The Cancer Survivors Club

by Chris Geiger

  To bring my story to an end, I am now happily married to the lovely Sharon and we have a son and daughter conceived naturally with no need for test tubes or plastic pots. I also now work full-time at a college.

  There are still times when I worry or get depressed, but I only have to think back and realize the worst is behind me. So, if you’re reading this going through treatment or getting over cancer, stay positive and live your life to the full. It can and will get better, and remember you are not alone, people like me are thinking of you.

  ‌My Story by Kathleen Giles

  Too Frightened to Ask

  Membership: # 21

  I was born in 1958 and raised in a town called Prudhoe in Northumberland. I have two brothers and a sister. My dad is still alive but unfortunately my mum died nine years ago from lung cancer.

  My illness originally came to light in 1981 with the appearance of a lump on the right side of my neck. It was the size of an egg and I was able to move it about as it didn’t hurt. It caused absolutely no pain or discomfort until one morning in August. I got up and told Mum it had started to feel very painful. She instantly sent me off to see the doctor. It was suggested I visit my dentist, who initially thought it was one of my wisdom teeth coming through. After an x-ray, the dentist sent me to a dental hospital; again, nothing could be found.

  My doctor, after re-examining me, couldn’t find anything either so suggested I have yet more x-rays. However, this time, they were going to inject a liquid into the lump, which would improve the image on the x-ray. Hopefully, this would allow them to see more. They put a needle attached to a tube into the saliva duct in my cheek. Doctors then pumped iodine into my neck and took images of my neck, throat and nose. This whole procedure took around an hour but felt much longer.

  In October, I went to see a consultant with my mum. I was told they still didn’t know what the lump was or what was causing it. We were asked to go along to Newcastle General Hospital for a biopsy to be taken. My appointment was in January of the following year. At the time, I was working as a domestic assistant at a hospital for the mentally handicapped.

  I told my boss I was being admitted to hospital on Tuesday for a biopsy. I explained that I would have my operation Wednesday, recover Thursday and be home Friday. This would mean I’d be back at work the following Monday.

  Anyway, I ended up staying in hospital for two weeks. They removed the lump and found one of my lymph glands was blocked. After a few days, they did a biopsy on my ears. The second week, they did another biopsy but this time taken from my nose.

  I was never told the outcome of any of the biopsy results and I never thought to ask; but I was still very young at the time and left this to my mum.

  On leaving the hospital, I was given an appointment to meet with the consultant a few weeks later, and both Mum and Dad came with me this time. The consultant explained I needed some radiotherapy but, before they could do this, all my teeth would need to be removed. It was explained that the radiotherapy would rot my teeth and they would eventually fall out anyway.

  At this stage, I still didn’t have any idea what was wrong with me. The shock of being in hospital and the news about the radiotherapy had caused my mind to go completely blank. I’d forgotten to ask – I know this sounds crazy. I just went along with everything I was told, as I trusted Mum and Dad and they appeared to understand the situation. I went back into hospital in February and on the Monday morning I was taken to theatre where all my teeth were removed, including my wisdom teeth.

  At visiting time on Monday evening, my parents and a couple of their friends visited me. I was still feeling pretty groggy and my gums were bleeding. Dad gave me a package with ‘Get Well’ written on it. On opening it, I was gobsmacked – excuse the pun – to see it contained a family-size bag of salted peanuts. He looked at me and said, ‘Something to enjoy when you get your new teeth.’

  The ward sister thought it was a bit cruel to start with, but eventually saw it was a joke, done simply to try to cheer me up, and it worked.

  The next day, I was measured up for a mask. It was made in two halves; the back was made first then the front. This was to protect my nose and other parts of my face from the radiotherapy. The day after the mask was measured, I was allowed home. We had an Alsatian dog called Major and when I got home he followed me everywhere. If I got up to make a cup of tea, he would be right beside me. If I went to the toilet he’d sit outside, and if I had a bath he would cry and scratch at the door until I let him in. When I mentioned to Mum I couldn’t move without him being there, she said he obviously sensed I wasn’t well and was trying to protect me. It’s amazing what animals can pick up on.

  A few weeks later, my radiotherapy started. I had to have it five days a week for four weeks. I felt a bit like a monster wearing my mask. The back half was screwed to the table and the front half was then put over my face and fitted to the back half with screws, preventing me from moving my head. A syringe was then put through a space round my mouth for me to breathe through. It was awful, and I felt very claustrophobic. On top of the mask, lead blocks were placed from my chin down so my throat wasn’t affected by the radiotherapy. Stupidly, I still had no idea what was wrong with me. I must have been in denial or just a very ignorant young girl.

  I wasn’t allowed to wash my face or neck while having the radiotherapy for a further four weeks afterwards. I was only allowed to use talcum powder. Mum used to wash my hair over the bathroom sink. After each session, I would go home and have a sleep, then I’d get ready to go out for a few drinks and a game of bingo.

