intended) reason, this last line kept repeating in my head: "I know it's alright".

I didn't actually think it was. But I wanted it to be. I'd like to imagine someone knew something I didn't and was trying to tell me. Or maybe my subconscious just likes the song. It is excellent.

"The news is good"​

The appointment was 11:30 at the Royal Marsden in Sutton. The same place I go to for treatment. A kind friend drove Lisette and I to the appointment and we sat in the waiting room, not relaxing.

We were eventually called in to see the doctor who is in charge of my treatment. I think I've mentioned before that she's a pro. She exudes alpha dog / leader of the pack type vibes. If you want someone who gives you the sense she knows what she's doing, she does. Also, as Lisette has noted, she's quite glamorous. This is a doctor that knows how to dress. The GP I saw as I was growing up very much did not. I digress.

"How are you?" the doctor said. "Quite stressed!" I squeaked in response.

Without missing a beat, and no doubt taking in the look in my eyes, she said "the news is good". In four words she drastically reduced the amount of tension inside of me. Like I said, she's a pro.

I breathed out. I didn't know what the news was, but I knew I could relax a bit. So I did. The doctor then proceeded to walk through my test results, occasionally bringing them up on the screen in front of her.

"First the MRI - all clear. Your brain looks fine. I don't know what happened with the seizure, but talk to your neurologist. Maybe they need to adjust your medication. Now let's talk about your lung. In April, you had a two centimetre tumour visible on your scan. We can't see it anymore."

She looked up at this point and saw Lisette and myself with tears rolling down our cheeks.

"Oh you'll set us off!" She passed tissues to us both. She kept talking.

"The tumour in your colon was four centimetres. It's shown significant regression and is now two centimetres." The doctor went on to say more about activity in the tumour and, I'll confess I didn't really understand the details. It sounded like the tumour had gone from highly active which was bad, to considerably less so, which was presumably the opposite of bad.

As I say, I didn't quite follow. But it didn't matter. "The news is good". Good news. Gospel.

Thank God. That's all I could think. Thank you God. Thank you. I found myself able to see my blessings once again. A gift I had somewhat lost over the previous week.

I live at the best possible time to have cancer: now. The best treatment that history has afforded is right now. I live near one of the best hospitals for cancer treatment in the world. I have access to healthcare; many people do not. I'm being treated by some of the best people to ever do it. I'm not alone. I'm surrounded by a loving wife, family, friends, neighbours and church. I have many, many reasons to be grateful.

It had all gone slightly blurry for me in the room. "The news is good." I focussed again on what the doctor was saying.

"We'd planned for you to do twelve rounds of chemotherapy. We'll probably stick with that. You've done six. But we need to take you off for a while now. We're going to schedule your first surgery. Although we can't see anything in lung, that's not to say there's nothing there. We want to remove the part where the tumour was; statistically that makes reoccurrence much less likely. So. Your body will recover from chemotherapy for a while, then surgery, you should recover from that in about a month, then we'll start you on the chemotherapy again with a view to surgery on the colon later this year."

I'd expected pretty much anything but what I had been told. What I learned gave me, gives me, hope. Hope doesn't need to be all encompassing. It just needs to be enough. This was enough for me.

So this is where I find myself. Temporarily chemotherapy free. I feel a bit more like me. I've done maybe the first 20% of all the treatment that's headed my way. Whilst the road is disappointingly long, I am on it and I've learned there are less potholes than I'd feared. I have butchered that analogy. I don't care.

The news is good. The news is good!

---

The recovery diaries​

I'm writing about what's happening to me as I go through treatment. It helps me process the experiences, if that's not too peculiar a thing to say. When I've written about it, I feel I've dealt with it in some way. I'm not quite sure why. If you'd like to read the posts (and hey - it's not the most jolly of topics so don't feel you have to) you can find them here:

• Rough road ahead
• A cowardly lion
• A private lockdown
• Hope

The last time I wrote, treatment was beginning. It's been going for a couple of months now.

I've done 5 rounds of chemotherapy, and 2 of targeted therapy. I know roughly what to expect, and my life is quite different. At least for now. So that's what I want to tell you about this time. My life now.

The best way I can think of describing it is this: I'm in lockdown. We all did lockdown back in 2020. We pandemicked together. I'm now pandemicking solo. Well that's probably the wrong word. I don't care. I'm going with it. For me it's round 2. I've had practice. I'm a pro.

I'm not going to the office. I'm not going to church. I'm not going to the cinema. I see tech meetups I'd like to be at happening in London. I'm not going to them. I don't really leave Twickenham, save for hospital trips.

My world has become physically smaller. But it is a good world. I feel blessed to be in Twickenham. I live in a nice house, with a garden. I have a family and a cat. I'm close to the river and I can walk and watch the sun rise. There is, as there always is, so much to be so very grateful for. And I am. Let me tell you about it.

Work​

At the start of my adventures in March, I was learning how well, or rather how unwell I was. But it didn't become clear to me just how I was for a while. I started very gung-ho, saying "I'm going to carry on as normal, when I'm not so good I'll take some time out but I'll be fine." Not for the first time, or the last, I had no idea what I was talking about.

