by Joe Thompson
Incredibly, I continued to play for another three months, but still I kept the news a secret. Nobody outside of Rochdale or my closest family and friends knew I was running around with something growing and eating away at my insides, trying to kill me. I treated every training session, gym workout and game as a battle between me and cancer. Each one that I came through was another point in the bank and another wall of strength that the disease would have to try and topple. The competitive beast inside me had kicked in again and I wasn’t going down without a fight. It’s a character trait that can be draining at times, when you have this constant need to be number one. But at that moment I was thankful I had that spirit coursing through my veins because it was the perfect mental remedy against cancer.
Less than two weeks after my diagnosis, I scored in a league game away at Walsall. It wasn’t the best goal of my career but at that point it was the most important. As the ball hit the back of the net I felt a rush of ecstasy and relief that is difficult to describe. ‘You can still fucking do this,’ I said to myself. It gave me a huge mental boost and for a brief while I felt strangely invincible. I was playing League One football and scoring goals while my body was battling cancer. If I could do that, I could do anything. Defenders would try to wind me up and get under my skin with a late tackle or a bit of off-the-ball chat but they were wasting their time. They couldn’t dish out anything more harmful than what I was already fighting.
Keith continued to keep tabs on me like an over-protective parent looking after a sickly child. Every day he asked me if I still felt ok and was capable of playing another game. He was brilliant with me but after a while I began to lose patience with his constant questioning. ‘I’m fine, let me crack on,’ I snapped. I didn’t mean to lose my cool, but football bravado had kicked in again. I knew that he had my best interests at heart, but I didn’t want to be seen as a weak link and lose the trust of my team-mates. The game was keeping my mind and body healthy and if I gave him any reason to leave me out I feared it would kill my momentum.
March came and I was amazed that I still hadn’t experienced any symptoms. There were no night sweats or feverish fluctuations in my temperature. But out of nowhere everything came crashing to a halt. I was named on the bench to face MK Dons, but after 25 minutes I replaced Steven Davies, who had limped off with a calf injury. As soon as I started running I felt horrendous. Just like last time, everyone else around me seemed to be moving at 100mph while I was moving in slow motion. I remember receiving a perfect drilled pass to my feet on the right wing, but for some reason I couldn’t pick up the flight of the ball. It was like I had blurred vision. I lifted my foot up to trap it dead but missed it completely and it rolled out of play. The crowd started jeering but they didn’t realise what was happening to me. At half-time the floodlights came on but it felt like a torch was being flashed in front of my eyes. Minutes later, I could hear the sound of my heart beating like a drum in my ears.
Somehow, I saw the rest of the game out, but as soon as the final whistle blew I left the pitch without shaking hands with the opposition or clapping the away support, and I ran down the tunnel as fast as my weary legs would carry me. I burst inside the dressing room, flung open a cubicle door and started being violently sick and coughing up blood. The lads began filtering in and could hear what was happening. The dressing room fell silent, but for the sound of me vomiting and the tip-tap of studs on the floor. I felt uncomfortable putting them in that position, but what else could I do? Our masseur, Gary Thompson, opened the door and patted me on the back, like I was a drunk with his head buried in the toilet at the end of a heavy night. He urged me to take my time, but said we needed to go and find the doctor and explain what was happening.
I was told it was likely that I had an infection. My immune system had been overwhelmed by cancer and was now struggling to fight off illnesses it would normally combat with ease. I returned to the toilets to continue throwing up. Keith opened the cubicle door. ‘You’re knocking it on the head,’ he said. ‘You’re done. We need to get you healthy. You’ve done more than enough for me. Football isn’t the be all and end all. We all love it but you need to get yourself well and healthy for your family.’ I nodded my head. It hurt to admit defeat, but he was right. I felt red hot, more so than I normally do after a game, and decided to have a cold shower, but when I came out my temperature was still through the roof. On the coach back, a few of the lads asked me how I was. ‘I’m not well,’ I said. ‘I’m not well at all.’ I closed my eyes and drifted in and out of sleep.
