A few things have happened since I last wrote. The best was 12 days in Spain lazing on a beach all day every day with warm evenings spent in a beautiful little town with friends we had met during previous visits. None of us knew we’d be there at the same time and seeing all of them really made the holiday extra special for us. In fact, it was one of the best holidays we’ve had and for 12 days the bloody cancer went to the very back of my mind. It was great. Then we came back.
Two days after returning I had my blood test and two days after that I saw my oncologist. The holiday was definitely over when I learned my PSA had gone up again since the previous blood test three months earlier. Not so much this time, but enough to prove that the last increase was not a blip. My PSA now stands at 0.556 (post surgery, post radiotherapy, and with hormones). We chatted about my situation and it was confirmed that I’ll be starting chemo soon. I would be starting this week but I’m awaiting a camera up my tail end (a sigmoidoscopy) to see if I have a problem there after having endured four days of excruciating pain about a month ago. I could have had the sigmoidoscopy done earlier but I went to Spain instead, and I’m glad I did. The worst of the pain has gone now, thankfully, although things have definitely changed down that end from the way they were.
I was a bit worried that at my last appointment I might have persuaded my oncologist to go down the chemo route, so asked her if she really thought that was my best option. She replied that if I was coming to her now, all fresh, as a new patient, that she’d be putting me straight on to chemo. That answered my question and gave me food for thought. I was given some more of the same a couple of days later when I was speaking to my Macmillan nurse who said, (and I’m paraphrasing and taking it out of context here), that I have advanced prostate cancer. I stopped her to make sure I’d heard right and she seemed a bit concerned, asking “has no one ever said that to you before?”.
No one had, but I wasn’t surprised to hear it and I told her so. I suspected the cancer was advanced in much the same way that I was pretty sure I had it long before I was told. When I was given my initial diagnosis, despite already knowing in my head, I was shocked to hear the words uttered. This time, though, there was no shock whatsoever and there still isn’t. As I explained to my nurse, for me it helps to have it confirmed because I now know which information I should be focussing on when I need to read up on something.
Despite not feeling any sense of shock my general situation was already unsettling me and I suppose that didn’t help. Everything is up in the air. I don’t like uncertainty and there’s too much of it right now. Sometimes I feel down and on the verge of tears. I’m not sure if my increased emotional state has come about as a result of the hormone therapy or if I’d be feeling like this anyway. My day to day tiredness and the further problems in my bowels mean that any short term plans involving others have to be made with the proviso that I might not turn up and long term plans are well and truly on hold until after the chemo. I’m told that I shouldn’t dwell on things. For “things“, read “cancer“. That’s easy to do if you haven’t got it and all the crap that goes with it but not so easy when you have.
One regular event that I do have in my online diary, bowels and fatigue permitting, is the cancer choir I wrote about a couple of posts back. I went to the first one last week. Loads of people turned up, mostly women who outnumbered the men 2 to 1, but I was one of over a dozen men who had cast caution to the wind and decided that it didn’t really matter any more if we disgraced ourselves with our singing voices. It was brilliant. I thoroughly enjoyed myself and I’m going back this week.
The choir takes place in Chelsea not far from a place where I briefly worked 40 years ago, the famous Royal Marsden Hospital, a centre of cancer excellence and expertise. In fact, the research side of the cancer choir is connected to the Marsden. I’m proud to say I worked in the most important department in the hospital. Doctors and nurses looked up to us and were forever calling to ask us questions to which they had no answer. I am, of course, referring to the wages department. We were located just across the road from the main hospital in what had once been a well to do residential property. I made a detour to walk past it on my way home last week and saw that it had been returned to its previous residential grandeur. When I worked there all those years ago I was a rebellious teenager who thought he’d live forever. I lived for my weekends, had no fear and never thought I’d be in the same situation one day as the many patients I saw walking through the hospital doors. That was another life and it all seems such a long time ago now.