As the news got worse, I thrashed about, I was still going to the office and trying to work. But the problem was the people. We care, and we ask each other how we are. I work for a company that started in South Africa; Investec, and it employs many South Africans. They'll generally greet you with a cheery "howzit!" I do know, having worked with them for a number of years that this doesn't demand an exact response of how you are, but nevertheless I cannot help myself.

So as I saw people in the office that knew and cared about me, I found it hard. I didn't want to tell them what was going on with me. Partly because I didn't have the full picture yet, and so I didn't feel equipped for the conversation. And partly I knew it wouldn't be a happy chat. I couldn't take it. So I withdrew.

I put my Teams status to "offline". I stopped going into the office. I started attending online meetings less. I'd leave my camera off so people couldn't see my face (which was a dead giveaway for how I was feeling inside). And I'd strategically join meetings late, to avoid any possibility of friendly chit chat at the start. The better to avoid questions.

No-one made me do this. No-one made me do anything. For a while a small number of people at work knew what was happening with me. They gave me space. They gave me support. Gosh they were human and good to me. I love them for that. I love Investec for that - care is part of the culture.

Anyway. I learned what my circumstances were. I learned that I was going to having some very serious treatment. And I realised that, being immuno suppressed, life had to dramatically change.

My working life now is really quite similar to lockdown. I open my laptop in the morning. I work.

I'm not doing everything that I would have been doing before. It's not a good idea for me to be putting myself in the position where I might be a blocker if I couldn't work. It's not a good idea for me to be doing anything that might stress me out.

But where I can make a contribution, I do. Work is good for us. I believe that in my very core. People need purpose. They thrive with it. They rot without it. We are at our best, when we think we're making the world a slightly better place.

So that's what I'm trying to do. When I can work, and that's often, I do. Medical appointments take me out of the game. The side effects of treatment can do similar. But when I feel okay, I will generally work. I want to.

Investec are helping me here. They're letting me make a difference, but they're not pressuring me to do anything.

Apart from anything else, work nicely gets me out of my head. Left to my own devices, my mind can wander to unhappy places. Work nerdsnipes me into something more wholesome.

I'm joining meetings with my camera on now. I'll not join strategically late; I'll have the cheery chats and enjoy it. Oftentimes I'll find myself sharing my peculiar current lifestyle with those on the call. Possibly I'm over sharing. But that's quite Investec too. I feel part of something, and that makes me happy. These people love me and I love them.

Next Thursday a number of them are planning to do a sponsored run / cycle and walk from the office in the City of London to the White Swan Pub on the riverside in Twickenham near me. They'll raise money for a cancer related charity named Maggies that I am grateful to. I'll get to see a number of them, in a socially distanced fashion. That's rather special. You don't get that everywhere.

Home​

My life at home has changed in a number of ways. I now sleep on a mattress on the floor, intentionally close to a toilet. For two nights out of every fourteen, I have a pump plugged into me that pushes chemotherapy into my bloodstream. For practical reasons, being close to the floor is helpful. The pump can sit on the ground and not be disturbed as I move in my sleep.

Alongside this, when you're on chemotherapy, you feel the need to drink water a lot. Your body is determined to flush out the toxins (remember chemotherapy is basically poison, but just worse for the cancer than you). The more liquid that goes into you, the more that comes out. I wake up multiple times in the night to go to the toilet.

So for now, having coughed up a ridiculous amount of money for a new bed at Christmas for the good of my back, I find myself instead ensconced on my son's old mattress on the floor. The irony is fantastic. But it's fine. This works. It won't be forever.

As well as making you drink more water, and urinate excessively, chemotherapy has other surprising side effects. It makes you burn calories. Really burn calories. You know how most of the year you're keeping an eye on how much you're eating? Then December comes and you go "oh forget it, I'm eating everything". Well on chemotherapy it seems like you have to eat that amount all the time or the weight just falls off you. I find myself eating 6 meals a day, with added double cream just to maintain my 85kg. It's weird. I'm in an eating competition I never expected to be. I told my brother and his response honoured the black humour of my family: "I need to get a piece of that action."

I'm not going to church anymore. A compromised immune system and loving people that would try to hug me and breathe all over me don't mix. Singing seems hazardous; mobile germs. I'm not going to the gym either. Even worse on the breathing front, plus added sweat.

I am having one to one pilates and clinical PT sessions at my physio every other week. Move Physio in Twickenham. I started going there with my back issues last year, and they sorted me out. The pilates and PT sessions are somewhat adjusted given my current circumstances. The port in my chest restricts my movements a little (and my confidence; I'm scared of damaging it). However the sessions I'm having are keeping me on the straight and narrow, and are hopefully preventing any relapses on the back front. Quite apart from the physical side, the chats with Bal, Hannah, Justyna, Kia and everyone else do lift my mood tremendously as well.

