Remember, Remember the Fifth of November

How can I forget? Today a year ago I was “officially” diagnosed with bowel cancer.

I say “officially” because one of my GPs had already spilled the beans when I wasn’t feeling well as he could see the scan results and knew exactly what was causing my intermittent stomach upsets.

But the fifth of November was the day it all became REAL.

“We need to operate as soon as possible.” Said the consultant.

Petrified of any kind of operation I blurted out, “But I’m moving later this month.”

“What’s more important, moving or your health?”

Well I could have swung for him then.

He took me to another room and showed me the scan photo as proof that an operation was imperative, not that I have any sort of training to interpret the grey and black blobs of my internal organs. I gave up biology in third year preferring chemistry, much more maths involved and pretty coloured reactions to play with!

The image was bad, on so many levels, and at that point I totally lost if and got hysterical. My boys had already lost their dad it was inconceivable that they should lose me too.

The prospect was bleak and I couldn’t compute how I could both move and have an operation at the same time. I’ve double booked myself on many occasions and I knew this wasn’t going to work.

Fortunately, I had a friend with me, she took me to a nearby café, I had a cup of tea and slice of cherry pie while she calmly worked out possible scenarios for me.

She is very much the planner and as I sat savouring the pie, squishing whole cherries between my tongue and roof of my mouth, drying my eyes at the same time, she sorted out how I could rally around my local friends from church to help out. There must be someone I could stay with in this situation?

Mentally I went through a list of everyone I knew nearby, very dear friends, with spare rooms who might accommodate me while I recuperated and regained my strength after a lifesaving operation.

I discounted every one!

Moving nearer my parents was the best thing for my health – the consultant didn’t have a clue about my personal history, why moving was the important for my mental well-being and it finally sunk into my friend that family was the most important part of the equation.

My dad was, and still is, having regular chemo. There was no way him and mum could keep coming up to see me. They’d already made two trips in the past month.

On my way home I called in to see a friend who is a retired GP and told him what the consultant had actually said. He talked things over with me and agreed I should put the medical stuff on hold until I moved.

When I got home, I rang my own GP surgery. I wanted to speak, not to the doctor who had originally sent me for tests who was a fairly new addition to the practice but the one who knew me and the boys and had known Andrew and all we had been through.

He rang me back and was very honest with me about my chances. He even came around that evening to see me and give me the strongest hug I have ever experienced! Subsequently he wrote an amazing letter to my new GP practice, which the receptionist told me had her in tears!

And so my path was set before me. November was filled with things to do, excursions and visits to friends that were already planned and a moving date fixed in stone.

Somehow, I managed every single one before the trauma of having to be diagnosed all over again before finally ending up with emergency surgery.

I have to thank God for the way things worked out. On paper it all seemed unlikely and impossible and yet I’m still here a year on to tell the tale. But I’m crying as I type this, amazed by the miracle of my journey, from North to South, through cancer diagnosis, lifesaving surgery and beyond.

I’ll always remember that fifth of November, the fireworks, family and friends.

Pansies in my garden for thoughts and remembrance.
They are also sometimes called heartsease.