A few days later I returned to hospital for another scan, which revealed the tumours had multiplied. I was pencilled in to start my treatment on 3 April. I felt relieved to have a start date at last, but I still had a couple of weeks to kill before it kicked off. Me and Chantelle had always wanted to go on holiday to Thailand and we made an impulsive decision to book flights. I couldn’t have the injections I needed to fight off various diseases, like mumps and measles, but after pleading with my doctor, he gave me the green light to go. He knew it could be my last holiday and couldn’t bring himself to stand in my way. A few years earlier, we had to cancel a trip to Thailand after Chantelle became pregnant with Lula. In hindsight it was a blessing because she could now come with us and have an amazing life experience at such a young age.
Our plan was to fly to Bangkok and visit various islands dotted around the country. Before we departed, I drafted a statement with Lloydy and gave it to Rochdale to release to the media. I knew that the news would break just as we landed in Thailand. I was literally running away from my problems, but last time I’d felt suffocated by the attention and just wanted space to breathe. Shortly after we arrived, I turned my phone on and my inbox was flooded with messages. I couldn’t possibly get back to everyone properly and told them I’d speak to them when I returned. I longed to be free for a couple more weeks, without thinking about what was to come. I was also keen to get a good tan and be as brown as possible to offset the shade of yellow my skin would assume after starting chemo.
You’re probably wondering how I managed to relax on holiday, knowing that I had a date with cancer when I returned, but surprisingly I switched off pretty easily. I occupied my thoughts by making sure Lula had the best time possible. Normally when we go away we invite family and friends, but I was happy that on this occasion it was just the three of us because we get along so well together. It’s great sharing experiences with other people, but we’re a unit and it was amazing to have that one-on-one time, making new memories and opening Lula’s eyes to another culture. On the way back we stopped off in Dubai to transfer flights and so Chantelle could buy a new engagement ring, which she’d lost. For the first time I didn’t care how much she spent on it. Money becomes so insignificant when your life is in danger.
We were waiting in the departure lounge for our connecting flight when two smiling teenage girls approached us like they had stumbled across a couple of celebrities. ‘Are you the couple in the wedding video on Facebook?’ asked one of them excitedly. ‘Oh my god, you have the perfect family.’ We laughed and told them that was indeed us. I found it fascinating that on the outside people thought we were living the perfect life, but they had no idea about the problems we were going through. The power of social media is incredible, but I learnt in that moment more than ever that it only provides the smallest snapshot of your life.
As we drove home from the airport, I glanced in my rear-view mirror and could see Lula scrolling through old pictures on my phone. She stopped and pointed at one with a confused look on her face. ‘That’s mummy, that’s me, but who’s that there?’ she said. My heart sank and I had to try so hard to stop myself from crying. It was a picture of me during my first fight with cancer. ‘That’s me Lula,’ I said. ‘No it’s not,’ she continued. ‘You’ve got yellow skin and a bald head like a ball.’ Chantelle could see I was getting upset but I knew that was the moment I had to tell her. It wasn’t how I’d planned it and I didn’t want to scare her, bu
t I had to be honest because kids can tell when you’re lying. ‘That was when daddy was unwell and he’s still a bit unwell now,’ I said. ‘I might have to get some more medicine.’ ‘You’re poorly now?’ she said. ‘You’d better get to hospital then.’ A few days later, that’s exactly what I did.
Chapter 15
Ward 15
I COULDN’T feel anything, but I could see and hear the doctor clinking her shiny surgical tools like cutlery, with a mask over her face. The large, plain white bed sheet draped over me had the appearance of a tablecloth ready for a main course, until speckles of blood the colour of red wine began to splatter all over it.
‘Are you ok, Joe?’ she asked me. ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,’ I said, unconvincingly. She glanced at my monitor, which showed that my heart was beating faster than when I was running down the wing. ‘Don’t worry, we’re nearly done,’ she said. I felt like a slab of meat on a chopping board and, despite my best efforts to shut my eyes and block everything out, I couldn’t stop myself from bursting into tears.