Despite all my best efforts, I still managed to get sick. Probably passed on from the enemy within; my beloved family. I did a day of hallucinations and toilet time. It's taken really seriously, getting ill when you're on chemotherapy. I've got a special card in my wallet to flash at the hospital folk. And if you get ill on chemotherapy, that's quite likely where you end up. Fortunately I didn't. The fact my family members got sick before and got better before me, and that I managed to not run a temperature, was considered enough to keep me out of A&E. Phew.

I find myself watching Clarkson's farm on hard repeat. I do that because I enjoy it. I do it because I'm having a hard time. It gets me through. I can't really explain why. It's very beautiful to watch - the photography of English countryside is stunning. I find all the characters comforting. They're voices and personalities that I'm familiar with. Somehow it relaxes me. It turns off part of my head that does pointless thinking. I've watched each episode of Clarkson's Farm probably 10 times at least. I haven't finished the fifth series yet; we're savouring each episode and taking our time watching them together as a family. It's like when I was a boy and I'd re-read Asterix books again and again. It didn't matter much that I'd read Asterix in Corsica a million times, it brought me happiness. Peace. We all need that.

The children seem happy. Good. They were quite nervous when they first heard my diagnosis. Fair enough. But the fact that I still appear to be functioning fairly typically, if slightly differently, has eased their concerns for now it seems. The same level of general disobedience abounds. Chores are mostly not being done, and I am still being referred to as "bruh" for reasons that are unclear. Lisette is also referred to as "bruh". Go figure.

What else? I sit in the garden. I potter around my various plants and trees occasionally trimming the dead wood and picking up the partially eaten apples that the parakeets knock out of the tree as they come scrumping.

I look with great interest at my lemon tree. We grew it from the seed of a lemon from a lemon tree which was in the garden of a house in Mallorca we stayed in one Christmas. It's now a medium sized tree all of its own. Around January it lost all its leaves and started to seem very... Well dead to be frank. And I was very worried. But after being returned to the garden and experiencing the warm weather it has rejuvenated!

So I look at the lemon tree and I think: "if you can come back from the brink, well so can I!"

Pilgrimage​

I've always walked. I wake early, usually around 5. I walk around the river each day, stopping to take a photograph of the sunrise over the river at Hammertons Ferry terminal which I share on Bluesky and with various family and friends. The walk resets me, brings me peace. It makes me happy. I stop and talk to people. I listen to the birds singing. I pray. I do stretches in the outdoor gym that draw questionable glances (not all stretches are delightful from a watchers point of view). I stop at a bakery and buy a croissant.

Walking is all the more important to me now. It has more purpose. If I can't go far, I must appreciate near all the more. I mentioned I'm not going to church. I found myself walking near church one Sunday morning, and a car rolled past me as I marched along and out came the cry "we love you John Reilly!" That gave me tears. Good tears. Quite lovely. Some people really show up. They really do.

Some don't. But I notice the ones that do. And I dig them. They're amazing. They're special. They make the world better. Can you believe an internet friend in California sent me homemade honey from his bees? That's generousity.

Walking has become my social life. I go for walks with friends from near and far. The record so far is held by the wonderful Graeme, who flew in from Johannesburg and came to Twickenham to walk with me. Rick flew in from Ireland and walked with me. Local friends walk with me regularly. My parents and my sisters family in Clapham are my regular companions. On one occasion Kirsty even brought a cheesecake that we ate together by the river. Simple stuff. Good times.

Everyone tells me I'm doing very well. And I think I am. Physically in particular. Mentally I'm up and down. Sometimes my body hurts. I have blisters on my feet and cuts; it's one of the side effects. Sometimes it's difficult to eat because your tongue aches and your throat burns. In those moments it feels more like you're not doing so well. That you're on the way out. Even if you know it's temporary. It's hard to get the head to hold onto that sometimes.

At times I feel "other". As I walk the streets I can feel a little like a ghost. Surrounded by the fit and healthy. Struggling to get back into their ranks. Wanting to be a part of the world, not apart from it.

Lisette is my support. She sees me at my lowest and she says "we're doing this". And she's right. The only way is forward. Together. We're doing this.

Communion​

I said I'm not going to church. That's not entirely true.

About two thousand years ago, somewhere in Jerusalem, Jesus Christ had a meal with his disciples. It's called the Last Supper and He was crucified in the days following. At the meal Jesus took bread and wine and gave it to the disciples, saying "Take, eat; this is My body... this is My blood of the new covenant, which is shed for many for the remission of sins".

Since that time, Christians have gathered to have bread and wine and repeat this tradition in remembrance. It's called Communion. I've participated in it many times in my life. It brings me humility and comfort. That God would suffer for me. Surely I'm not worthy? But God thinks I am.

Thomas is one of the vicars at St Stephen's; the church I'm part of in Twickenham. He's been a great friend to me in this time. When I realised my new ways, I asked if I could take Communion sometime somehow. I didn't really know why I was asking, but it felt important.

