Eighteen years ago, I closed a chapter on my experience with mouth cancer, a chapter I naively thought was sealed forever. But life, in its unpredictable rhythm, has brought me to the threshold of new medical investigations for the same illness that once consumed my world. This time, the journey is less about physical endurance and more about navigating the complex corridors of my mind that reflect and bring fear founded or unfounded of a repeat of the treatment that left me physically scared for life.
Last week I noticed some untoward features of my already damaged mouth and throat and needed urgent intervention and investigation with the usual UK Cancer Pathway GP – Acute Hospital – Biopsy. I saw the GP within 2 days of my new concerns within 4 days I saw the ENT Consultant who was positive but suggested we check her diagnosis with a biopsy. This will be undertaken next week, just 13 days from my initial interaction with the NHS. This is in stark contrast to 18 years ago. I have written before in the blog about Gordon Brown's government introducing the two-week cancer pathway which for those of us who meet the threshold has become a lifesaver.
It was surreal walking through the corridors of a hospital that two years ago today I work my last shift as an HCA in the Emergency Department. A corridor that today was full of people but a corridor that at 4am looked very different that night two years ago. I reflected that I knew every part of that hospital either as a patient or a former employee.
The challenges of the mind that this period conjures can be summed up as traumatic. Those of have been through this themselves or with loved ones will recognise those feelings that I have developed in the last few days.
These include:
The Weight of Waiting
There's an inexplicable weight that comes with waiting for medical investigations, especially after years of being cancer-free. The sterile smell of the hospital, the hushed tones in the corridors, the sympathetic glances from the staff – they all resurrect a sense of unease, a reminder of a past I thought I had left behind. I cried when I left the consultation room knowing that initial consultations were positive but next week my biopsy will be undertaken by the same consultant who saved my life 18 years ago. This will be surreal for us both.
In these moments of waiting, my mind becomes a theatre of 'what ifs'. It's a space where dark
thoughts play out their performances, uninvited yet insistent. The anxiety is less about the physical implications and more about the mental toll of revisiting a place of vulnerability.
Echoes of the Past
The echo of my previous experience with mouth cancer reverberates through these new investigations. It's not just the fear of the disease itself, but the apprehension of the unknown. The past becomes a mirror reflecting my current anxieties, magnifying them. I know the treatment; I have dreamt that at least this time I will not be fed by a tube.
The Silent Struggle
One of the most challenging aspects is the internal struggle. It's a journey that's often
silent, unseen by those around me. To the outside world, I am going through motions and routines, but inside, there's a constant negotiation with fear and hope.
Finding Solace in the Present
Amid this turmoil, I've found solace in the present moment. It's in the small joys, the everyday interactions, and the simple pleasures that I find a reprieve from the worry. These moments are precious, not because they are an escape but because they are real, tangible, and grounding.
I made homemade soup, granola, and rice pudding tonight, a simple pleasure but a distraction it was an unplanned event but now I know my mind was telling me to be busy.
Sharing the Journey
Writing about this experience is not just about sharing my story; it's also a way to process the
complex emotions that come with it. It's a way to connect with others who might be on similar paths and to offer a sense of solidarity in our shared, yet unique, experiences.
A Quiet Resilience
As I await the results, as I walk through this familiar yet different path, I recognise a quiet resilience within me. It's not loud or bold, but it's there – in my willingness to face each day, in my capacity to hold hope and fear in the same breath.
To Those Who Understand
To those who have walked this path, who are walking it now, or who might one day walk it know that your feelings are valid, your fears are understood, and your courage is
recognised, even in its quietest form.
Keep attacking!
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