As with many people from my generation, for me Dawson’s Creek was one of those must-watch programmes, so I was shocked to read that James Van Der Beek had died from bowel cancer.
The shock was on a number of levels. Firstly, his age; he was only 48, a couple of years younger than me. Secondly, I myself have just received a bowel cancer diagnosis.
One day I was having my photo taken for a feature in this paper. Two days later, I was in A&E being scanned, probed and poked. Then I was told: “We’ve found cancer.”
My phone hasn’t stopped with messages from concerned friends checking I am okay. Telling me there are lots of new treatments. I am okay, honestly.
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You see, in my case, getting a cancer diagnosis wasn’t sitting in a room with a consultant and knowing everything there and then. For me, it’s been a few weeks and all I know for certain is that I have a cancerous tumour on my bowel. It has spread to my abdomen and other organs, as well as my bones.
The meeting where they confirmed the initial diagnosis was a strange experience. My wife, her mother, the consultant, a nurse and, of course, me. I’d already been told that they had found cancer in my bowels that had spread to my bones. I was expecting further information regarding treatment options, life expectancy, etc. We got none of that.
When it comes to cancer, there are two words doctors use, with two distinct and completely different meanings. But if you aren’t paying close attention the difference is lost on you.
Treatment means aiming for remission. Shrinking it. Removing it. Getting to a point where it is no longer detectable. Management means something else entirely. It means containing. Slowing. Controlling symptoms. Preserving quality of life for as long as possible. In my case, the word they used was management.
That distinction matters. Not just medically, but psychologically.
We talk about cancer as a battle. People fight it. They win. Or lose. It makes for dramatic headlines and clear narratives. Illness is never that black and white. Outcomes are not determined by strength of character or force of will. Some cancers respond to treatment. Some don’t. That isn’t a reflection of the patient’s bravery.
I have no list of regrets, no bucket list of things to do or see. All I ever wanted was a family of my own. It is them I mourn for
I’ve never been comfortable describing this as a battle. A battle suggests an enemy you defeat or are defeated by. Your actions determine the result. Management feels different. It suggests time. Adjustment. Living alongside something unwelcome but present.
There will be treatments offered – chemotherapy, targeted radiation, and even surgeries, whatever the biopsy determines – but the intent is control rather than cure. That’s a different mental landscape, not just for me, but my wife and children to deal with too.
So I won’t say I am battling cancer. I am living with it. And for now, that is the more honest description.
Being a pragmatic fellah, I’ve accepted that I will die. Sooner, rather than later. I have no list of regrets, no bucket list of things to do or see. All I ever wanted was a family of my own. It is them I mourn for.
Sweet little Joshua, who until last week hadn’t slept a night without his daddy there. His sister, who though she professes now she will never get married, won’t have her father there to walk her up the aisle, and dance like an eejit at the reception. Not forgetting the boy who made me a father. He’s grown into a fine young man. Kind and polite. He’s gone very quiet since we told him about my diagnosis.
I’m not an expert on many things, but I do know childhood trauma and being abandoned by a parent. There will be anger, hurt, sadness, all at one of the most valuable stages in his development, transitioning from school to the world of work. A boy into a man. Learning to drive and gaining his independence and freedom. This is the time a young man especially needs that guiding hand of his father.
Fortunately I’m able to put things to the back of my mind and pretty much ignore them. Useful, because I could be close to driving myself mad if I couldn’t.
I was well aware of the symptoms of bowel cancer. An online friend was diagnosed many years ago, and documented her journey. Warning of the signs. Changes in bowel movements, frequency and consistency. The feeling that the bowel isn’t emptying fully. Weight loss, blood in your stools or passing blood on its own and fatigue.
I’m not even sure how long ago I started noticing blood in my stools. I had a feeling I was losing weight as my jeans were a bit looser and the belt had to be pulled an extra hole. Still, it wasn’t until I started passing blood on its own with abdominal pains that I told my wife. She insisted I go to A&E. Within four hours I was making that phone call home to tell my wife I had bowel cancer.
Honestly, at the time I couldn’t tell you why I didn’t seek immediate medical advice. In the grand scheme of things, though, it doesn’t matter now.
In hospital one thing you have is plenty of time. I’ve come to the realisation that deep down I know the reason I delayed seeking medical advice. I’m a family carer, my wife has epilepsy and doesn’t drive. We live in a beautiful, secluded, corner of rural Laois. I’m not being big headed, but if I’m not at home then there are serious problems.
No shopping gets done; they don’t deliver to us. Kids can’t get to school. Ironically, one of the main reasons I have to be there to get everyone to doctors and medical appointments.
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As carers, we push our own medical issues to the side, tell ourselves it’s nothing. Pop some painkillers and get on with it. When in reality we know better than most that delaying these things can lead to much worse problems down the road.
But there’s no point playing the “What if” game. What’s done is done and now we just need to take it one day at a time.
As I say to the wife when she gives out to me for making a cuppa. “I’ve got cancer love, I’m not disabled.”
