Liver Cancer 2002

Following a routine check after bowel cancer surgery, a shadow was detected on my liver. Subsequent scans and biopsies yielded inconclusive results, leading to a liver surgeon conducting a thorough examination. His diagnosis was stark: a ninety per cent certainty of terminal liver cancer.

Given the gravity of the situation, an emergency operation to remove the cancer was deemed necessary and scheduled. Once settled and alone in my hospital room, the weight of this news settled heavily. The silence was profound, amplifying the anxiety that gnawed at me.

The surgeon's arrival broke the quiet of the room. His presence was commanding as he entered, his footsteps echoing softly. His serious demeanour and furrowed brow conveyed the gravity of the situation. The surgical mask hanging from his ear served as a stark reminder of the medical realities I faced.

He approached my bedside, his shadow falling over me. His intense gaze held mine, the silence stretching, thick with unspoken words. Finally, he spoke, his voice carrying a note of regret. He explained that the cancer had progressed too far for surgical removal. The finality of his words hung in the air.

He then suggested reviewing a video in his office. I followed him, feeling uncomfortable in the open-backed theatre gown as we walked through the hospital corridors. The video explanation offered little clarity. Upon its conclusion, the surgeon awaited my reaction. I found myself strangely calm and without words.

Back in my room, while waiting for my family, I turned to the bedside Bible. Psalm 116 offered unexpected comfort, the verses about deliverance from death resonating deeply with my current predicament.

After what felt like an eternity, my family arrived. As we prepared to leave, evening light was casting long shadows; the surgeon met us at the door. To our surprise, he had reconsidered. He proposed an operation, one he had performed only once before with some success, offering a fragile thread of hope that gently wrapped around us, soothing our fears.

The weight of this unexpected possibility required a moment to process. The day had been a rollercoaster of emotions. Finally, with little to lose, I agreed. My family, however, wrestled with a mixture of hope and fear, their anxiety mirroring the life-altering potential of this decision. Their emotional turmoil was palpable, and it was hard not to feel their struggle.

Despite the terminal prognosis, I found myself surprisingly well physically. Perhaps as a form of defiance or a need to embrace life, we planned a family reunion in Australia together with the balance of our family. Among excursions in and around Sydney, our visit included a canoe tour of the Harbour. My weakened state made it difficult to keep abreast of the others. While lagging, a ferry suddenly appeared, its horn blaring. Straining to avoid a collision, I paddled with a surge of determination, my body straining to avoid a collision.

Finally, upon our return to the UK, further challenges awaited. A burst water pipe in our flat had caused significant damage, ruining furniture shipped from South Africa just two years prior. There was little time to dwell on this setback, as the rescheduled operation was imminent. These unexpected challenges kept us on our toes, constantly surprised by life's twists and turns.

Upon my return to the hospital, lying on my hospital bed, I had a period of quiet introspection. The impending operation felt as though I was embarking on an uncertain journey. The prognosis of terminal cancer was a constant, unwelcome perspective. Despite the fear, a sense of hope and trust remained.

The operation was lengthy. Outside the operating theatre, life continued as normal. Inside, the surgical team worked with intense focus, the atmosphere thick with anticipation. Hours passed, marked by the hushed aura of concentration.

Finally, as the anaesthetic wore off, a fragile hope surfaced, mingled with the beeping of medical equipment. The sight of tubes and suspended bottles was a stark reminder of my condition. The quiet concern of the doctor and nurse and the visible worry on my wife's face underscored the gravity of the situation. Yet, amidst this, I was struck by the kindness of the hospital staff and my wife's unwavering support.

The surgeon later explained the complexities of the operation, noting that he had to remove tissue closer to the cancer than ideal, and the unexpected cancerous invasion of vital blood vessels led to further significant challenges.

The reality of recovery brought a new dimension, a tube protruding from my chest. A nurse explained this unexpected development as a chemotherapy method for ongoing treatment—a portable bottle attached to my belt.

The cost of the life-saving surgery had also significantly depleted my savings, a financial burden I had not anticipated. The question of future employment with a visible reminder of my illness loomed large, casting a shadow of uncertainty over my future. The practical implications of illness, often overlooked, were now a stark reality that I had to confront.

Being fitted with the chemotherapy bottle involved a long day at the clinic, surrounded by other patients facing their own health battles. When a senior nurse informed us that an X-ray of the tube was required before the fitting, a sense of weariness washed over me.

The constant medical interventions and the impact on my quality of life led to a difficult decision. I turned to my wife and voiced my feelings: it was a question of quality versus quantity of life. When the nurse returned, I requested that the chemotherapy tube be removed.

Following a week in the hospital, I returned to my still-damaged flat. The operation's aftermath was a slow and disruptive recovery. The financial strain necessitated a return to work. I soon found myself working as a locum pharmacist in unfamiliar towns, a stark contrast to my previous life. The physical and emotional toll of the recovery, coupled with the financial burden, made the return to normalcy a daunting task.