by Chris Geiger
My Story by Chris Geiger
Dear Tumour
Membership: # 1
Dear Tumour,
I feel compelled after all these years to write to you and tell you how I feel.
I guess you know I was a fit twenty-four year old, who had completed the Worthing marathon and went weight training a few times a week. I guess you also know I never smoked and only drank moderately at the weekend. So why did you pick me? Why?
I had a great job writing software, a nice apartment and a flash car (well, twenty years ago a Ford XR3i was a flash car), so why choose me?
For eight months, I continually visited my doctor. He was convinced that I was stressed or asthmatic, despite losing weight, struggling to breathe and knowing the slightest exertion would tire me out for days.
Eventually, after waking up from a general anaesthetic, having just had an operation on my chest to discover what was causing all my problems, I was told they’d found you lurking, wedged between my heart and lungs. The surgeon sat down on my bed, wiggled my toe and said you’d arrived. He said he thought your name was Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma.
Initially, I was actually pleased they’d found you, having felt so unwell for so long.
I wrongly assumed I’d swallow a couple of tablets and you’d disappear. To be honest, until this moment I didn’t know who or what you were. So don’t flatter yourself by thinking everyone has heard of you.
The surgeon was a little more concerned than I was about finding you. He said you’d kill me within three months and I had a battle on my hands. Well, thankfully, only one of his predictions was right; you did put up a hell of a fight.
I couldn’t understand it when the consultant who specializes in removing you told me I’d need to be brave. He explained how I should try to protect my family and friends from my thoughts and the awful treatment I’d need.
He was right; everyone around me appeared shell-shocked and upset. My mum and sister had red blotchy eyes each time they visited me. Mum always struggled to stay composed, yet my dear dad remained his normal strong, happy and supportive self; on the surface anyway. Soon the hospital was to become my second home for nearly two years.
Friends, teachers and ex-girlfriends all poured into my hospital room. I’d not seen some of them for years. They all acted as if I’d already lost the battle and every extra day I lived was a bonus. I couldn’t understand it; instinctively, I knew I was going to kick your arse.
Don’t get me wrong – I was frightened at times. The nights were the worst, sitting alone in my room, reading all the leaflets about various treatments I’d need to get you out of my body.
In my mind, I imagined you as a lump of melting snow – black ugly slush that’s found at the side of the road. A snowball the size of one and a half grapefruits buried in my chest. My consultant said it looked like I’d swallowed a dinner plate. You were big, I grant you that.
Our first battle together was with radiotherapy. I needed tattoos so you were hit in the identical place each day. Metal moulds also had to be created to protect the parts of my chest you’d not yet discovered. However, you were clever – you were obviously experienced or expecting this. The radiotherapy did little to destroy you; for ten days, you withstood the onslaught admirably. I was left exhausted.
You’d been ingenious by positioning yourself around my lungs and heart where you knew no surgeon would be able to physically remove you. You also knew that by continuing to squeeze my lung it would eventually collapse and fill with fluid. I guess you were also aware my voice would soon disappear, as you continued to crush the nerves that controlled my vocal cords.
Soon the consultant wondered if a mistake had been made with your name. Another biopsy was required to double-check why you weren’t tiring and were in fact growing so fast.
At the same time as the biopsy, my lung was removed and emptied of fluid. As I’m sure you know, unfortunately the main nerve that controls my diaphragm was accidentally cut. This operation and other decisions have caused my breathing to be rather laboured ever since. A small price to pay. I shrug them off as nothing more than war wounds from the battles you and I continued to fight.
Eventually, it was agreed by a number of hospitals that your name was Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma; it also transpired you’d been injured by the radiotherapy. In fact, you had to change your cell formation to survive the onslaught. A sign of weakness, I’m sure even you will agree.
Our next battle was with chemotherapy, but not just once. My age and fitness were clearly a massive disadvantage to you.
Admittedly, both the first and second chemotherapy treatments did little to encourage you to leave. These regimes, however, were having an impact on me: hair loss, sickness and fatigue. I continually had to be admitted to hospital for blood transfusions, but the antibiotics helped me fight the infections I contracted.
Another operation was scheduled, as more chemotherapy was needed and my poor veins had all but given up by now. So I had a Hickman line fitted, not the most attractive of accessories admittedly, but it didn’t matter. In my imagination, it was like I was re-arming, getting ready for the next battle. This took place with chemotherapy shipped in from America; if you wanted a fight, I was going to give you one. I was even put to sleep for a week, so didn’t get to see you suffer.
Oh, what dreams I was having, thinking of you finally being kicked out of my body!
I continued to do my best to protect my family’s feelings while fighting you. I let myself down and cried in front of them once, but on the whole did a good job in showing I had everything under control and hoped you were on the retreat.
Your arrival had actually done me a few favours on the girlfriend front. While we spent every minute of every day fighting, I was having the luxury of beautiful nurses supporting and listening to me. Some kindly gave up their weekends or days off to support and help me, others become lifelong friends and most of them were gorgeous too; so I should thank you for that!
