Tick tock. The waiting has been so difficult. Every minute feels like an hour. Or longer. The days all blend into one continuous stretch of time. Tick. Tock. We made the decision last week. I say we, and Rich seems to think it was me that made the decision. But I don’t feel like it was my decision. Rich and I sat with the MDT - multi-disciplinary team (surgeon, oncologist, nurse etc.) and walked through the different options. We likened it to being given a choice - you need to be run over, but you can choose a truck or a train. Both will be horrific, but you have to choose one. The good news is there’s a very good chance you will survive. But you still have to choose one of these horrific paths.
Honestly, it is impossible. How can you choose? Should I opt for surgery, which could leave me with muscle weakness, nerve damage, swallowing and possibly speech problems, as they will need to take some of my tongue to get ‘clear margins’ or do I choose chemoradiation, which has been described to me as ‘not for the faint hearted’ because it consists of 30 radiation sessions over 6 weeks, as well as 3 high strength chemo sessions. Again, the outcome is similar – loss of saliva, loss of taste, immense pain and loss of ability to swallow and therefore eat. Not to mention there’s a good chance I will need both. Gulp.
In the end I decide on surgery, partly because I feel I want this massive alien tonsil removed asap, but also because I am curious about the ‘equivocal’ node. Rather than just blitz the whole area, I would prefer to know for sure if the node is cancerous. I have no idea if this is the right decision. My consultant says both options are good for me. So I have taken the plunge and opted for removal of the tonsil tumour, some of the back of my tongue and some soft palate, all done with a trans oral robot, and a selective neck dissection where 3 levels of my neck lymph nodes will be removed. It all sounds utterly terrifying. But the cancer will be gone – I must keep my eye on the prize.
This is immensely cruel for anyone going through this. But for someone who absolutely loves good food, wine and company, as well as talking and the odd spot of singing, it is sheer torture. I can’t even begin to imagine what this journey will be like. Although I actually do have an inkling, because I am on endless forums and groups where people who are all in the same boat speak openly about their experiences and share hints and tips on how to prepare and how to get through it. As if it were a camping trip that you simply need to stock up for and get through. I wish!
And so it is that I am now sitting here, enjoying a glass of wine as though I am at the Last Supper. I fear life will never be the same on the other side. And that even if – fingers and toes and everything else I have that is crossable crossed – I am lucky enough to be one of the 8 or 9 out of 10 people who recover fully from this cancer, my life as I know it will never be the same. Cancer is wake up call. You can never be the same. I’m told you are always looking over your shoulder, wondering if it will creep up on you again.
Here is the odd thing about cancer. I feel exceptionally grateful and lucky right now. I have an early stage, treatable, even curable cancer. The odds are good. It is apparently one of the best cancers to have – who even knew there was such a thing as a ‘good’ cancer? But – and there’s always a but – I have cancer. There are no two ways about it. I have cancer. You almost have to repeat it to yourself over and over as you walk down the street. It feels oddly like being pregnant, that feeling of having something not everyone has, and of being somehow ‘special’. And yet, this is not a good special. It is a truly horrible feeling, even when you are told the odds are in your favour.
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