The Cancer Survivors Club (11 page)

This is a story that may well sound disturbingly familiar in parts. For me, the scariest thing about being diagnosed with bowel cancer was not knowing I actually had anything wrong. My story starts on a typical day after work, with a few cold beers and a Chinese takeaway.

At the age of thirty-one, the world was my oyster, or so I thought. I had a lovely girlfriend called Rachel. I owned a small sales company and lived in a cracking apartment near Islington in North London; life was good. I was a bit of a workaholic, which led to a less than perfect lifestyle. Twelve-hour days were normal and most nights involved a couple of pints and a takeaway. Admittedly not ideal, but I was only thirty-one and allergic to cooking.

Around midnight one Saturday after an evening of drinks with colleagues, I went home clutching my favourite Chinese dish, Singapore noodles. These noodles tend to be rather spicy and had me rushing to the bathroom afterwards. No surprise there; I'm sure most of us have been in that situation before, so I thought nothing of
it.

Monday morning arrived and I decided I'd throw a sickie. I'd had little sleep and my mysterious tummy rumblings had continued. I thought a quick visit to my doctor would be worthwhile, to see if perhaps I had an ulcer or something that needed treating. I did my best to describe to the doctor how I felt and said I now know what it's like to have period pains; she didn't laugh. Yes, I confirmed, I had felt quite tired lately, but work was really
busy.

Yes, I confirmed again, there was a little blood on the toilet paper, but nothing unusual as I'd used it a lot recently. I felt like a fraudster as I didn't actually feel that ill by the time I got to see her. I left feeling like I shouldn't have wasted her
time.

A couple of weeks later, I received a letter inviting me to see a consultant in hospital. This was not a great surprise, as my doctor had explained she'd refer
me.

I attended the appointment as, at worst, it was another half day off work. The consultant was very nice and I relayed my tale of woe to her before she took her revenge, by digitally examining me. If a doctor says they are going to perform a digital examination, be warned it's not digital as in hi-tech, it's their finger digit.

With that over, I went back to work and thought nothing more of it. I was told it would be a couple of weeks before I got the results. Therefore, I completely forgot about dodgy takeaways, doctors and digital examinations. Although I'd forgotten, they hadn't. Another appointment letter soon arrived, requesting I have both a colonoscopy and CT scan. I attended unaware of the exact nature of a colonoscopy. This was an investigative procedure where a camera was inserted into my rectum and pushed into my colon. This without doubt is one of the weirdest feelings I've ever
had.

The CT scan was a breeze by comparison. I simply had to drink some orange liquid that would show up on the scan. Then I was asked to lie down on a sliding table, which moved through a large, metallic-looking doughnut; simple. I felt strangely violated by all these tests. I was assuming by now that I had the mother of all ulcers or Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS).

On the evening before the results, I received a call from my mum asking if I wanted her to stay with me. Now I don't know about your parents, but, when my mum asks for something, it generally means it is going to happen
–
whether I want it to or not. I mentioned the fact that I was the managing director of my own company; I mentioned I was thirty-one; I also mentioned the fact that I'd been going to the doctors ‘all by myself' for a very long time. Mum mentioned the fact that she was still my mum and she would see me at Euston train station later that day. It's nice to be asked though!

So, with Mum for company, we made our way from the train station to the hospital. I registered at reception and we sat down and waited to be called. I wasn't worried
–
I was still convinced I was pretty much OK, so was chatting with Mum about her developments at
work.

Soon, I heard my name called; we stopped talking and looked up. I glanced at Mum and she sat down again saying, ‘I'll wait here then.' I smiled and said I thought I could
cope.

Once I'd knocked on the door, I walked in to see there were two other people with the doctor. One evidently was a junior doctor and the other I was told was the hospital registrar.

‘Please take a seat, Mr Davies,' the registrar
said.

Once the introductions were over, I sat down and couldn't help but ask, ‘So, what's up, Doc?' while smiling insanely.

‘You have adenocarcinoma of the colorectal region,' he replied.

‘What's that?' I asked, my smile suddenly replaced with concern.

‘You have cancer, Mr Davies.'

Now I appreciate at this point that we would all react in different ways, none better or worse, it's just who we are. I was a manager of a sales company and my mind went into problem-solving mode so I replied, ‘Oh, OK, so what are we going to do about
it?'

I just wanted to understand how to go from having to not having. Dying didn't even enter my mind. I didn't panic, cry, freak or hear ‘Greensleeves' in the background; I was completely calm. I could tell my reaction shocked them a
bit.

One thing I couldn't do though was tell Mum; I mean, what do you say? ‘Hey, the good news is it's not an ulcer…'

The registrar said she'd tell her. Mum just replied, ‘I thought so.' Could have told me, I thought.

They arranged a second appointment within two days, this time with the surgeon who would discuss my treatment options. The hardest thing was not being told I had cancer, but telling those who cared about me. Mum already knew, but I had to tell Rachel, Dad and other friends. I had mentioned to the guys at work that I'd probably be a bit late the next day. I arrived at the office once the morning meeting was over, around midday. It's a strange thing being told that you have cancer. Although you are officially ill, you don't have anything to show for
it.

I was no more physically ill than the day before. In order to convince people that you are ill, you really need some visual evidence
–
coughing, sweating or your arm in a sling. However, because I had none of these things, interacting with people was a little disconcerting. They don't have anything to focus their attention on, no cast to write on or tissues to offer. It's a bit of a non-event and no one wants to ask you how you feel as it's a daft question in their minds; even if I was OK, which I was. So I sat down with a couple of the people closest to me and told them what I knew, which to be honest wasn't that much. I had cancer, it was not good and I had no idea what was going to happen until after the next appointment. One of my main concerns was what I was going to do workwise. Obviously, if I did die, it wouldn't be a major problem; however, as I was convinced that I wasn't going to ‘shuffle off this mortal coil' just yet, I needed to start thinking about my short-term future. What was I going to do with the company? How was I going to survive financially, self-employed with no sick
pay?

