by Joe Thompson
I’d been in isolation for seven days when the side effects began to surface. My concentration started to waver and I became increasingly sensitive to light, which meant watching DVDs and reading books was almost impossible. Up until that point, I’d been able to eat and drink as normal, but now I was struggling to keep food and liquid down again and slowly my weight began to plummet. More worryingly, I noticed a change in my doctor’s tone of voice and the nurses who cared for me on a daily basis. They sounded panicked as their visits became more frequent and they continually asked me whether I was feeling ok.
I needed blood transfusions to try and boost my white and red blood cell count, but my body couldn’t rely on them forever. I began to wonder if I’d underestimated the suffering I was about to endure. Prior to the treatment, I’d been dismissive when the doctor had warned me that one patient had spent two and a half months in isolation. I dread to think the state he must have been in. Physically and mentally, he would’ve been nothing more than an empty shell by the time he left.
If I felt well enough, I was allowed to leave my room and sit in a hub at the end of a corridor, where I could chat with other people undergoing the same treatment and briefly escape the prison of my mind. But I made a conscious decision not to. There were 40 other rooms at the hospital and I knew we wouldn’t all make it out alive. My room was my war cabin. Not all of us were going to survive, so I stayed in there, curled up in the foetal position, and entered survival mode. I could feel myself gradually getting weaker. My gut started playing up and I constantly had to use a bedpan, which made me feel like an old man. I needed help from the nurses just to use the toilet – I felt vulnerable and embarrassed.
On day ten, hallucinations haunted me throughout the day and night. During one bizarre episode, I was convinced a SWAT team had abseiled down the outside wall of my room, smashed my windows in and were about to perform open-heart surgery while I was strapped to the bed fully conscious. I woke up shivering and sweating like Gollum in the corner of the room with a nurse looking over me. ‘Everything is ok Joe, you’re going to be fine, you’ve just had a bad dream,’ she said softly. My mind was so scrambled I had to ask her several days later whether the incident had been a figment of my imagination. Apparently it’s a common by-product of powerful chemo, but I still felt embarrassed, a bit like when you’re reminded of something you did or said after a few drinks on a night out.
Emotionally, the following three days were by some distance the worst of my life, as I became consumed by depression. I spent 36 hours in and out of sleep. Every time I woke up my bed looked as if a dog had shed its fur over the sheets and pillows. The hair on my head, in my nostrils and even my ears had been shed. I desperately missed my daughter. It was the longest period we’d been apart since she had been born and I worried what impact my suffering would have on her in the future.
She’d only recently lost her granddad, Chantelle’s father, to lung cancer and she’d often wake up in the night crying because she missed him. I think the first four years of a child’s life are so important and I wondered whether the whole episode would affect her emotional development. I also felt gutted for my mum. The son she had created and brought up was crumbling into a bag of bones. Reuben was away in San Francisco on business for two weeks so he wasn’t around to offer her the emotional support he often gives her during unstable times.
My white blood cell count remained dangerously low and I desperately needed my levels to shoot up. I’d lost nearly two stone in weight and was encouraged to try drinking protein shakes and eating eggs to get my weight up. I went against doctor’s orders, having chosen to follow a vegan diet. Something had caused the disease to come back again and I wanted to make sure I did everything in my power to ensure it would never return. Chantelle made me plant-based meals and brought them to the hospital every day, despite the fact I was still struggling to keep them down. I had also decided to completely cut out processed sugars. When I underwent a PET scan, prior to my diagnosis, I was told that cancerous cells feed off glucose. There was no chance I was going to eat or drink anything that could potentially allow them to grow.
After three days of horrendous suffering, my white blood cell count at last began to shoot up, which meant the stem cell transplant was working. My first wedding anniversary was approaching and I was deemed well enough for Chantelle to pay me a brief visit to celebrate. Before she arrived at the hospital, I watched our wedding video back on my iPad. It brought a tear to my eye as I relived the happiest day of our lives.
She knows I love buying trainers and so she bought me a pair I’d wanted for a long time, along with a large balloon. I felt terrible that I couldn’t give her anything in return, but we made the best of a bad situation. She joined me in my single bed and we curled up and watched Love Island on TV like two teenagers. I watched contestants on the show declaring their love for people they had known for a matter of weeks. My wife had remained by my side in sickness and health – that’s true love.
There was still one other little person I was desperate to see. Children are normally banned from visiting under any circumstances, but with Father’s Day just around the corner, I decided to defy doctor’s orders and asked Chantelle to bring Lula in.
She’d only recently recovered from chicken pox, but I was confident I could shake off any bugs she’d potentially pass on. The nurses warned me of the risks of contracting an infection, but my mind was made up, because I knew she would give me a real emotional boost.
I hadn’t washed in two days, because the change in temperature when I stepped into the shower cubicle caused me to be sick, but I made a special effort for my little girl because I didn’t want her to be alarmed when she saw me. It had been nearly two weeks since I’d seen her, but I could already notice minute changes in her appearance. She was only with me for about 40 minutes or so and spent most of it playing games on my iPad, but it was worth it just to receive a card she’d made for me and to see her smile after I gave her a hug. In that moment, I fully understood what Paul had said about being energised by Lula. I felt like I’d been plugged into the mains and given a boost of power.