So now, every other week, when I'm not having treatment, we have met for a one to one Communion. We've taken it outdoors, down by the riverside. We've taken it in the empty church building. We've taken it in the prayer chapel at church whilst the main body of the church was prepared for Refresh - a gathering of the babies and parents of Twickenham where the church becomes a giant play room. In fact on that occasion, parts of our Communion were soundtracked by Bluey, a children's TV show about a puppy. I'm pretty sure 1st century Jerusalem would have had its own unique background noises as well.

This is Thomas in an atypically empty St Stephen's. (I took this photo standing on tiptoes standing on a chair.)

The only alcohol I've drunk since my diagnosis has been Communion wine. That's not forever. But it is for now. I go each time for Communion without expectation. Thomas and I will talk. At some point we'll turn to Communion. Unbidden, each time I find tears rolling down my cheeks and I am racked with sobs. I'm not thinking anything in particular in that moment. But it comes. I'm feeling. I'm probably processing something. I don't really understand.

In the end, the tears pass. I eat the bread. I drink the wine. I am grateful. This helps me.

So, how am I?​

At times I feel like an aeroplane in a war movie. Flying over enemy territory. Being shot at from below, but still flying. The only way is forward, we'll get there. "We're doing this."

A friend sent me a message; it's kind of the same thing but a lot more positive (and therefore better):

So as I have been praying for you this week I have an image of a big super tanker going through a stormy sea. Although the water is rough, I felt God saying the boat is designed to carry on. It will not sink. It will just keep going and you will come out the other side and the calm seas will return and you will be still charging round. I also had the image of lots and lots of small helper boats running alongside the tanker - keeping you safe - helping to navigate the choppy waters.

I like this.

I realised that I had cried every day since the diagnosis. Then the other day I didn't. Yes, I did cry today. But I have days when I don't. Maybe that's progress. Maybe.

I want more time. That's what I keep coming back to. I'm not ready to be commemorated by a park bench. I'm sat on a commemorative bench now, and it's wonderful. But I'm not ready for one. Give me more time. Please God. And give me real time; real life. Not marking time.

Whilst I remember to notice all the positives, there is a part of me that is scratching off days on my cell wall. I'm not proud of that guy, but he's in there.

On the other hand, so is the man that walks around the river each morning, and takes a photograph of sunrise at the Hammertons ferry terminal. So is the man who strolls with friends and family. So is the man who buys a croissant each morning and eats it with coffee he's made using beans sent from a friend in South Africa. And the guy who wanders around the garden feeling pleased with plants and trees. The chap that takes pleasure in coming up with new meals to cook and the one who goes for lunchtime meals with his wife in otherwise deserted restaurants. The man that notices the many kindnesses of friends and family, who feels the love he is so reliably surrounded by.

I hope this gentleman can balance the other fellow out. I believe he can. I must nurture him.

For now my world has shrunk. Whilst it may be smaller, it is still wonderful. Maybe I'm looking at less, and seeing more. I certainly intend to.

We're doing this. I love my wife. We're doing this.

---

The recovery diaries​

I'm writing about what's happening to me as I go through treatment. It helps me process the experiences, if that's not too peculiar a thing to say. When I've written about it, I feel I've dealt with it in some way. I'm not quite sure why. If you'd like to read the posts (and hey - it's not the most jolly of topics so don't feel you have to) you can find them here:

• Rough road ahead
• A cowardly lion
• A private lockdown
• Hope

The first thing you should know about me is I'm a physical coward. The second is I'm quite squeamish. The third is I don't like needles.

Needless (little pun there) to say, cancer treatment really doesn't want to meet me halfway. Pills? No. Needles? Yes! And more besides!

If you're anything like me, you may want to cut your losses and stop reading now. Please feel free, if I was you I think I would too.

Treatment​

When I last wrote, I was anticipating getting treatment for my cancer diagnosis. Getting the diagnosis had been a drip, drip of bad news. Once we'd got there though, the question then became "what can we do about all this then?"

There's a family WhatsApp group I'm part of. On the day I was to learn what my treatment was to be, I posted this:

I may be a grown up and a big man physically, but I was very nervous about the treatment. With good cause.

I had, as I've mentioned previously, been very much hoping for a sudden miraculous healing. Having been in and out of churches my whole life, you become aware of the occasional modern day miracle. It's rare in my experience, but I would have quite happily had a piece of that action.

Immediate healing didn't happen. I've heard it said that the answer to prayers can be "yes, no or... not yet". That was a helpful framing for me. For what it's worth, a lack of upfront healing didn't dent my faith in God. In my head I chalked it up to "I don't always understand God". There's lots of things on my "I don't get it" list, but they don't rob me of a relationship with God. I mean, I don't always understand my wife, why should I always understand God?

It seemed that recovery from cancer was going mean going the long way round. Maybe there's a bigger plan.

When it was initially hoped that it was only my colon at issue, the plan was surgery and maybe chemotherapy afterwards. When the lung hove into the picture, things changed.

I found my treatment moving to The Royal Marsden. The Marsden is a fantastic place for cancer treatment; genuinely world renowned. Happily it is less than an hour from home as well. And with the location change came a treatment plan change.

Time to go large on chemotherapy, antibody treatment and friends.

