The Cancer Survivors Club (2 page)

Dear Tumour,

I feel compelled after all these years to write to you and tell you how I
feel.

I guess you know I was a fit twenty-four year old, who had completed the Worthing marathon and went weight training a few times a week. I guess you also know I never smoked and only drank moderately at the weekend. So why did you pick me?
Why?

I had a great job writing software, a nice apartment and a flash car (well, twenty years ago a Ford XR3i was a flash car), so why choose
me?

For eight months, I continually visited my doctor. He was convinced that I was stressed or asthmatic, despite losing weight, struggling to breathe and knowing the slightest exertion would tire me out for
days.

Eventually, after waking up from a general anaesthetic, having just had an operation on my chest to discover what was causing all my problems, I was told they'd found you lurking, wedged between my heart and lungs. The surgeon sat down on my bed, wiggled my toe and said you'd arrived. He said he thought your name was Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma.

Initially, I was actually pleased they'd found you, having felt so unwell for so
long.

I wrongly assumed I'd swallow a couple of tablets and you'd disappear. To be honest, until this moment I didn't know who or what you were. So don't flatter yourself by thinking everyone has heard of
you.

The surgeon was a little more concerned than I was about finding you. He said you'd kill me within three months and I had a battle on my hands. Well, thankfully, only one of his predictions was right; you did put up a hell of a fight.

I couldn't understand it when the consultant who specializes in removing you told me I'd need to be brave. He explained how I should try to protect my family and friends from my thoughts and the awful treatment I'd
need.

He was right; everyone around me appeared shell-shocked and upset. My mum and sister had red blotchy eyes each time they visited me. Mum always struggled to stay composed, yet my dear dad remained his normal strong, happy and supportive self; on the surface anyway. Soon the hospital was to become my second home for nearly two years.

Friends, teachers and ex-girlfriends all poured into my hospital room. I'd not seen some of them for years. They all acted as if I'd already lost the battle and every extra day I lived was a bonus. I couldn't understand it; instinctively, I knew I was going to kick your
arse.

Don't get me wrong
–
I was frightened at times. The nights were the worst, sitting alone in my room, reading all the leaflets about various treatments I'd need to get you out of my
body.

In my mind, I imagined you as a lump of melting snow
–
black ugly slush that's found at the side of the road. A snowball the size of one and a half grapefruits buried in my chest. My consultant said it looked like I'd swallowed a dinner plate. You were big, I grant you
that.

Our first battle together was with radiotherapy. I needed tattoos so you were hit in the identical place each day. Metal moulds also had to be created to protect the parts of my chest you'd not yet discovered. However, you were clever
–
you were obviously experienced or expecting this. The radiotherapy did little to destroy you; for ten days, you withstood the onslaught admirably. I was left exhausted.

You'd been ingenious by positioning yourself around my lungs and heart where you knew no surgeon would be able to physically remove you. You also knew that by continuing to squeeze my lung it would eventually collapse and fill with fluid. I guess you were also aware my voice would soon disappear, as you continued to crush the nerves that controlled my vocal cords.

Soon the consultant wondered if a mistake had been made with your name. Another biopsy was required to double-check why you weren't tiring and were in fact growing so
fast.

At the same time as the biopsy, my lung was removed and emptied of fluid. As I'm sure you know, unfortunately the main nerve that controls my diaphragm was accidentally cut. This operation and other decisions have caused my breathing to be rather laboured ever since. A small price to pay. I shrug them off as nothing more than war wounds from the battles you and I continued to fight.

Eventually, it was agreed by a number of hospitals that your name was Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma; it also transpired you'd been injured by the radiotherapy. In fact, you had to change your cell formation to survive the onslaught. A sign of weakness, I'm sure even you will agree.

Our next battle was with chemotherapy, but not just once. My age and fitness were clearly a massive disadvantage to
you.

Admittedly, both the first and second chemotherapy treatments did little to encourage you to leave. These regimes, however, were having an impact on me: hair loss, sickness and fatigue. I continually had to be admitted to hospital for blood transfusions, but the antibiotics helped me fight the infections I contracted.

