In dire straits

On Coping #11

It is time to see your oncologist and find out what happens next with your chemotherapy.

Tuesday 5th March 2024.

.

You are draining a litre of yellow liquid from your stomach a day.

You are on multiple pain prescriptions.

You are overdue a return to Lonsurf and Avastin;

the only two remaining chemotherapy drugs standing between you and palliative care.

.

Your friends have arranged an ambulance to take us to the hospital.

.

The night before the appointment, you barely sleep.

I lie next to you - a rare night in our bed together - to make you feel safer.

But between the pain and my snoring, there is no respite.

Eventually, around 4am, we both fall into a deep slumber.

.

The ambulance arrives at 5.55am.

They ring the door-bell.

And my phone.

But we sleep through it.

.

I wake up ten minutes later.

But they are gone.

.

So I take you to the hospital;

and despite driving as carefully as I can,

I watch you wince at every bump in the road.

.

We arrive and they take your bloods.

Then we wait.

.

It feels like I’ve held my breath for 45 minutes.

.

Eventually it is our turn.

We go in.

The oncologist asks how you have been.

We explain

about the drain

and the pain.

And he can see how much weight you have lost.

And that you came in using a wheelchair.

.

And after the tender words and the careful listening and the observations and the short but excruciating story of the past few months, he tells us it would not be safe to continue with Lonsurf.

Nor avastin.

That your body is currently too weak.

And that, even if it wasn’t, there is only a 1% success rate.

.

We ask about another scan,

clutching for something to pin our hopes to.

.

But he says there would be no point.

He sees.

He knows.

And in your heart

you know too.

Tears drip from your eyes.

.

In the hallway, afterwards, I wail into your lap.

.

We return home.

That night is more of the same.

Pain followed by calls to the district nurse.

.

We realise we have run out of your Buscopan injections -

the only thing that gets you through the night.

And a wave of panic runs through us both.

.

I don’t remember how we make it to morning.

.

The next day, we speak to the hospice.

We have been calling them most days and every evening to try and get your pain under control.

They say it might be time for you to come in.

They can monitor you more closely and better manage your pain.

And once it’s under control, you could return home.

.

We are scared.

Leaving our bed, your home, feels like another milestone we never wanted to reach.

What if you don’t come back?

.

And what will we tell the kids?

.

But your wellbeing has to come first.

And so we agree to admit you for palliative care.

.

It happens fast.

We pack.

A room at the hospice is prepared.

An ambulance arrives within the hour.

And by 2 o’clock you’re there.

.

I sit at your bedside and the smallest flicker of relief crosses your face.

This was the right thing to do.

.

An hour later I pick up our children from school.

Their daily news spills forth:

football at break

a maths test

a bracelet made for mummy.

.

We get home.

Come and sit down

I say.

I need to tell you something.

.

Their faces freeze.

.

Mummy’s cancer has got worse

I say.

And it isn’t going to get better

I say.

Is she going to die?

they say.

Yes

I say.

.

Their faces crumple.

No

they say.

No.

No.

No.

.

But is there nothing you can do?

they say.

I’m giving all my pocket money to cancer research.

they say.

So mummy won’t see me grow up to be a professional footballer?

they say.

.

I have no more words for them.

.

Soon we are at your bedside in the hospice.

It is lovely.

The people are wonderful.

And we sit around.

And smile at you.

And tell you we love you.

.

We are a family.

In dire straits.

Previous > On Coping #10: Sickness and health | Next > On Coping #12: Counting the seconds

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On Coping is my story of surviving on the sidelines of cancer. It begins in 2022 with On Coping #1, written the day after my 41st birthday. The day my wife Imogen, the mother of my three children, was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer.  It’s the story of what happened next. Read from the start.

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