Round Two

I have lung cancer.

Yep. Just under two years since I was diagnosed with inoperable, stage four throat cancer I’ve been told the nasty bastard is back again.

Back for round two.

As you may have read in the previous post, I had a CT scan two days before Christmas after my oncologist found a new lump in my jaw.

My face, earlier today. Bet you can’t guess which side has the big, horrible lump…

I went back to see him on Tuesday (16th Jan) to get the results.

Thankfully, the lump in my jaw isn’t cancer. It’s simply a deterioration of my already existing lymphedema. I begin new treatment for that at the end of the month.

However…

Mr Morar went on to say there was something else we needed to discuss.

And, it wasn’t good news.

The CT scan had picked up a tumour growing in my left lung. A tumour that has never been there before.

The cancer has returned, and spread to my lungs.

Mr Morar has now referred me to a chest cancer specialist, and I’m waiting for an appointment to see him. He will likely take a biopsy in order to discover exactly what type of cancer is in there, and how bad it is. From there, it’s back into treatment – possibly surgery, radiotherapy, chemotherapy, or all three.

We’re back to square one, when I still haven’t fully recovered from the first attack.

Cara, the nutritionist, has advised me to try to put as much weight on as possible in the coming days and weeks so that I’ll be strong enough to endure this new round of knifey-laser-poison-juice.

Shit.

I can’t really explain how I feel; I not really certain myself yet. I’m scared, yes, but not for me. I’m scared for Kirsty, Sam and Arran (for new visitors, my wife and sons). I was an adult when I lost my parents. I can’t imagine what that would be like for a child.

I can’t do that to them.

Please don’t make me do that, cancer.

Both of my parents died as a result of cancer. My dad died in 2015 from prostate cancer that had spread to his bones. My mum passed away ten years earlier. From lung cancer.

I don’t smoke, and never have. Just so you know.

After Mr Morar had told me that the Big C had come scuttling back for a rematch, Kirsty and I were taken into a side-room by Hannah, the new Macmillan nurse attached to the ENT department. She wanted to make sure I was OK before we left.

I wasn’t sure if I was OK. I’m still not.

I know we talked for a while, although I’m not sure exactly what we discussed. I do remember that I apologised to Kirsty because I would have to put her through this all over again.

She told me not to be daft.

In the car on the way home I told her that, no matter what the outcome of this new battle, I was grateful that I’d been able to meet her, Sam and Arran. They’re the three most important people in my life, and I love them more than words can say.

I always will.

Here we go. Here come the tears. It’s been quite a while since I’ve cried while writing something.

Although I cry pretty regularly when reading – especially if I’m slogging my way through a new book by Barry Hutchison! 😉

Actually, joking aside (and I sort of was…), I’m due to be attending an indie author convention just outside London at the beginning of February – where Barry will take over as my carer for the weekend.

I hope I’m still able to go. I’ve really been looking forward to that.

I had to tell Arran and Sam the cancer was back. That wasn’t much fun. I did try to make it sound as positive as possible, though…

“Hey, guess what? I get to kick cancer up the arse again!”

I had to tell them. Arran had already asked why I was suddenly going to extra hospital appointments, and it wouldn’t have been long before Sam worked out something was wrong.

I didn’t want to lie to them.

As before, Arran has taken the news by pretending it isn’t happening and utterly refusing to talk about it. Sam, as you might expect, has taken it a lot harder. We’ve recently discovered that, due to his Asperger’s, any feelings of anxiety or panic he experiences manifest themselves as physical pain.

He’s had headaches and a sore stomach for the past two days.

Bastard cancer.

So, here we are. Standing on the starting line again. And back on this blog. I’ve received so many kind messages of support in the past couple of days. Thank you all so much. I’ve decided to relaunch this site so that I can chart my progress through treatment again. Doing so really helped me to understand what I was going through last time. Plus, several people have told me that the blog – and later, the book – helped people they know who had found themselves in a similar situation.

That’s got to be a good thing.

Speaking of the book (and this is the bit I hate writing), if you’re able to buy a copy from your local Amazon site, it really helps me and my family. Especially as I’ll have to cut back on the amount of work I can do. Again!

If you’ve already read Tommy V Cancer, please consider buying a copy for a friend or relative. Every sale makes a difference. You can find links to the book at the top right of this page.

There. Nasty, icky bit over!

Thank you so much for reading my rotten ramblings. Being able to get this stuff off my chest makes a huge difference to my state of mind.

Now I just need to get rid of the stuff in my chest as well.

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If you can spare anything at all, please consider donating. Every penny will go towards lifting a huge weight from Tommy's shoulders. His ability to work is about to be limited again, and he is very worried about how he can support his family over the coming weeks and months.

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5 thoughts on “Round Two

  1. Tommy, please kick its arse. I will hold you and your family I’m my thoughts and prayers. I think that remaining positive and talking your concerns out is a good thing. The only folks who need shrinks are those that don’t have mates. So, chat with us, we may be able to lighten the load.

  2. Tough situation, Tommy -but you’re a tough man, there’s no doubt about that. Thanks for bringing your humour too, that’s a high achievement in stressful circumstances. Sending best wishes for a bounce back to full health, mate.

  3. Oh, Tommy…

    I was worried when I saw the last entry you made, but hadn’t expected this. I’m so sorry man, really hope your family are okay soon but more than anything I hope you’ll be okay and wish you luck. Like you said, you’re gonna kick cancer’s ass, AGAIN. You can. And if I ever get the chance to meet you in person, you’re possibly getting a high five for doing so. You deserve all the support you can get.

  4. Hey Old Son,

    I know I’m normally the eternal optimist, but right now I’ve tears streaming down my face and I’m filled with mixed emotions of sadness and rage.

    Rage at the iniquity of this bastard disease and sadness, well because it’s such a damn sad situation.

    Having said that, I still remain optimistic and defiant as I know you’ll kick the arse of this invidious malaise and emerge triumphant!

    I’ve told the kids and they, along with me, are sending you, Kirsty and the boys humungous quantities of love and positive vibes.

    J. xxx

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