Another operation was scheduled, as more chemotherapy was needed and my poor veins had all but given up by now. So I had a Hickman line fitted, not the most attractive of accessories admittedly, but it didn't matter. In my imagination, it was like I was re-arming, getting ready for the next battle. This took place with chemotherapy shipped in from America; if you wanted a fight, I was going to give you one. I was even put to sleep for a week, so didn't get to see you suffer.

Oh, what dreams I was having, thinking of you finally being kicked out of my
body!

I continued to do my best to protect my family's feelings while fighting you. I let myself down and cried in front of them once, but on the whole did a good job in showing I had everything under control and hoped you were on the retreat.

Your arrival had actually done me a few favours on the girlfriend front. While we spent every minute of every day fighting, I was having the luxury of beautiful nurses supporting and listening to me. Some kindly gave up their weekends or days off to support and help me, others become lifelong friends and most of them were gorgeous too; so I should thank you for
that!

With my Hickman line in place, I continued fighting you like a military attack, with every chemical my troops could find; this was biological warfare at its
best.

I encouraged several consultants in numerous hospitals to find and give me drugs that hadn't been used before. I was happy to try anything; after all what other option did I
have?

I continued getting infections, needing blood transfusions, even needing a second and third Hickman, which meant yet more operations.

You and I continued sparring like heavyweight boxers, both of us putting up a courageous battle. You withstanding the onslaught of every chemotherapy drug I could get my hands
on.

Then eventually came my master stroke. In addition to the chemicals that had been pumped into my spine, to stop you claiming squatters rights there one day, I'd finally convinced reluctant oncologists that a bone marrow transplant would finish you off once and for all. This they eventually agreed to, after seeing you were now no longer lurking and had retreated from my bone marrow. But I had to agree to bomb you with yet more chemotherapy first, which I reluctantly did. Don't misunderstand me, I didn't like hurting you but you gave me no choice. I'm lying, the more unwell and sick I felt, the more I knew you'd be suffering too; this I did enjoy.

I then had to endure the agonizing operation called a bone marrow harvest, where surgeons extracted my bone marrow with what looked like a corkscrew, from various places around my
body.

Yet more chemotherapy was then thrown at you; this, as you know, was not my
idea.

Each time I was close to having the transplant, doctors felt I'd have a better chance of killing you if you were on the back foot, injured and weak, so they ordered more chemical attacks.

Finally, the time had come and I arrived at University College Hospital, in London. This was going to be the location of our final battle. I knew, if you won this, you'd win the war. This was the fight that really counted. I could see from the various scans and tests that you were injured.

It was now or never. However, twenty months of fighting you had taken its toll on me. But with the unbelievable and continuous support of my family I entered the hospital, mentally very strong, physically quite
weak.

In other isolation rooms around me, similar people were undergoing their transplant. They too were hoping to eradicate you or your relatives from their bodies. Unfortunately, some of those I met while I was hitting you with the biggest blast of chemotherapy possible didn't make it. This I assume helped you psychologically, massaged your ego; however, it gave me strength. I was determined to leave alive in Dad's car, not dead in a
box.

As you know, the chemicals were so strong I picked up more injuries. The same drugs that were inflicting damage on you caused the need to replace my bone marrow, which had inevitably died; the equivalent of friendly fire, I guess.

My hospital room was on the third floor of an old redbrick Victorian building, looking out over an office where people in suits huddled in meetings; I wondered if I'd ever be able to work again. Below my window every morning I watched as a white van arrived, collecting the unfortunate people who had not survived the previous night. The sight of these makeshift coffins being removed wasn't something I should have witnessed, but a sight I purposely watched. I was determined not to end up leaving the hospital this
way.

There were times during this fight when I thought you'd got the upper hand, when I thought I'd not see the next day. Times when I wanted my mother with me so I didn't die alone. But eventually, miraculously, you finally surrendered to the onslaught of treatment and moved
on.