I was undergoing a minor operation under local anesthetic to insert a Hickman line into my chest. The first time I’d had cancer, the chemotherapy was delivered into my body via a PICC line, fed into a vein through my bicep. This was a far more invasive procedure, which required the nurse to make an incision near my collarbone and then tug and pull the tip of a long plastic tube through a vein draining into my heart. The other end tunneled under the skin and came out of another slit in my chest.
Before they began the operation, they showed me a video that explained exactly what would happen and why they were doing it. As well as speeding up the rate at which the chemo entered my bloodstream, it also meant I didn’t have to have a needle puncture every time it was administered. The line would remain in place permanently until the end of my treatment. I still have a scar near my collarbone, which I’ll have for the rest of my days, but at some point I think I’ll get a tattoo to cover it up.
For 45 minutes, I writhed in the bed, praying for it to be all over. The doctor was literally tugging on the line and pulling it through my vein like it was a fishing rod reeling in a fresh carp. It took all my willpower for me to resist grabbing it and pulling it out. Had I done, I would almost certainly have caused myself serious damage and sparked a bloodbath, but luckily I came through it before being wheeled out and parked next to the other guinea pigs undergoing various types of treatment.
Ward 15 became my dressing room. Last time I’d been on a children’s ward, but now I was surrounded by grown men of different ages from all walks of life. They didn’t know it yet, but in my head they were my team-mates and I felt we’d all have a better chance of survival if we tried to work as a collective. As with all dressing rooms, there are some people you gravitate towards more than others and there were a couple of guys I became close to as we started to talk and help one another through each day.
Karl Benson was a doorman and a big boxing fan, but even his burly frame was struggling to manhandle cancer. By the time I arrived on the ward, he’d already tried six or seven different forms of chemotherapy, all of which had failed to kill the tumours ravaging his body. His doctor had told him he would be taken to a hospital in London to try yet another treatment to see if that would do the trick. He still had hope, but at that stage his outlook was bleak. His energy levels were low and he was really struggling with nausea. Initially, he didn’t talk much and would draw the curtains around his bed for much of the day so he could keep himself to himself.
Another of my closest allies was a BBC journalist called Jonathan Ali, who was battling a rare form of leukaemia. He told me that just one in three million people are diagnosed with his type of cancer every year, but somehow he’d fallen victim to it. He was a top guy with a good heart, but at first I didn’t know if I could trust him. As a footballer, one of the first rules you learn is to never trust a journalist. I’d decided to switch to a strictly vegan diet and not eat the food supplied by the hospital. It wasn’t a case of me turning my nose up at their menu, it was just a choice I’d made which I felt could give me a greater chance of survival. But I feared that Jonathan might hear about it and then twist it into a story. I could already see the headline: ‘Footballer rejects NHS food.’
Initially I kept him at arm’s length, but I soon realised I was just being paranoid. ‘Are we fucked, Joe?’ he asked me during one of our many frank discussions. ‘We probably look it mate, but I reckon we’ll live to fight another day.’ He was in his 50s and seemed to know everything, and I enjoyed sitting there and listening to his stories. Luckily for him, he didn’t suffer with sickness, so after each bout of chemo, he’d take himself off downstairs to the hospital canteen and treat himself to his favourite breakfast. Every time he returned, I’d ask him what he’d eaten and the answer was always the same. ‘I was going to have something healthy, but I thought sod it, I’m having sausage and eggs. You can stick to your rabbit food, Joe.’ He liked to give me a bit of stick but I knew he was a softie really. He lived in a house next door to his mum, so she was on hand to look after him when he went home.