My spirits had been raised and I could feel my competitive streak beginning to return. I was still in the game. I hadn’t forgotten about my 21-day target and as my health continued to improve, so too did my belief that I could beat that record. I found I could boost my motivation by drawing up a list of targets I wanted to achieve and changes I’d make to my life once I was out.
My list started with small goals, such as climbing the stairs, reading Lula a bedtime story and putting on a certain amount of weight. I also had medium-term targets, like running again and kicking a ball, all leading up to the long-term goal of returning to football at the level I’d left. I also promised myself that I would never surround myself with negative people once I was out. If you walk around with a cloud over your head, it’s going to rain.
On day 16, my friend Nicky Adams and Rochdale teammate Brian Barry-Murphy joined Chantelle by my bedside. Shortly after they arrived, Dr Gibbs came in with some news. ‘You’ll be glad to hear your immune system is strong enough for you to go home, Joe.’ My reaction should have been one of pure elation, but instead it was mixed with fear. I held on tightly to the metal rails on the side of my bed and argued that it was too soon. I realised I’d almost become institutionalised. I was used to having nurses on hand to give me injections and a big red button I could press in the event I had a bad turn. I was scared of going back out into the big bad world and worried my immune system wouldn’t be strong enough to cope. I looked at Nicky and asked him not to tell anyone about my reaction. I was embarrassed and didn’t want people to think I’d gone soft while I was inside.
The hospital never gives patients a set day and time to leave because they know that while many are physically ready to go, emotionally they are still unstable and need time to prepare themselves for life outside of the white box which has become their home. In the end it didn’t take me l
ong to pull myself together. I told Chantelle to pick Lula up from school and bring her into the hospital for 1pm the following day. The three of us would leave together as a family.
It was an amazing day, with loads of friends, including a few of the lads from my stag do, coming in to help me pack my bags. My physio at Bury, Nick Meace, made a mammoth journey from Portsmouth to see me and gave me a wonderful gift with all our family photos in it, which him and his girlfriend, Francesca, had put together.
As I left the room for the first time in 18 days, I realised I’d smashed my target and set a new record for an isolation patient at Christie Hospital. My doctor was amazed. The only obstacle left in my path was the exit doors. I held on to Lula’s hand and held a balloon Chan had brought in to celebrate our first wedding anniversary a few days earlier. I reached the reception area and thanked all the nurses for everything they had done for me and the lady who had asked me every day if I wanted food, even though I declined every time because I just couldn’t keep it down.
As I walked through the exit door, tears began to roll down my face and my nose started to run. I hadn’t felt wind on my skin in over two weeks and had no nostril hairs to stop the fresh air from rushing into my head. I walked slowly down a ramp towards the car park but stopped after feeling a sharp pain in my calf. I was convinced I’d torn it as I stepped down on to flat ground. My muscles were so weak and couldn’t cope with the simplest of movements. We packed my suitcases into the car and then I sat in the front passenger seat ready to go home. Before we set off, I asked Chantelle to take it easy on the roads because I was so frail. I could literally feel every bump and turn in the road like a crash dummy in one of those car adverts.
The sun was still shining brightly when we got home, so I pulled up a chair in the back garden and basked in the warm feeling of the rays hitting my skin. I’d been told I’d still need to return to the hospital to receive injections to bolster my immune system for several weeks, but I was out of the woods. The chemotherapy and stem cell transplant had been a success and somehow I’d beaten cancer for a second time. But it wasn’t enough just to survive.
Chapter 17
The comeback kid
I LOOKED in the mirror and saw a 16-year-old boy staring back at me. He wasn’t wearing cubic zirconia earrings or combing his afro. In fact, he didn’t have any hair at all. His skin had a yellow tint and was wrapped tightly around a face that was weathered beyond its years. His alien body didn’t look like it belonged to this earth, either, with every bone jutting out like a Halloween skeleton.
I was stood in my bedroom naked but I didn’t recognise myself. I hadn’t weighed ten stone since I was a first-year YTS at Rochdale. It was the morning after I’d arrived home and the first time I’d seen the full impact chemotherapy had had on my body. I wasn’t a pretty sight. My closest friends and family recognised me, but if you were an acquaintance you would have needed a second look to realise it was me.
I felt like I’d been stripped of my identity and sent back in time. I had a wife and a child but physically I was 16 again. I could fall asleep at any moment, just like I used to when I came home from training when I was going through my growth spurt. Back then, I’d developed a love for trainers and my first step towards regaining my identity was to put on the pair Chantelle had bought me for our wedding anniversary, even though I knew they couldn’t carry me very far.
The first physical target I’d been set by my doctor was to try and walk 100 yards outside. The athlete inside me sniggered at the distance, but I wasn’t laughing as I hobbled down the road like an old man, carefully putting one foot in front of the other to stop myself from losing my balance and falling over. I was exhausted and felt like I’d run a cross-country race. I had a pensioner’s engine inside a teenager’s body. I was out of hospital but still struggling to stand on my own two feet. Blackouts were a frequent occurrence and I’d often open my eyes with no idea how I’d ended up on the floor.