For you, that's the end of the story, the end of your involvement with me. However, for me, I had a lot of recovering to do, both mentally and physically. Sadly, I can never forget our duel; but I do hope you regretted picking on
me.

Over the months that followed, my body slowly recovered, the various scars healed and the distressing nightmares finally ended. I still had moments where I hid under my duvet and cried. In hindsight, perhaps they were tears of joy or relief; who knows?

Our encounter was over twenty years ago now, yet it's always with me and has changed my outlook on life considerably. I'm convinced one of the things the chemotherapy killed is my ‘lazy' gene or ‘sleep' gene. I now can't do things by halves, can't sit around doing nothing, can't waste a moment of this life I managed to save. You taught me how precious every day is and how fragile we all
are.

To your annoyance, I hope, I spend my time creating awareness by writing newspaper columns about you. I talk to people, explaining and showing them how to cope should you decide to bully or pick on
them.

I've dedicated a lot of my time to helping various hospitals and cancer charities raise money; money that's used to fight you and your horrible family, regardless of what person in what country you randomly appear to choose.

I don't apologize for the length of this letter or the delay in writing to you. If you had one ounce of humanity or intelligence, you'd recognize it's just a matter of time before you'll be wiped off this planet and extinct forever.

I hope you rot in
hell.

Always your number-one enemy!

Chris Geiger

I'm thirty-seven years old and have a wonderful supportive husband and two beautiful daughters, Ruby and
Lola.

My story started on 5 November, funnily enough fireworks night. I visited my doctor as I'd found a lump under my right arm. I'd seen my doctor twice before about this lump, and each time I'd been told it was nothing to worry about; it was just an enlarged lymph gland. However, on this occasion, my doctor felt I should be referred to hospital, to have a biopsy of the lump taken. This would finally put my mind at rest and hopefully confirm my doctor's previous thoughts. The result of the biopsy would be available in January, just a few days after my daughter Ruby's third birthday.

I wasn't worried about the results and to be honest I gave them little thought. I'd been busy preparing for Ruby's big day, and we were only a couple of weeks away from celebrating Lola's first birthday, too, so both these events kept me occupied.

Richard, my husband, was away, working in Bristol on the day I had my appointment to get my test results. We were living in Salisbury at the time; however, coincidently, my mum was visiting, so she accompanied me and offered to look after the girls.

When we arrived at the hospital, I told Mum to just put the minimum amount in the parking machine. ‘We won't be long,' I shouted, as I got the girls out of the
car.

I was still feeling fairly relaxed about getting the results; it was just an enlarged lymph gland after
all.

Like most doctors' appointments, they were running
late.

The girls were well behaved for once, enjoying the novelty of their nan spoiling them. We had to hang around for a long time in the waiting room until I was eventually called. When I was shown into the doctor's small windowless office, the first thing I noticed was another nurse sitting next to him, behind the desk. I sat down opposite them on a well-worn plastic chair.

I was now getting anxious
–
just seeing them both looking at me had instantly got my heart racing. Soon I remembered I'd met the nurse before, which helped my nerves a bit. After a little polite chat about my girls and how I was feeling, the doctor without warning suddenly said, ‘I'm afraid its cancer
.
'

I felt my face burn with panic and my first thought was for my two girls sitting outside, not the cancer. It actually took a few minutes before I started to worry about myself or the disease. Surely they'd got this wrong or made a mistake? I wondered. I assumed my results must have been mixed up with another patient; other people got cancer, not
me.

The next few hours were a complete blur, while I was sent off for some blood tests and a mammogram. Strangely, it was me telling my mum to calm down, not the other way round. Yet inside I was really panicking, but didn't want to upset her by showing it. I never thought I'd be able to handle anything like this, but somehow found an inner strength from somewhere. This thankfully has continued, surprising myself and hopefully impressing those around
me.

Richard drove back from Bristol and we went for a drink that evening. It sounds mad, I know, but I just needed to get out of the house for a while.