When discussing my initial diagnosis with my friend Stu, the conversation turned to how cancer is dealt with. Stu's view was that "in years to come, we'll look at how we treat cancer now in the same way we do when we hear about cavemen treating headaches with a drill to the head". He had an undeniable point.

When you think of cancer treatment you don't think "2 aspirin and you'll be right by Thursday". You think "that won't be fun". As I realised what was in front of me, I was thinking that a great deal. A great deal.

Drugs and their side effects​

I received treatment news sat in a doctor's office at the Marsden. The doctor I was talking to was a big deal in the cancer world. I'd googled. She is impressive. I knew whatever she said, I needed to take it seriously, and unless I had a compelling reason, I should do what she suggested.

The suggestion was 12 cycles of FOLFIRI chemotherapy plus antibody treatment. I didn't know what this meant really. Why would I? Without delving into technicalities, it turned out we were going HARDCORE. I'm young, I'm fit. The rationale is simple: I can take it. Probably.

Let's start with potential side effects and work out from there. I was presented with a list of things that could happen; about ten to fifteen potential side effects. I had to acknowledge them and sign a document to say I was happy to proceed. The doctor talking me through the list, discounted various side effects as we went through it. "That won't happen. Nor that. That neither". This was surprising, and slightly encouraging.

Not all side effects were dismissed. Hair loss was pretty likely. This did not bother me particularly. I'd already met that one head on (pun very much intended) by having the boys get out the clippers. Other side effects very much caught my eye. "Risk of sudden death" made me sit up and take notice. Yes, I looked with great interest at that one. "Less than 1% chance" it went on. You're reading this, so you can take it that I managed to be part of the 99%. Thus far at least.

Another entry on the list was infertility. I didn't think in depth about that at the time. I have two fine sons and I had no plans to enlarge the clan further. Lisette also, has no such plans.

But it lead to one of life's unexpected emails:

"the treatment can lead to infertility, would you like to sperm bank prior to starting the treatment?"

The infertility news itself was not unexpected. What I hadn't realised, and I'll confess to disappointment upon discovering, was that "sperm bank" had become a verb.

Scaramanga​

Moving on from the chemotherapy, next came the mechanism for delivery. I'd assumed, that this meant going to the hospital fairly regularly and being hooked up to some kind of drip which would pump medicine into my veins.

I was sort of right, but disappointingly slightly wrong as well. Cancer treatment has advanced over the years. In part that means it's more statistically successful.

Let's focus on that positive for a tick. My friend Rick put it like this "I know 1 in 3 people are getting cancer, but 1 in 3 people are not dying from cancer". I have held fast to this observation. It's a good one. And when I've been having a down moment (and I still have plenty of these, scattered amongst the more upbeat ones) I return to that thought.

Whilst cancer treatment is getting more effective, the means by which it is achieved have evolved as well. I'm dancing around this a little. Let me cut to the point.

To get the cancer treatment into me, I was to be fitted with the human equivalent of a USB port. I was to be fitted with a "portacath". A chamber that sits in my chest and connects into one of my most promising veins, from a chemotherapy perspective. Possibly the jugular. I'm too grossed out to check. If you're dry retching at this point, well fair enough. I feel the same.

Perhaps you've seen that James Bond movie "The Man with the Golden Gun". You may remember Christopher Lee's charismatic villain Scaramanga. He had a defining physical characteristic; a third nipple. And that's what they had decided I needed.

With that in place they could go buck mad and push all kinds of stuff into me. It's worth remembering what chemotherapy is. It's life giving poison. It's bad news for you in the short term, in order that you get to have a long term. Because it's even worse news for cancer. Obviously. That is the point.

So one spring day, Lisette and I went to a hospital near London Bridge. I returned that night with a port fitted, feeling something like a faulty cyborg.

For larks, I was also told:

• "Don't shower for a while, you have stitches".
• "Don't shower?"
• "Well not for a week or so, have Scouse showers John."
• "Scouse showers?"
• "Yeah a flannel"

At the time I was focused mainly on staying as healthy as possible, and so nodded and left. But let the record reflect that I was outraged on behalf of the people of Liverpool.

The new traditions​

Every other Wednesday, I go to hospital with Lisette. My dad drives us, as he's one of the most servant hearted people on earth. Truly a wonderful man. And he loves his oldest son.

At hospital, they weigh me. I'm about 85kg. The first time they measured my height. They only do that once for, I hope, self explanatory reasons. They take my blood pressure, and some of my blood. Lisette and I disappear off to the Maggies; essentially a big lounge on the Royal Marsden site that serves cancer sufferers and those around them. It feels wonderfully relaxing and helpfully non-medical. It is populated by kind and caring people. It is an oasis. In the meantime the doctors study my blood for a couple of hours to see how I'm doing. If my white blood cells and so forth are holding up then they assemble the chemotherapy.

Have you ever been to a DIY store where they mix paint specifically for you? Well it's that, but the stakes are a good deal higher than the colour of the lounge.