  I wasn’t a pretty sight travelling on the bus five nights a week to have an evening out with my friends; but I didn’t care. If people didn’t like seeing someone with no teeth, scabs and a spotty face, they could always look the other way, I thought. I knew whatever was wrong with me wouldn’t last forever. Eventually, my treatment came to an end. I was worn out but it didn’t stop me going out and trying to enjoy myself. Major still continued to follow me around the house like my shadow, bless him.

  I got my new teeth fitted in August; they felt very strange at first and I really struggled to get used to them. They kept falling out whenever I ate; I also felt as if everyone was looking at me all the time. I was more self-conscious about my new teeth than I was about my spots and scabs. I had to get used to them quickly, though, as I was due to go on holiday to Benidorm in September with some friends from work; a holiday that I was really in need of by now.

  On returning from holiday, I went back to work. At last, everything in my life was starting to get back to normal. I got back into my routine of being a domestic assistant, a job I really loved.

  The last couple of months of the year went by with no problems. I was visiting the hospital regularly for check-ups and everything was going fine.

  My sister Carol had moved to Bristol with a friend of ours called Jane. Carol had split up with her boyfriend and needed help to run the flat, so asked if I would like to move in with her. I said yes instantly. A new start and a new life was just what I needed.

  In the April, I moved in with them. I still didn’t know exactly what my illness had been at this time.

  Unknown to me, Mum had spoken with Carol on the phone and asked her if she could tell me what had been wrong with me. It transpires I’d had a form of cancer called Anaplastic Carcinoma, which was located in the back of my nose and throat. The news still didn’t really sink in. Looking back, I must have been in denial or just plain stupid for not asking. Don’t answer that!

  I kept plodding on with my life as though nothing was wrong with me, even though I was still having check-ups at the hospital every three months. These check-ups went to every six months and then eventually annually. Finally, they stopped totally and I was discharged.

  Not long afterwards, I met a nice guy called Jerry. He was helping with a disco at a friend’s twenty-first birthday party. We started seeing each other and after three weeks he moved in with me. In the February we got
engaged and in May we got married. I remember after the wedding service and reception Mum whispered to me, ‘Well, honey, you got your fairytale wedding.’ It was a great day and the proudest and happiest day of my life – until December a couple of years later. This is when I gave birth to our son, Christopher, and suddenly my life was complete, or so I thought.

  Jerry and I became grandparents to Liam. We also celebrated our silver wedding anniversary two years ago, which for us was more of an achievement than most!

  ‌My Story by Stewart Hodge

  Getting the Gist

  Membership: # 22

  My story actually starts around forty years ago. I began to experience problems with blood seeping into my bowel, resulting in black-coloured motions. I’m trying to be as polite as I can! Various tests were performed to try to identify the cause. These included an endoscopy, barium meals and a scan. However, no conclusive reason could be identified. This became a routine that repeated itself over the years. My problems appeared to possibly be associated with the consumption of spicy Oriental or Asian foods and drinking lager. It was recommended I limit my intake of alcohol and contact a specialist consultant if the symptoms reappeared.

  As I was born in Scotland, where it is well known that the dietary culture leaves much to be desired, it occurred to a few doctors that there could well have been incidences of ulceration of my oesophagus or even my stomach tract while growing up.

  There were repeat episodes over the following twenty-four years with further internal examinations, but still no cause could be found. But on almost all occasions, by the time I was examined, the bleeding had stopped. Each episode resulted in a fairly substantial loss of blood, causing considerable weakness and a lengthy recovery, even with medication. As a side issue, my doctor noticed my complaint regarding excessive acid reflux since I was a youngster. He thought I probably had lactose intolerance. He suggested at the time I should try changing to soya milk, which I did.

  Amazingly, over two or three weeks, there was a marked reduction in the amount of times I suffered from excessive acid, which I was naturally pleased about. However, it didn’t completely eradicate the bleeding into the bowel.

  After a family get-together at Christmas, which included overeating and indulging in alcohol, albeit with lemonade mixed in it, I noticed that I had lost blood again. Within two hours of contacting my doctors, I found myself in hospital. However, I was only put into a ward for observation. By the time I was seen by a doctor, the bleeding had stopped completely.

  The following day, I was seen by a consultant on his rounds with his junior doctors. They had a quick look at me and gave me a prod and poke, initially by the consultant who couldn’t detect any abnormality in the stomach region and then by the juniors. They all came up with the same result, except one. A young African doctor indicated that he thought he could detect a mass and, after a short discussion with the consultant, who didn’t agree, sent me off for an ultrasound scan. There it was: a large mass between the abdominal wall and my main organs.

  I was informed after the scan that I was going to be moved to another hospital for further checks. Here it was confirmed that I had what was called Gastrointestinal Stromal Tumour (GIST); in other words, I had cancer. The news was a massive shock to both me and my family.

  It transpired that the GIST tumour was quite rare. As it has several genetic variations, a biopsy was needed. This was done under a local anaesthetic on the hospital ward.

  I was actually shown a colour image of the tumour on a screen by the doctor and remember thinking how fantastic technology is to see this. Being able to look at the growth pulsing inside me was almost like watching an alien species in a Doctor Who episode, but obviously much more worrying – unless you’re a ten year old!