I craved my independence and wanted to jump in the car, put my foot down and drive somewhere far away with my tunes on, but I still wasn’t allowed in case I fell asleep at the wheel. Chantelle was my chauffeur, as well as my carer, and drove us both to the Lake District for a short break about a week after I’d returned home. We’d been invited by Phil Ercolano, the owner of Cassius Camps and the man who had beasted me while I was on trial with Carlisle. He’d paid for us to stay at a beautiful hotel called The Lakeside, not far from the camp, and as part of the deal I’d agreed to drop by and talk to Sheffield Wednesday’s under-23 team about my story.
Later that evening, I returned to the dining hall where we’d started our camp two years ago. I’d done my research on the team and knew there were a few talented lads in there who had represented their country at youth-team level and were on the brink of first-team football. It’s a challenging period in a player’s career, particularly in the modern game. Some make the mistake of thinking they’ve already made it. They’re earning half-decent money and their Instagram accounts imitate a player’s lifestyle. But before they know it they’ve slipped down the divisions and never realised their potential. I wanted them to understand the setbacks that would inevitably come along the way and the resilience they needed and would be built at the camp.
As I walked slowly to the front of the room I could tell they were shocked by my appearance, but it was the perfect way to grab their attention. I spoke for over half an hour about my journey and how it had led to this moment. By the end I was exhausted and asked for a chair to sit down on while I fielded questions from the boys. It was another character-building experience. Before I started talking, my legs were shaking and my mouth was dry like I was stepping up to take a penalty in a shootout. Players in team sports aren’t used to being in individual situations where all the attention is on them. Usually you’re surrounded by your team-mates and opponents but I didn’t have anyone to take the heat off me or play a little five-yard pass to. A few of the boys asked for pictures at the end before I wished them good luck for the following day; they were going to need it.
A week later a mate of mine, James Poole, who works in the scouting department at Manchester City, asked me to do another talk with their academy boys. I agreed to it but was left stunned when a voice called my name from one of the rooms inside an office at the training ground. It was Pep Guardiola. I’ve met David Beckham, Paul Scholes and the Neville brothers and never once been star-struck, but for the next five minutes I acted like a little girl, laughing nervously and agreeing with everything he said. He told me I was welcome to use the club’s facilities for my rehabilitation and only needed to ask if I wanted to attend a game once the season had started. It was an incredible gesture and I couldn’t believe he even knew my name. His attention to detail reminded me of when I crossed paths with Fergie when I was a kid. He liked to have control of everything and was aware of every single person who entered that training ground. My only regret is that I didn’t ask him more questions in the time I spent with him.
The City lads were a different bunch to those at Sheffield Wednesday. They had everything at their disposal. If they wanted to get stronger, there were four or five strength and conditioning coaches on hand to design programmes tailored specifically for their needs. If they wanted to hone their finishing after training, there were mannequins everywhere and numerous perfectly manicured pitches to choose from. The club were wary of them becoming spoilt and taking everything for granted, which is why they’d asked me to come in. I focused my talk on my fall from grace after leaving Manchester United and my grounding experiences on trial at various clubs lower down the leagues. I wanted them to know it could easily be them if things didn’t work out at City or they failed to put in the hard yards.
It felt liberating telling people about my story, but it still didn’t have the ending I wanted. A month after leaving hospital, I returned to Rochdale to meet the manager and the boys and start planning my route back to first-team football. They definitely weren’t expecti
ng a bag of bones to walk through the door and I could see the shock on their faces. Beechy immediately laid down a challenge. ‘I want ten goals from you this season,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you back for January.’ My doctor would’ve had a heart attack if he’d heard the conversation. Patients with normal office jobs are advised to start easing back into work over a period of 12 months. They were expecting me to do the same thing in training, but I only had another season left on my contract and didn’t have time to waste.
My rehab was like putting a broken car back together. I started off with a basic MOT, which involved testing every single muscle to see which ones were working properly and those that were going to need a bit of oil to get them going again. My first session was a ten-minute walk on a treadmill followed by a few stretches and a rub-down from the masseur. Just like last time, he couldn’t believe how lumpy and full of fluid my legs were. We then progressed to basic movements in the gym, to see how I felt when I did exercises like squats or bicep curls. I was so weak it was a joke. If someone had called me a youth-team player for a laugh I’d have flipped because I was so self-conscious about my lack of strength. I’d put in a lot of work over the years to get fitter and stronger, so it was soul-destroying to be back at square one.
My immune system was still weak so I couldn’t spend long around the other lads in case I picked up an infection, and I used hand sanitisers to keep any germs at bay. Still, that didn’t stop them from putting their head around the physio’s door and asking me if I was having another day off. Keith’s wit was also ruthless. ‘Here he is, the cheerleader, where are your pom-poms?’ he said, prompting howls of laughter from the lads. I laughed it off and then decided to wind him up by lifting tiny pink dumb-bells in the gym. He bit every time. They’re a harsh bunch, but being back amongst the dressing room banter did wonders for my morale. Keith also knew that his little digs would motivate me to try and shove his words down his throat, so it was great man-management.