Then I'm plugged in. A lead connects to my chest and pumps chemicals into me. An assortment of bags hang above me like a disappointing child's crib mobile. I diligently look in other directions. I keep this diligence up for hours. I did mention I was squeamish. Time passes. Towards the end of the day, the lead is disconnected, and a different lead is attached. This one connected to something that appears similar to a babies bottle:

In fact it contains a chemotherapy drug called "5FU", and yes all the nurses make the joke you'd expect about that. Then I go home. The pump stays connected to me until Friday evening. At that point a nurse will arrive at my house and, after some maintenance, disconnect me.

The first time I was unplugged, I waited until the nurse left the house, then I wailed. I wasn't thinking any particular thoughts, I just found emotion washing out of me. I was overwhelmed.

How to cope​

I've done this three times now. Well, end-to-end I've done it twice. It's a Wednesday evening now, and I'm just back from my third chemotherapy session in the hospital. In two days time they'll disconnect me again, and I'll have eleven days break until we go again.

After the first time, which was pretty heavy, I knew I had to do better. I needed, I need, to be able to bear this. That way life lies. I have to do this again, and again, and again and I'll still not be done. To get through this, and get through this well, I must thrive. That became my prayer. If instantaneous healing wasn't on offer, then God please help me get through this horrible thing. Give me the strength I need; physical, mental and spiritual. Please help me God.

I must make this work. For many years I have written a technical blog with the name "I can make this work". The name is semi retired, but the the spirit of it applies to my situation now.

The second time I was disconnected, I didn't cry. That is progress.

I went out for a walk round the neighbourhood. I played aggressive music through my headphones. A great deal of Joey Valence & Brae. "Kill Bill" and "Punk Tactics" on repeat. Every lyric about them beating something, I mentally treated as me scoring a victory over the renegade cells running round inside of me. The lyrics are occasionally profane and wildly immature. But I'm basically still a 12 year old. Squint when you look at me; you know it's true.

Part of me wonders if I should be listening to holier music. Maybe.

Every time I go for chemotherapy, I have an outfit. It's a Hawaiian shirt I bought for a hackathon years ago. We were team Magnum PI because we were making "A-PI". We all had moustaches and wore Hawaiian shirts. I know right? Software engineers are hilarious

The shirt is baggy, short sleeved and has buttons down the front. So practically, it's really quite useful. I've made it my armour. Every other Wednesday I suit up.

The treatment is ongoing, and I'm getting through it. My attitude is helping (mostly - I still wobble). The prayers that it gets easier are, I think, being answered. I don't enjoy this, but I can do this.

After I posted my message in the family WhatsApp group, one of my lovely relatives posted this lovely response:

I can make this work. With a little bit of help from God, my friends and my family. I will make this work. Or, if I'm more honest, together, we will will make this work.

---

The recovery diaries​

I'm writing about what's happening to me as I go through treatment. It helps me process the experiences, if that's not too peculiar a thing to say. When I've written about it, I feel I've dealt with it in some way. I'm not quite sure why. If you'd like to read the posts (and hey - it's not the most jolly of topics so don't feel you have to) you can find them here:

• Rough road ahead
• A cowardly lion
• A private lockdown
• Hope

If you read my last post, you'll know that 2025 was a hard year for me. I had back issues which made the year a challenge. At the start of the 2026, my feeling was that whilst 2025 had been hard, 2026 should be easier. Somewhere in the universe, 2026 said to 2025 "Hold my beer".

I'll cut to the chase; I've had a cancer diagnosis. Which is pretty tough. I'm writing this to share the story of where I am, where I'm going, and maybe to encourage others. Not that I think I'm a poster boy for encouragement right now. But perhaps I'll get people thinking about doing medical tests sooner rather than later. That alone would be worthwhile.

Something is not right​

At the start of March 2026, I felt like I was in the best shape of my life. The back issues were mostly abated. I still had some symptoms, but they weren't bad. The truth is, that suffering back issues had lit a fire underneath me in terms of exercise, my diet was intentionally more healthy than it had ever been. I felt good. Really good.

Then I started to notice blood in my poo. There's no way to write that gracefully. It's slightly gross. I had been eating beetroot, that reddifier of vegetables and so I wasn't initially worried. However, the redness didn't go away, even after the beetroot did. And the poo was showed appearance of mucus, which was not normal. So I went to the doctors.

The doctor got me to do a stool sample and a blood test. The results of these were reduced iron in the blood and too much blood in the poo. There's a number they look for that they want to be under 10. Mine was over 200.

On March 24th I was sent for a colonoscopy and gastroscopy (a word I still cannot pronounce). The blunt description of what these procedures are, is putting a small camera up your behind and down your throat respectively. Though thankfully not in that order, and (although in my sedated state I was in no position to check) I imagine they may even treat themselves to different cameras depending upon the orifice. This is about as fun as it sounds, and was prefaced by me taking some industrial strength laxitives. This is also as fun as it sounds.