I felt like I was having some sort of out-of-body experience, or an ultra-realistic nightmare. This was a feeling that continued for many weeks.

The following day, we went back to the hospital together. I hoped Richard would be able to gain the bits of information I'd forgotten. We met with the surgeon who explained everything to Richard and me again. Afterwards, several more appointments were made for blood tests, scans and an ultrasound. Suddenly, my diary was filling up fast, and not with birthday celebrations this time. Overnight, my life had totally changed and felt so unreal.

On 8 February, I had surgery, a lumpectomy. I'd obviously been worried and frightened but recognized it was something I couldn't avoid. I made sure I had a photograph of both Ruby and Lola in hospital with me, so I'd see their little smiling faces when I awoke from the anaesthetic. I knew I had to keep fighting. There was no way this cancer was going to get the better of me and take me from my girls.

Thankfully, the surgery went well and I was discharged the next day. When I arrived home, the house was full of flowers and cards from my family and friends. Their generosity and kindness was the best painkiller imaginable.

I longed to get away for a while, so Richard took us all to the seaside. The four of us played on the beach and ate fish and chips, despite the weather being awful. I loved being able to watch the girls' smiling faces as we enjoyed time together. I did my best to block out any thoughts of my illness or what might lie ahead. I'd started to get angry and annoyed that this disease was interrupting and spoiling all our lives.

But one thing it had achieved was making me appreciate just how lucky I was and how good it felt to be alive.

A few weeks later, I got the results of the surgery, which showed I had an aggressive form of breast cancer. It was a grade three. The results also revealed that two of my lymph nodes were affected. This was frightening and meant I needed chemotherapy.

On 13 March, I headed to the hospital again, this time to start my chemotherapy. The Day Ward was right next to the Labour Ward, where I'd given birth to both Ruby and Lola, so I knew exactly where to go. Just a year before, I'd entered the door to the left, looking forward to leaving with a newborn baby. It was one of the happiest times of my life. Now I was entering the door on the right and would be leaving with chemotherapy flowing round my body; one of the most frightening times of my
life.

The nurses were brilliant and talked me through every stage of the procedure. I looked up at the bag of chemotherapy hanging from a drip stand to see it was bright red, which was a shock. It looked like I was having a blood transfusion not cancer-killing drugs. I was given some anti-sickness tablets, which appeared to work really well. After a couple of hours, the bag above me was empty. I'd successfully had my first session of chemotherapy; I had just five more to
go.

Initially, I didn't feel too bad, but as the days passed I started to feel unwell. I kept telling myself any suffering was a small price to pay if it stopped this cancer lurking in my body. I'd do anything to make sure I could be with Richard and the girls for the rest of my life; anything!

The week after I'd received my first dose of chemotherapy, I asked Richard while we were watching television if he'd shave off my hair. We opened a bottle of wine, and then, as if it was something we did every day, we took it in turns to shave each other's head. It sounds like one of those drunken antics you'd regret in the morning, but we weren't drunk, nor did we regret it. Shaving my head actually made me feel better, as if I was finally taking control.

A couple of weeks later, my sister-in-law was visiting, so she attended my wig-fitting appointment at the hospital with me. It was actually an appointment full of laughter and happiness. We joked about for ages while trying on lots of different wigs. Finally, after loads of deliberation, I ended up with a wig that we both thought looked like it belonged on a plastic Lego figure. After a few days, I actually chose not to wear it, preferring headscarves. I got some in a variety of colours to match my various outfits; this idea worked better for me. I also went on a fantastic day out called ‘Look Good, Feel Good', organized by the hospital. It was a brilliant idea and I had a great day. I was given a big bag of make-up and shown how to apply it properly, which really helped boost my confidence.

Slowly, I really started to feel different. I could think positively and look to the future. I noticed the sun, the flowers and the beautiful blue sky. I was starting to appreciate and take note of everything around me. I thought things like that only ever happened in films.