I began to think about the dressing rooms that I’d been in and what makes a good one. There is no set formula but you have to have a good variety of characters. Firstly, you need leaders, people who will set the tone with their professionalism and speak on behalf of the group. You also need jokers, who can put a positive spin on any situation and defuse negativity. Quiet types can offer a different perspective because they see things in a clearer state of mind. Then you need the no-nonsense sorts who have a bit of fire in their belly and won’t stand for any bullshit. If you’re feeling sorry for yourself or you’re getting the shit kicked out of you on the pitch, you want these guys in the trenches with you.
We’re all built differently, and having the emotional intelligence to respect that is really important. When I was at Bury, Gary Neville came in and did a talk. He told us a story about when he used to room with David Beckham on away trips. They were good mates from the youth team and sharing a room the night before a game really helped them to bond on and off the pitch. But when Becks started seeing Victoria, he would call her in the early hours of the morning while she was away on a tour in Asia or Australia. Neville spoke to Fergie and said he needed to room with someone else because he had a very strict routine. He would be in bed at 9pm and get up at 5am. Becks’ routine wasn’t in sync with his own, so he needed to be with someone who was a better fit.
I could relate to that anecdote inside the hospital but also in the Rochdale dressing room. My room-mate on away trips was Calvin Andrew. He’s the most positive person I’ve ever met in my life. It doesn’t matter if he’s been smashed to pieces by a defender or had a bad game, he just brushes it off. He’s kept me going if I’ve been sat on the bench. He always says, ‘Keep your head up and keep going.’ We have similar music tastes and we can talk about anything and everything. He’s travelled the world and has played and been in and around Premier League dressing rooms. He’s got some great stories, which I love listening to. He’s also a chameleon in social situations and can assess a mood in a camp. If he’s in a room with certain people he knows how to change and be more serious. For me he’s been a breath of fresh air. I’m a positive person, but not every day. If there’s something wrong with me then people around me will know about it and keep their distance for a little while.
We had some deep conversations on that ward, but we were still able to have a laugh, which helped to raise spirits in the camp when one of us was having a rough day. Still, there were constant reminders of the severity of our situation. There was a young lad in the bed opposite me who could only have been about 21, but he looked like death. He’d basically been told that the treatment hadn’t worked and he now had to choose whether to stay in hospital for end of life care or go home and see out his final days. I wanted to put my fingers in my ears and block out what I’d just heard. I wouldn’t wish witnessing that conversation on my worst enemy. ‘Why the fu
ck is this happening to him?’ I thought. I dread to think what was going through his head at that moment. His life had barely started. There were memories he’d never make, places he’d never see and loved ones he’d have to leave behind.
‘Stop!’ The voice in my head interrupted my internal monologue and ordered me to pull the shutters down. Working myself up over someone else’s heartache wasn’t going to make me feel any better. I made a silent vow to myself that I wouldn’t end up having the same conversation with my doctor. Maybe I’d been naive investing so much energy into other people’s battles. Sure, we were a team, but we were all here to save ourselves, nobody else. In a dressing room you have to be there for your team-mates when things aren’t going well but first and foremost you need to make sure you’ve got your own house in order. I looked around the room and knew that everyone else was thinking the same thing. Some of them would rarely speak because all they wanted was to focus on themselves. I couldn’t cut myself off to that extent because mentally I don’t think it’s healthy, but I had to be selfish and work out my own gameplan.
The chemo was relentless. Each cycle lasted 24 hours and I had just 20 minutes between each one to get a shower or something to eat before I had to be back in bed and hooked up to the machines. This would continue for six days, after which I was allowed to go home for a week, providing I was well enough, before returning for more. I had no pattern to my days. At night, the nurses would turn the lights off at about 11pm. Some of the blokes would go to sleep, while others would pull their curtains shut, turn on their bedside lamp and read or watch a film with their headphones in. I was a night owl and the nurse on the night shift would always be shocked to see that I was still awake in the early hours of the morning. It made me laugh how they would creep into the ward to check our machines were working and wear headlamps like SAS soldiers on a top-secret mission, so that they didn’t wake up the other patients.