With my Hickman line in place, I continued fighting you like a military attack, with every chemical my troops could find; this was biological warfare at its best.
I encouraged several consultants in numerous hospitals to find and give me drugs that hadn’t been used before. I was happy to try anything; after all what other option did I have?
I continued getting infections, needing blood transfusions, even needing a second and third Hickman, which meant yet more operations.
You and I continued sparring like heavyweight boxers, both of us putting up a courageous battle. You withstanding the onslaught of every chemotherapy drug I could get my hands on.
Then eventually came my master stroke. In addition to the chemicals that had been pumped into my spine, to stop you claiming squatters rights there one day, I’d finally convinced reluctant oncologists that a bone marrow transplant would finish you off once and for all. This they eventually agreed to, after seeing you were now no longer lurking and had retreated from my bone marrow. But I had to agree to bomb you with yet more chemotherapy first, which I reluctantly did. Don’t misunderstand me, I didn’t like hurting you but you gave me no choice. I’m lying, the more unwell and sick I felt, the more I knew you’d be suffering too; this I did enjoy.
I then had to endure the agonizing operation called a bone marrow harvest, where surgeons extracted my bone marrow with what looked like a corkscrew, from various places around my body.
Yet more chemotherapy was then thrown at you; this, as you know, was not my idea.
Each time I was close to having the transplant, doctors felt I’d have a better chance of killing you if you were on the back foot, injured and weak, so they ordered more chemical attacks.
Finally, the time had come a
nd I arrived at University College Hospital, in London. This was going to be the location of our final battle. I knew, if you won this, you’d win the war. This was the fight that really counted. I could see from the various scans and tests that you were injured.
It was now or never. However, twenty months of fighting you had taken its toll on me. But with the unbelievable and continuous support of my family I entered the hospital, mentally very strong, physically quite weak.
In other isolation rooms around me, similar people were undergoing their transplant. They too were hoping to eradicate you or your relatives from their bodies. Unfortunately, some of those I met while I was hitting you with the biggest blast of chemotherapy possible didn’t make it. This I assume helped you psychologically, massaged your ego; however, it gave me strength. I was determined to leave alive in Dad’s car, not dead in a box.
As you know, the chemicals were so strong I picked up more injuries. The same drugs that were inflicting damage on you caused the need to replace my bone marrow, which had inevitably died; the equivalent of friendly fire, I guess.
My hospital room was on the third floor of an old redbrick Victorian building, looking out over an office where people in suits huddled in meetings; I wondered if I’d ever be able to work again. Below my window every morning I watched as a white van arrived, collecting the unfortunate people who had not survived the previous night. The sight of these makeshift coffins being removed wasn’t something I should have witnessed, but a sight I purposely watched. I was determined not to end up leaving the hospital this way.
There were times during this fight when I thought you’d got the upper hand, when I thought I’d not see the next day. Times when I wanted my mother with me so I didn’t die alone. But eventually, miraculously, you finally surrendered to the onslaught of treatment and moved on.
For you, that’s the end of the story, the end of your involvement with me. However, for me, I had a lot of recovering to do, both mentally and physically. Sadly, I can never forget our duel; but I do hope you regretted picking on me.
Over the months that followed, my body slowly recovered, the various scars healed and the distressing nightmares finally ended. I still had moments where I hid under my duvet and cried. In hindsight, perhaps they were tears of joy or relief; who knows?
Our encounter was over twenty years ago now, yet it’s always with me and has changed my outlook on life considerably. I’m convinced one of the things the chemotherapy killed is my ‘lazy’ gene or ‘sleep’ gene. I now can’t do things by halves, can’t sit around doing nothing, can’t waste a moment of this life I managed to save. You taught me how precious every day is and how fragile we all are.
To your annoyance, I hope, I spend my time creating awareness by writing newspaper columns about you. I talk to people, explaining and showing them how to cope should you decide to bully or pick on them.
I’ve dedicated a lot of my time to helping various hospitals and cancer charities raise money; money that’s used to fight you and your horrible family, regardless of what person in what country you randomly appear to choose.
I don’t apologize for the length of this letter or the delay in writing to you. If you had one ounce of humanity or intelligence, you’d recognize it’s just a matter of time before you’ll be wiped off this planet and extinct forever.
I hope you rot in hell.
Always your number-one enemy!
Chris Geiger
My Story by Claire Duffett
In Sickness and in Health
Membership: # 2
I’m thirty-seven years old and have a wonderful supportive husband and two beautiful daughters, Ruby and Lola.
My story started on 5 November, funnily enough fireworks night. I visited my doctor as I’d found a lump under my right arm. I’d seen my doctor twice before about this lump, and each time I’d been told it was nothing to worry about; it was just an enlarged lymph gland. However, on this occasion, my doctor felt I should be referred to hospital, to have a biopsy of the lump taken. This would finally put my mind at rest and hopefully confirm my doctor’s previous thoughts. The result of the biopsy would be available in January, just a few days after my daughter Ruby’s third birthday.