First things first, though
–
it was time to see the surgeon for my treatment options.

Rachel came to this appointment with me, as she wanted to get the real information not the second-hand version from me; again, I had no choice in the matter. Entering the room, we shook hands with the registrar and I was introduced to the consultant surgeon. He was an extremely friendly guy and made us both feel relaxed almost immediately. I explained that I was aware of the seriousness of the situation, but wanted to get on to the ‘what's the solution and what can we do about it' part. I wanted to feel some level of control while in a fairly uncontrollable, very stressful position. The surgeon understood and we got down to business.

‘The preferred method of dealing with cancer of the colon and rectum is surgery,' he explained. ‘Fifty years ago, a surgical technique was developed called an abdomino-perineal excision of the rectum.'

I raised an eyebrow at him; this was no time for big words.

I looked over at Rachel and gave her a reassuring thumbs up
–
fifty years ago, no problem, I thought.

He continued, ‘It's a fairly major operation, which is designed to completely remove the threat of cancer from the area.'

‘Sounds good,' I agreed. ‘So what does the procedure involve?' I was feeling pretty optimistic
–
completely remove the threat of cancer – cool
.

The surgeon then described the whole operation to both Rachel and myself. ‘An incision is made from around your diaphragm all the way down to the base of your stomach,' he explained, while trailing a finger down my front to just below my beltline for added effect.

‘Once you are opened up, we will go in through your stomach, take out your insides to get to the large bowel
–
obviously they will be replaced after the procedure is completed. Then we'll remove your entire large bowel and your anus.'

‘What do you mean by remove my anus?' I felt that nugget of information needed further investigation.

‘Well, it is like an apple core. To be on the safe side, we feel it's advisable to remove all possible areas where the cancer might spread to. So the large bowel and the anus are removed and where your anus was we would simply sew it together.' He reiterated with a twisting hand action to emphasize the apple core motion, just in case I hadn't got it completely the first
time.

‘OK, so this was fifty years ago
–
what new-fangled operation have we got now?' I knew that I was on to a loser here, but worth a
try.

‘I'm afraid that is it. There are other complications that you should be aware of, though.'

‘Such
as?'

‘Going in through the stomach does bring us into close proximity to your genital region, and there is a chance of infertility.'

‘That should return to normal, however!' chipped in the consultant.

‘Indeed,' agreed the surgeon. ‘However, there is another potential problem in that area. Running from your genitals up towards your stomach are a couple of nerves that control your erection. The surgery will be very close to these nerves and there is a chance that they might be damaged, which would therefore lead to permanent impotency.'

‘What sort of chance?' I asked.

‘About thirty percent, i.e. one in three.'

‘You've never been in sales, have
you?'

‘Err,
no!'

‘Don't give up the day job,' I said. ‘That was the worst pitch I've ever heard!'

‘I'll bear that in mind.' She smiled.

‘So you're telling me that, although in the last fifty years we've sent men to the moon, invented the internet and developed computers that can fit on the head of a pin, the best you can offer me is to remove my sodding arse?'

‘Well, yes. If we are to be certain of getting all of the cancer, I can only recommend this procedure.'

‘You'll have a colostomy bag, however, which is admittedly not the same but it is not as bad as you might imagine,' commented the consultant.

I just looked at her. This was not the kind of back-up plan I was expecting: a stoma or colostomy
bag?

I don't think so. I appreciate that there are thousands of people who live full and rewarding lives after they have had a bag fitted.

‘OK. So what would happen if I did nothing at all?' I asked.

‘The tumour would continue to grow and eventually it would kill you,' replied the surgeon.

‘How long would I have if I did nothing?'

‘About twelve to eighteen months.'

So there we had it. In the space of two months, I'd gone from having an innocent takeaway and throwing a speculative sickie to having colorectal cancer and being offered what we like to call in the bowel cancer community the ‘Bag or Box' option. I politely refused their kind offer and suggested they go back to the drawing board to find another option.

Owing to my requesting alternative solutions to the ‘smash and grab' attempt on my arse, I'd been sent details of my personal chemotherapy and radiography timetable. This, however, was all about to change.

A couple of weeks after my diagnosis, Mum was having a coffee with a friend, and talking about my situation. Apparently, her friend's neighbour was an oncologist. In addition to this spooky coincidence, the oncologist and the surgeon specialized in
–
wait for it
–
colorectal cancers. He happened also to be the only person in the country who used a special form of radiotherapy, called Papillon, which is applied directly to the tumour. This could enable the surgeon to try an alternative micro-surgery, which would negate the need to remove my
anus.

I was obviously stunned; I couldn't believe it. If ever something was meant to be, this was it. Within three days, the first appointment was
made.

I didn't know if this was going to be the answer, as the doctors might not have been able to operate owing to the tumour's proximity to the muscle tissue of my sphincter. I had a feeling, though, that this was fate throwing its hat into the ring and I was just going to have to see how far it would take
me.

Papillon was really designed for polyps and early-stage tumours and I had a T3a tumour, which was far too big for the Papillon and the micro-surgery called Transanal Endoscopic Micro-surgery (TEM). I had asked the original surgeon why we couldn't just shrink it and use the hole already there instead of ripping me apart and removing everything. ‘We don't do that' was his reply.