D-Day; Of diagnosis, dreams and drawing.

Friday 11th November
Armistice day. I’ve had fifty good years, I thought. More than the poor young British boys and men who were cruelly snatched from this life at the Somme. 19,240 on the first day alone. Many just 16 years old. The men women and children of Mosul and Aleppo come to mind too. Modern day horrors that put my worries into perspective. I’m the lucky one.

For me, this is my D-Day! After an agonising wait of 2 months, I would get the full results of my bone and CT scans.
The Urology nurse had promised to tell me on Thursday after the multi- disciplinary team meeting, but no one had called. I had glanced at the phone throughout the day, dreading this call.
Unable to bear the suspense, My wife rang the hospital this morning. They would ring us back.

I’m not sure why they do this on the phone. If a relative is involved in a serious accident, a police officer will appear at your door to tell you face to face, and deal with the aftermath. Some faint, some panic, some collapse and most have questions-what? when? Why? How? I had questions; lots of them.

I received the call 0950 am. I asked the nurse to cut through the preamble. It has spread -“A small spot on your hipbone,” she began, “and your lymph nodes- but only in your pelvic area. It has not metastasised throughput your body but is confined to the pelvic area”. I was reassured it was a ‘small spot’ on my hip bone.
I had asked for the same Oncologist as my brother so the only disappointment was that I had been allocated the other one. It’s only a fifty fifty chance, I said, and you said it shouldn’t be a problem. Is there an chance I could change? Also the appointment in two weeks time seemed quite a long time to wait.
I carefully wrote notes, feeling a wave of relief. My imagination, supported by unusual aches and pains, had told me it was everywhere. I replaced the receiver and let out a loud “woohoo- Thank the Lord!”

We immediately rang close friends and family after a brief chat and I felt positive- on top of the world. They had been waiting for ‘the call’ too. I even joked with my brother , “I never thought I would be so happy to hear I have prostate cancer, will become impotent and it’s spread to my bones and lymph…. but I am!”
I got down on the floor and did 30 press ups to reassure myself I was still fit and strong.

I took my daughter to the local coffee shop. She was lovely. Wise beyond her years. Her bright smile a comforting embrace. We had the most meaningful conversation we ever had and she was great company to boot!
“You see. something good has come of this already,” I said.

Riding a wave of relief all day I took a further call at 5pm. I sensed danger, my pulse quickening.
“We’ve rearranged the appointments and you now have your preferred Oncologist.”

“Thank you,” I said. I felt there was a but.
She continued; “I’ve now got your full results and…

“Hold on what do you mean? Surely they had those for the meeting yesterday to decide my treatment?”
She continued again; “There is evidence of cancer in the spine and ribs.”
My heart was now pumping out of my chest, adrenaline causing my voice to waver and my hands to shake.

We argued over ‘Rib’ or ‘Ribs’ plural- she settled on the singular. (This also proved wrong when my wife spoke to the head Urologist the next day- it had metastasised to the bone- a large spot on the hip bone and cup, up to the thoracic spine and to the ribs, plural. Plus enlarged lymph nodes in the Pelvis.)
Not one further setback, but two. Someone is testing me.

It called to mind the joke my brother told when informing me of his own diagnosis- “how long have I got?” Oncologist “10”. “What, Years?…months?” Oncologist “9…8….7….6….. – the classic launch countdown.
That would somehow have been less cruel.

I was devastated. Numb with shock. I said I needed to speak to a Doctor as I couldn’t believe the manner of this news and needed to speak to someone who could read and interpret notes. “The treatment is still the same,” she repeated.
I handed the phone to my wife and went to the next room, unable to continue.
From the positivity and hope of the preceding hours, I now felt sick to the stomach; anger, fear and disbelief, all at once.
Would I wake from this nightmare? Michelle gently shaking me and saying my name; “Jim, Jim. You’re dreaming”. This is something I have wished every day since. It was all just a terrible, realistic dream and life will carry on as before. I know it has changed forever. It is different now and I must adapt. Like a dammed river finding a new course. It always finds a way.

I had arranged to go to the Rugby at Twickenham with my mates the next day. I didn’t fancy it now.

My dear old Mum had told me of a healing service that took place monthly in a nearby seaside town. Since my diagnosis she had mobilised a small army in prayer, put out all the feelers out through her Godly contacts and they had come up trumps. It happened to be tonight and I wanted to go.

I would describe myself as a ‘backslider’ in Christian parlance. But I am nevertheless a Christian. I may not go to church, but I pray. When I walk my dogs I thank him for my health, strength and this beautiful world. When I am troubled, I ask for help for my family. When friends or family are sick, I ask for their healing. When I’m happy, I thank him for all my blessings.
I am a believer and gave my heart in my teenage years. I had worked out that Christians are no different to the rest of the world. All frail, flawed and needy. No better than anyone else but united in a common love, redemption and truth.
Michelle came with me. I needed her every bit as much as the Lord.
We arrived at the small school hall, were greeted at the door and offered a tea or coffee and a biscuit. All standard so far, I thought. It was not a healing service but there would be opportunity for that at the end.

We took our seats next to some other newcomers to the side of the hall, in front of the tea and coffee. They were elderly and the man had the kind of quietly spoken sincerity I admired. I saw a man of faith. He had been a bit of a rogue, he explained. As we talked I felt the warmth and sincerity of the man, enhanced by a soft Scottish brogue, the twinkling eyes and genuine smile. He had a reassuring presence and I felt I was meant to sit next to him.

I noticed a large man with a beard in the audience. He held out his arms as he sang. He reminded me of Brian Blessed-you know; the beard, booming voice and a well proportioned belly. He was not self conscious though and I sensed, at one with the Lord, as it were.

The lead singer began to roll his words in the manner of Demis Roussos. I found it a little distracting and could have laughed on another day, but the songs were sung with passion and emotion.

To my surprise, once singing and worship had temporarily concluded, Brian Blessed took his place at the microphone. He was tonight’s guest speaker.

The subject matter was a little heavy going and I struggled to keep up.
This was not helped by the youngest member of the audience, who began work at a large colouring book immediately behind us. I leaned forward, straining to find the thread.

‘He DRAWS himself to us,” boomed Brian Blessed, with emphasis on the word DRAW.

The felt-tip started to squeak on the colouring pad, building to a crescendo each time the speaker bellowed ‘DRAWS.’ I immediately recognised the humour and read my wife’s thoughts.
This seemed to be the thread I was looking for.

I sensed the artist behind me was engrossed in her work. Perhaps wishing to cover a large expanse of sea or sky with the greatest efficiency.
The felt-tip however, was not as giving as it might be and required both a firm grip and rapid movement to draw its’ colour. The blues always run out first!
It was as if the seismograph pencil had been replaced with a felt tip and was responding to Vesuvius.
“He DRAWS himself to us,” Blessed erupted again, prompting another burst of frenetic activity. The scribbled squeaking now my main focus and I suspected, that of those around me. Even Brian, in the throes of passion cast a fleeting glance, then admirably continued.
At the end of the evening we were asked if anyone wanted to come forward for healing. Before he could finish his sentence I stood before him, eager for Gods help, beginning a semi-circle of those needing healing.
When it was my turn the speaker laid hands on me and prayed. I began to shake, sobbing for the first time, and more ready than ever to receive the healing power of the Lord.
Brian Blessed; his real name David, was built for a hearty embrace. My arms barely reaching past his armpits as he DREW me in.
My Wife was sceptical, but happy that it brought me comfort. And it did.

“I hope you’re not going to turn into a Vicar,” she half-joked.