Too Upbeat for Cancer - Detailing A Rubbish Year And A Bit



There’s quite a few things you’d rather not hear. We’re going to Slough is one. I’ve invited James Corden round for dinner is another. Last May, at the tender age of 32, I heard another. It went something along the lines of ‘You have a rare and aggressive form of advanced cancer. It’s spread to other major organs. We’ll try out a brutal chemotherapy regime that may alleviate your symptoms but you can’t be cured. There will be horrible side effects, but I’ll tell you about those next week – I’ve probably pissed on your Hush Puppies enough for one day”.

It’s tough to take in. But when your wife (your wonderful, supportive, caring wife) is a GP, and throughout the hour long consultation you can see her trembling, clenching the chair, wiping away tears and becoming increasingly pale, you know your outlook is bleak.

But I’m still here. I now have no clue what will happen now following a mind-boggling 10 hour op that saw a 5kg tumour and all or part of half a dozen organs removed and 2 months of recovery in hospital, but I’m still here.

I have wonderful friends and colleagues who I’ve tried to keep updated but still the questions come and suggestions that I write a blog. I’ve not wanted to do a blog because in my bleakest hours, at 3am, trembling with fear, I’d come across horrors online. The 6% 5 year survival rate for those with my disease and the blogs by cancer sufferers that start so hopeful and end so abruptly, only to have one final, bleak post by a grieving relative.

But that wasn’t going to be me (we all say that). I was going to bravely stare down this cruel disease with humour and social networking and a newfound love for Fruit Pastille lollies. I’ve come far enough to be ready to write this thing.

So here it is. Updates every few days chronologically. Every grim medical detail laid bare. If you have issue with me describing what they did with my arse, this ain’t the blog for you. Feedback would be much appreciated. As would book deals. Let me know what you think. But it all started (at least knowingly) with this fateful Facebook post from 9:14pm on October 22nd 2012…

“I appear to have a miniature brass band trapped inside my bottom”

Oh, how we laughed…..

Chapter 1 - The Day My Bum Fell Out »

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