I wasn’t worried about the results and to be honest I gave them little thought. I’d been busy preparing for Ruby’s big day, and we were only a couple of weeks away from celebrating Lola’s first birthday, too, so both these events kept me occupied.
Richard, my husband, was away, working in Bristol on the day I had my appointment to get my test results. We were living in Salisbury at the time; however, coincidently, my mum was visiting, so she accompanied me and offered to look after the girls.
When we arrived at the hospital, I told Mum to just put the minimum amount in the parking machine. ‘We won’t be long,’ I shouted, as I got the girls out of the car.
I was still feeling fairly relaxed about getting the results; it was just an enlarged lymph gland after all.
Like most doctors’ appointments, they were running late.
The girls were well behaved for once, enjoying the novelty of their nan spoiling them. We had to hang around for a long time in the waiting room until I was eventually called. When I was shown into the doctor’s small windowless office, the first thing I noticed was another nurse sitting next to him, behind the desk. I sat down opposite them on a well-worn plastic chair.
I was now getting anxious – just seeing them both looking at me had instantly got my heart racing. Soon I remembered I’d met the nurse before, which helped my nerves a bit. After a little polite chat about my girls and how I was feeling, the doctor without warning suddenly said, ‘I’m afraid its cancer.’
I felt my face burn with panic and my first thought was for my two girls sitting outside, not the cancer. It actually took a few minutes before I started to worry about myself or the disease. Surely they’d got this wrong or made a mistake? I wondered. I assumed my results must have been mixed up with another patient; other people got cancer, not me.
The next few hours were a complete blur, while I was sent off for some blood tests and a mammogram. Strangely, it was me telling my mum to calm down, not the other way round. Yet inside I was really panicking, but didn’t want to upset her by showing it. I never thought I’d be able to handle anything like this, but somehow found an inner strength from somewhere. This thankfully has continued, surprising myself and hopefully impressing those around me.
Richard drove back from Bristol and we went for a drink that evening. It sounds mad, I know, but I just needed to get out of the house for a while.
I felt like I was having some sort of out-of-body experience, or an ultra-realistic nightmare. This was a feeling that continued for many weeks.
The following day, we went back to the hospital together. I hoped Richard would be able to gain the bits of information I’d forgotten. We met with the surgeon who explained everything to Richard and me again. Afterwards, several more appointments were made for blood tests, scans and an ultrasound. Suddenly, my diary was filling up fast, and not with birthday celebrations this time. Overnight, my life had totally changed and felt so unreal.
On 8 February, I had surgery, a lumpectomy. I’d obviously been worried and frightened but recognized it was something I couldn’t avoid. I made sure I had a photograph of both Ruby and Lola in hospital with me, so I’d see their little smiling faces when I awoke from the anaesthetic. I knew I had to keep fighting. There was no way this cancer was going to get the better of me and take me from my girls.
Thankfully, the surgery went well and I was discharged the next day. When I arrived home, the house was full of flowers and cards from my family and friends. Their generosity and kindness was the best painkiller imaginable.
I longed to get away for a while, so Richard took us all to the seaside. The four of us played on the beach and ate fish and chips, despite the weather being awful. I loved being able to watch the girls’ smiling faces as we enjoyed time togeth
er. I did my best to block out any thoughts of my illness or what might lie ahead. I’d started to get angry and annoyed that this disease was interrupting and spoiling all our lives.
But one thing it had achieved was making me appreciate just how lucky I was and how good it felt to be alive.
A few weeks later, I got the results of the surgery, which showed I had an aggressive form of breast cancer. It was a grade three. The results also revealed that two of my lymph nodes were affected. This was frightening and meant I needed chemotherapy.
On 13 March, I headed to the hospital again, this time to start my chemotherapy. The Day Ward was right next to the Labour Ward, where I’d given birth to both Ruby and Lola, so I knew exactly where to go. Just a year before, I’d entered the door to the left, looking forward to leaving with a newborn baby. It was one of the happiest times of my life. Now I was entering the door on the right and would be leaving with chemotherapy flowing round my body; one of the most frightening times of my life.
The nurses were brilliant and talked me through every stage of the procedure. I looked up at the bag of chemotherapy hanging from a drip stand to see it was bright red, which was a shock. It looked like I was having a blood transfusion not cancer-killing drugs. I was given some anti-sickness tablets, which appeared to work really well. After a couple of hours, the bag above me was empty. I’d successfully had my first session of chemotherapy; I had just five more to go.
Initially, I didn’t feel too bad, but as the days passed I started to feel unwell. I kept telling myself any suffering was a small price to pay if it stopped this cancer lurking in my body. I’d do anything to make sure I could be with Richard and the girls for the rest of my life; anything!
The week after I’d received my first dose of chemotherapy, I asked Richard while we were watching television if he’d shave off my hair. We opened a bottle of wine, and then, as if it was something we did every day, we took it in turns to shave each other’s head. It sounds like one of those drunken antics you’d regret in the morning, but we weren’t drunk, nor did we regret it. Shaving my head actually made me feel better, as if I was finally taking control.