  Some time elapsed before I could see the consultant who specialized in this particular condition. When I did, I was told that the tumour was an aggressive type and it measured about 12 cm by 5 cm. I was going to be given a course of Glivec chemotherapy tablets. It was hoped these would shrink the tumour over the next six to eight months.

  I asked about the biopsy I’d had in February, but they still hadn’t got any results back from the labs. They said they’d let me know as soon as they heard anything. It was during a later discussion regarding my progress in April that I was told they still didn’t have the results back. On checking with the laboratory, it was discovered that they hadn’t actually been sent away. I was so cross. We finally got the results in June and I did – as they originally thought – have GIST. I had the ‘C Kit 9’ gene, which worryingly wasn’t responsive to the Glivec treatment. So I was now going to be given a treatment of Sunitinib. The bad news was this wasn’t supported by the local NHS partnership as a first line of treatment.

  I’d begun to take a herbal treatment recommended by a qualified herbalist who worked with both the university and several physicians.

  She’d found the treatment to be very effective against many forms of cancer, and felt it would help improve my immune system in preparation for an operation in November to remove the tumour.

  I discussed the operation with the surgeon during his clinic and he advised me that he was unable to confirm whether or not he would be able to perform micro-surgery, or full open surgery. He needed more time to examine the condition of the tumour, its size and position, and any potential obstacles around the area first.

  Eventually, on 10 November, I had my operation. Afterwards, the surgeon informed me the tumour had been successfully removed, plus results from his tests proved that there was no trace of any other cancerous tissue around the area. Two days after the operation, I was seen by a physiotherapist who was surprised at my ability to walk a longer distance than she suggested. I was able to walk up and down two flights of stairs after just four days. She thought I’d be able to go home in just two more days. I put my fast recovery down to topping up my immune system with the herbal treatment. I was so grateful for the care shown to me by the ward staff, surgeon and his clinical nursing team.

  On Sunday, I was back home being treated with loads of love and care from my family, particularly my eldest daughter Lisa, who also has a very strong belief in the benefit of herbal treatments. By the Tuesday of the following week, I was out walking fairly long distances. Sometimes I was a grumpy old ‘wotsit’ admittedly and found getting dressed and going to bed a little uncomfortable.

  Today it is almost three years since I left hospital. I’m now enjoying life and think myself extremely fortunate that a young doctor whom I never saw again had the belief that he could sense that mass. Wherever he is, I give thanks to him almost every day.

  ‌Newspaper Column by Chris Geiger

  A Weighty Problem

  Membership: # 1

  I have discovered that a newspaper columnist should avoid certain subjects. Mention religion, politics or people with ginger hair and my mailbox fills faster than a ferry to the UK when volcanic ash is in the air. So I know I’m on safe ground to highlight areas where the NHS could save some money.

  Overweight people visit their doctor twelve percent more and spend nineteen percent more time in hospital. The average visit to a hospital costs you – the taxpayer – between £410 and £1,027, depending on whose report you believe.

  So, with 463 patients being seen a minute, and with forty-three percent of men and thirty-three percent of women being overweight, I have found a great and obvious method of cutting our national debt – start charging the fat bastards. Before you start yelling, yes, I am qualified to make such a statement. I’ve lost six stone over four years, so genuinely appreciate how much willpower is required.

  With this in mind, I fail to understand why our Chancellor of the Exchequer, George Osborne MP, or his assistant, the ginger-haired Chief Secretary Danny Alexander, doesn’t create a ‘Fat Tax’.

  Why stop there? It costs you – the taxpayer – over £374 million a year in treating cirrhosis of the liver. So let’s start charging some of the 15,200,000 people wh
o attend Accident & Emergency each year, who have self-inflicted problems – such as alcohol poisoning or drug abuse. It’s estimated the NHS spends £3 billion a year on alcohol abuse alone.

  At this rate, I’m either going to be asked to be Mayor of Somerset or assassinated.

  There are over 43,000 admissions to our hospitals attributed to thugs brawling. Let’s charge them; if they can afford alcohol, they can afford a fine. The government doesn’t hesitate to fine me just for doing 5 mph over the speed limit and I’m not costing anyone money. In fact, I’m using more petrol so providing additional revenue to the public purse in tax.

  While I’m at it, let’s charge for the anti-obesity treatments, such as drugs or gastric bands. The Department of Health says obesity will cost the NHS in England £6.3 billion a year by 2015. Forget Mayor – at this rate, I’ll be the next Prime Minister.

  Another reason my mates George and Dan should listen is because being overweight is linked to cancers like breast, prostate and ovarian. Cancer treatment is very expensive. Hazel Blears said, ‘There are clear links between obesity and our biggest killers – heart disease and cancer.’

  It seems ironic that the overweight, drug-taking alcoholics are given no-expense-spared help and assistance. Yet the old, ill and genuinely frail are not wanted clogging up our hospital beds. Should you be a cancer sufferer wanting unusual or expensive chemotherapy, you either have to pay for it yourself or create so much media attention your local authority backs down.

  I’m so pleased I’ve managed to avoid any contentious subjects this week!

  ‌My Story by Shelly Ostrouhoff