The chemotherapy was now well and truly flowing round my veins; it was a bonus not having to shave under my arms or legs. The hair straighteners I'd been given at Christmas remained unused. I could also get ready in half the time now, which Richard was pleased about.

Richard and I constantly joked about my situation; having a laugh helped me keep a perspective on things. His support and patience was totally amazing; we were really putting our wedding vows' ‘in sickness and in health' to the
test.

The chemotherapy sessions were coming to an end and I was waiting for a date for the next part of my treatment: the radiotherapy. I prayed it would be as easy as the chemotherapy, but doubted I'd be so lucky. Soon enough, the radiotherapy treatments started, I was to have it Monday to Friday for the next five long weeks. As my appointments were at the same time every day, I got to know a number of cancer patients, which really helped. It was nice talking with people who were having similar treatment. There was a group of older men who nicknamed themselves ‘Gerry and the Prostates'; they even had a little singsong, which lifted everyone's spirits. I don't think Simon Cowell would rush to sign them up though!

It was explained that I had the ‘Gene 1' type of breast cancer, otherwise known as Breast Cancer Susceptibility (BRCA-1). Women with BRCA-1 have up to a sixty percent lifetime risk of developing breast cancer and a fifteen to forty percent lifetime risk of developing ovarian cancer. There had never been any cases of breast or ovarian cancer in my family before. I'd assumed it had started with me. Later, I discovered my brother, dad and both his sisters had the gene; they are all now being closely monitored. This knowledge helped me understand the reason why I got cancer. Also, by being able to give my family this information, I knew some good had come out of my situation.

Finding the BRCA-1 gene had other implications, too. After a couple of days, I made the decision to have a double mastectomy and my ovaries removed. It was a big decision having more surgery, but Richard and I agreed it was the right choice. Strangely, we'd spend more time debating if we should buy a new car or clothes for the girls; but this was a no-brainer really. We both felt that, if it reduced the chances of getting cancer again and more importantly if it meant we'd live a longer life with each other, it had to be
done.

Unfortunately, the bills still needed paying so Richard was away working a lot of the time. I remember one day while I was with little Ruby, she said, ‘Mummy, if you need me just call and I'll be there.' Her kind, loving comment melted my heart instantly and brought tears to my
eyes.

Ruby and Lola have a fifty percent chance of inheriting my faulty gene. I obviously pray that they won't, but I know even if I'm not here for them they have a fantastic daddy who'd walk across hot coals to support and guide
them.

My surgery, chemotherapy and radiotherapy are all behind me now. It only feels like yesterday all this happened, but it's been five years. There's not a day that goes by when I don't think about ‘The Big C' and what I experienced over the past few years. Having had cancer is something I have to live with or, I should say, I am learning to live with. I never thought I'd have found the strength to go through the treatment.

People often say how brave I was, but I don't think of myself as being brave. I just took each day as it came. God forbid you get cancer, I guarantee you will find an inner strength to deal with it; a strength that will help you to fight and
win.

I had one friend who sent me a card every couple of weeks letting me know she was thinking of me, which really helped. Don't be afraid to talk about cancer. Sometimes people shy away from the subject and try to brush it under the carpet; for me, talking really did
help.

There were a couple of funny incidents that happened along the way. Once, when we were in a café, Ruby decided to broadcast to everyone that ‘Mummy has a poorly booby', which was quite amusing, especially after seeing the look on everyone's faces. When Ruby was little, she would walk into the living room wearing my wig, or I'd find her in my bedroom drawing eyebrows on her own face. Moments like these really made me smile and made the treatment tolerable.

I never thought I'd be sitting here now, writing my story and hopefully providing inspiration to everyone who reads it. If you have cancer, use this book for hope and make it your goal to have your story published.

I still take each day as it comes and I pray I'll be there for my girls on their first day at senior school, their first proper date, their wedding day and all the milestones in their lives. However, if sadly I'm not, I hope they will be very proud of their mummy, and I hope I was an inspiration to them, as I hopefully am to
you.