When a doctor comes to see you after a test or a procedure, you ideally want them to look a bit busy and bored. You want the sense that you aren't uppermost on their mind. Ideally they should look distracted, as though they're thinking about the next important patient. When the doctor came to see me, and Lisette who was sat by my side, they asked us to come with them. They lead us to a separate room. They sat us on a sofa. This achieves not a great deal more than to get you thinking "ohhh noooo....."

That was an appropriate reaction. It turned out I had a tumour in my sigmoid colon, about 40 cm inside of me. They didn't know if it was cancerous as yet, but it didn't look good and they'd taken samples to get tested. I remember the doctor saying words like "treatable" and phrases like "potentially good outcomes", but it's all a bit of a blur.

They decided to do a CT scan to have a look at the rest of me. A CT scan seems to be where they whip you through some machine and back again and (I think) sort of photocopy your insides for general intrigue. My photocopy was a disappointment. Not only did it show up the tumour, it showed something in the liver and something in the lungs. I needed more tests.

I left the hospital in a daze. Cancerous or not, I knew there was at least an operation in my future, and I was stunned. Going into the hospital I was braced for, at worst, a "you have piles" diagnosis. Not this. Not ever this.

Time passed. And very slowly. That first night after the diagnosis Lisette and I held each other as we lay in bed, and wept.

In the end, I slept. You forget what's happening in your life when you're dreaming. When times are bad that's a blessed relief. So it was on this night, and many following. I would rest, sleep and forget what was happening. Then I would come to at maybe three in the morning and think "I've got cancer.... ****". I've removed the expletive from end of that sentence, as I'm not proud of it. I said that same sentence maybe a thousand times over the next month. It was reliably followed by a suffix of "sorry God". For what it's worth, I think God is probably fine with an honest reaction to circumstances like this. I can't explain how my brain works and I'm oversharing I know. I think I want you to understand where my head was at. It was all over the place. And fair enough.

How bad are things?​

Several years passed. I mean days, but they felt like years. The call came confirming the tumour was cancerous. I was assigned to a friendly consultant. He told that me I was exceptionally young for such a diagnosis, but that it was happening more and more with younger people. I've often been an early adopter in life. I was less pleased about this particular one.

Tests were scheduled to see what was up with the rest of me; an MRI (I think for the liver) and a pet CT scan. A pet CT scan is like a CT scan but with much higher fidelity and also radioactivity. Before my scan began, they explained they were going to inject me with a radioactive isotope, and that for a period of time I should try to avoid pregnant people and young children.

As stunned as I was that I was now a walking Geiger counter risk, it did give me the chance to joke to friends that I was keeping my eyes peeled for the development of superpowers.

Travelling home on the District Line tube afterwards felt very strange as I tried to avoid all other humans. I also felt guilt that I'd forgotten my nuclear state partway to Earls Court station and bought a coffee, no doubt sharing my radioactivity with folk who'd only really signed up for caffeine.

I got the results the following week. I was walking down the road on the morning of April 15th when the phone rang. It wasn't a number I recognised but I picked up. It was the consultant. First the good news; my liver had come back as having 2 cysts. This didn't worry him. Now the bad news. As well as a tumour in my colon, I also had one in my lung. Smaller than the colon, and presumed to be a "secondary" that had spread from the colon which was believed to be the "primary".

I found myself squatting on the side of the road, watching cars go past and trying to work out if I was dreaming. It didn't seem real. It didn't seam plausible. My parents are healthy folk, happily retired and very active.

Admittedly my dad's parents had died of cancer. But my dad's dad smoked between 100 and 200 cigarettes a day. He was one of 11 children. Not an unusual number of children in Catholic families back then. My Great Uncle Joe was the only one of the 11 who didn't smoke, and didn't die young. As they were growing up, G.U. Joe shared a room with my grandad and many of the other siblings. G.U. Joe said he used to wake in the middle of the night and see "the cherry on your grandfather's cigarette slowly working it's way down through the darkness towards his mouth". Safe to say, my grandad lived a life which pretty much invited the lung cancer that eventually claimed him at 56. As I told various medical professionals about my grandad's prodigious habits, they also dismissed him as a concern. I think I'm the first colon cancer in the family. Again, I'm hating being an early adopter.

We arranged to see the consultant on the Saturday. Prior to this, the plan had been to operate on my colon and maybe follow up with chemotherapy. Now, with two tumours in the mix, the consultant was going to transfer me to the Royal Marsden and expected we would start with chemotherapy and try and attack both cancers at once. I likely had surgeries in my future as well, but chemotherapy first. And probably after as well.

This was a further blow. I'd mentally pencilled in the cancer as maybe being a focus of the next three months. Now it sounded like 2026 would likely be treatment focussed in some way. I asked the consultant: "what are my odds"?

The consultant responded "if we did nothing, you'd probably be dead in a year". This left me reeling. I felt so good. How could I be dying? I'm dying? What? How can I be dying? I can't die now. I'm a dad. I'm a husband. I need to keep being those things. I can't die now. I can't.

How did this happen to me?​

That's the question I sat with now.

My lifestyle is pretty healthy. I drink, but not much. I'm not a smoker. I exercise a lot (all the more since the back issues); walking, physio, pilates, clinical physical training and gym. We eat organic and have done for years. We have avoided ultra processed foods essentially since we started learning what they were. We bought nitrate free meat.

Frankly I was and am pretty much a poster boy for how you're supposed to be living. Maybe I hadn't done enough. I'm a software developer, so I started to debug my lifestyle. What could have caused this?

• torn teflon on a stock pot?
• too much red meat / pork (I have always liked pork)
• too much processed meat? (Nitrate free or not, I've long been a consumer of large amounts of chorizo)
• burned meat on the braai / barbeque?
• alcohol?

The reality is, it could be none of the above. And that I'm never likely to know what started this. Quite likely it started independent of my own actions and choices. Which doesn't make me any happier. In fact I learned quite quickly of a friend who had been diagnosed with a similar cancer to my own a couple of years ago. In their case, they are Jewish and so were definitely not consuming pork / chorizo.

Regardless of whether any of the above contributed to the cancer, my brain had kicked in. I needed to feel that I was making changes that could prevent cancer from reoccurring when I recovered. So whether they are a factor or not, the torn teflon stock pot has been hurled from the front door. Screw that guy. I bought a fancy, non teflon alternative for an eye watering amount of money. I am unlikely to eat chorizo again much in this life. It may have nothing to do with the cancer at all, but it'll taste like ashes in my mouth from now on. I'll still eat red meat, but much less. I'll still drink in future, but I'm not drinking right now. I could go on. I shan't.

God, what's going on?​

I'm aware not everyone reading this will have a faith. Or your own could be quite different to mine. I'm not asking you to agree with me, or to correct my theology (which is no doubt imperfect) but I want you to understand what went on inside of me. What's going on inside of me. For my knowledge is not finished.

Initially I wailed and raged at God. I begged for this not to be happening. I cried. I prayed for healing. But my poo stayed red. I was desparate. I was sad. I was so very sad. And scared. Let me not miss that out. I'm crying as I'm writing this now. I'm not saying that to spark sympathy. Rather, I want you to understand that I'm still "processing".

I became a Christian when I was about 5 years old. It was at a half term club run in a Baptist church round the corner from my home. My immediate and wider family are Christian (with a high percentage of Catholics and even one nun in the mix - I do their website badly). My faith has been a constant throughout my life. I experimented with living without God for a bit in my early twenties thinking I would be increasing my fun. It turned out to merely increase my loneliness and so I thought better of it.

In the end, I find it hard to make sense of a world, of a universe without God. For whatever reason, I just don't buy it. I may be hardwired that way. Who can say.

I'm writing this passage as I know people can struggle with their faith at times of hardship. This has not been my experience. I think that deep down, I believe that God exists, God is good, and God loves me. But I know also that this world is imperfect and unjust. Further to that, I don't honestly understand God fully. I'm not sure I'm able to in this life. And that's okay.

My diagnosis coincided with Easter. That annual part of the Christian calendar where we remember Jesus, God in human form, suffering horribly and then dying for us. I felt very able to identify with the suffering this year. Maybe I actually understood it properly for once. I don't know.

My church, St Stephen's in Twickenham has been very good to me over this time. They've met with me, they've talked with me, they've prayed for me. They've seen me cry a lot. They've held me.

I've struggled with some horrible thoughts. Did I bring this on myself? Did I earn this? Is the only way God can use me, is if if I've been visibly suffering? As I've said, my headspace has not been good. A message that I've been reminded of a number of times has been this: if situations are rubbish, God still works to the good in them. This is a rough paraphrase of Romans 8 v28.

Whilst I don't want to deal with the stuff I'm dealing with, I am convinced of God's ability to work through terrible circumstances. I have noticed more evidence of kindness and love in the last month than probably in any other month of my life. I'm aware of people without faith thinking about me, and people with faith praying for me. All of this is love. All of this is love.

The road ahead​

I've got a fair amount of treatment in my future. It starts with chemotherapy which is likely to rid me of my hair. Rather than wait for that, we made a ceremony. My boys shaved my head in preparation. The hair went on my terms. For some reason, that is pleasing.

The doctor that first gave me the tumour diagnosis said "you have a rough road ahead of you". The most important thing to take away from that sentence is this: I have a road ahead of me. I intend to travel it.

God is good. It is going to be okay. Even if we can't always see it.

Let me sign off by quoting the English playwright Alan Bennett. Amongst his many life achievements, Alan was diagnosed with, and successfully treated for colon cancer, going on to do many many things afterwards. He wrote about the experience in his memoir Untold Stories and signed off by saying simply: "Take heart."

God willing, in time I shall. In fact, I can feel it beginning.

---

The recovery diaries​

I'm writing about what's happening to me as I go through treatment. It helps me process the experiences, if that's not too peculiar a thing to say. When I've written about it, I feel I've dealt with it in some way. I'm not quite sure why. If you'd like to read the posts (and hey - it's not the most jolly of topics so don't feel you have to) you can find them here:

• Rough road ahead
• A cowardly lion
• A private lockdown
• Hope