I was wrong. Back in November 2021, I made a premature announcement that I had written my last My Cancer Diaries blog. It wasn’t long after I had made that announcement (who was listening anyway?), that my very close friend, confidante and Chief Sherpa was diagnosed with terminal cancer.
A postscript soon followed as I vainly attempted to articulate the bastard feeling inside me. That inferno that screamed so loud and yet went unheard.
Why?
Why did she have to go?
Why so suddenly?
Why?
My boastful mantra that ‘a cancer diagnosis does not have to be a death sentence’, and several similar iterations of the same sentiment, was annihilated in just three swift weeks from diagnosis to death.
Fuck.
That was tough.
And so I find myself back at the keyboard, searching deep for the cathartic response to a 12 month journey of emotional, physical and financial turmoil.
A year that saw me close down two businesses, open a third, lose a best friend, gain two beautiful granddaughters, see my daughter get married, reacquaint with more than just one special person, catch covid, three viruses and countless minor ailments… but you know what, it’s still been a great year!
Why?
Humility.
Respect.
Love.
Hope.
Repeat.
Getting cancer is not a death sentence (for some). It’s a pause. A smack on the back of the head.
A time to reboot. Reflect. Learn.
Then go again.
I thank God (well, my ignorant version of said Being), that I got cancer. Yes. He became my friend. That ‘friend’ you wish you never had but, on reflection, did you more good than harm.
For all those times we laughed, kissed and hugged,
I can only be eternally grateful though they didn’t last as long as we hoped they would.
It goes without saying you brought joy to us all.
From walking across hot coals together for charity to the glitziest of balls.
A Charity Angel in all our lives and now a huge void we will try to disguise.
We walked some cobbled paths together, took in the autumn leaves, bracken and fields of heather.
We climbed up high to the Golcar Lilly pub and looked in awe at the surrounding hills and stunningly beautiful Colne Valley.
We stood in front of many thousands on that stage in St George’s Square, you with the mic in your hand whilst the crowd watched and stared.
There were the Monotones, Razorbach and Highway 62,
we saw Boo Sutcliffe, JB Goode and of course Storm too.
And when it mattered, we often shared secrets but never lied. We laughed like little children and yes, there were many times we cried.
Few you will have met will not cherish something special about you Mandy.
Your sense of right from wrong, the grace with which you went about your business and that reassuring look in the face of a lost cause but now you too are gone.
Yes. We were lucky. It is far better to have known but lost you, than to have never known you at all.
In my last Cancer Diaries blog, I announced boldly that it was my last one. I was wrong. I have a postscript which I feel is important to say, as much as it hurts to do so.
So. I wrote the blog to give me something to look back on to remind me of the shit I’d been through. My very own cathartic chapter of melancholic self-pity. An excuse for future failings perhaps.
But also to push home the fact that cancer is curable. A cancer diagnosis really does not have to be a death sentence and we need to rejoice in the significant success rate of so many who go on to live a full and healthy life.
And that mantra worked wonders for me. It kept me focused, determined and hopeful even when the chips were down. Stage three throat cancer is no walk in the park. The treatment is tough but success rates are relatively high and its legacy is limited. I was well prepared for what I was going to go through … and I was rarely shocked or doubted a positive outcome.
Sadly, last week, my very good friend, confidante and cancer partner, passed away.
Mandy Taylor, nee Barwick, passed away in the arms of her loving husband after suffering a short final stage of cancer following three previous attacks of the disease.
In the end, her passing was swift and merciful, although many of us did not get to say our goodbyes.
I was diagnosed with covid on the day she went into Kirkwood Hospice and that removed any hopes I had to see her before she died.
We did speak on the phone and exchanged messages, in which she, typically, told me to “get well soon”.
Then, two days later, she had gone.
And so, a cancer diagnosis can, in some cases, indeed be a death sentence.
For those of us who have survived, certainly in my case, I feel guilty. Mandy had a kind soul, was a beautiful person and dedicated herself to others. It seems so wrong that she has gone and not me.
But. It’s not a competition. And Mandy would not wish it any other way.
And so. The postscript is this: #bemoremandy and the world will be a far better place
Mandy Taylor RIP
The following is shared with permission from Andrew:
Mandy, soup and me
I’ve wanted to write a poem to remind me of you but the words just do not flow. So I’ve turned on the music and lost myself in so many lyrics that remind me of what it was … still is … to be Mandy.
Ballerina… the way you hold your head when you dance. Hold me closer, Tiny Dancer … Teacher … sit me down and tell me what I need to know … sing me a song Mr Piano Man Sister … guide me through the darkness so I may stumble but never fall Wife … a beautiful companion and a best friend for when you get old Friend … to so many near and far. Oh baby baby it’s a wild world … The songs keep on coming as do the memories. The joy. The fun. The laughter. And, of course, the glitter and feathers!
Every pause in the sentence, each look up to the clouds… a new thought collides with the others like asteroids in the sky. You were so much to so many. I’ve remembered our very last conversation and it went something like this:
I’m out walking along the Thames towards Kew village. Phone ringing, it’s Mandy.
Me: Hi darling, how are you? Mandy: Oh, not brill if I’m honest. Me: Oh no. What’s the matter? Mandy: Well, don’t tell anyone, but they’ve found shadows on my lungs. Me: Oh. That sounds bad. Is it? Mandy: Yes. It’s basically the worse news. It means it’s spread. Me: Do you know how long you’ve got? Mandy: No. But it’s weeks, not months or years darling. Me: Oh fuck. That’s shit. I’m off to buy some soup. Take care. Love you. Mandy: (Laughing) Yes. You too. Me: (Crying) You too. Bye xx
She always had a way of normalising tragic. If anyone reading this is ever passing Chiswick Marina, do pop in and have some soup with me. Mandy would like that. I would too.
Family celebration in Huddersfield (missing Nick, Candle, Lauren and Bobbi)
“Life is what happens to you when you are busy making plans (John Lennon) … and death can be a terrible interruption, one I can really do without right now (me).”
I am writing to you from the side of a swimming pool whilst on a short holiday. I have made it. My cancer is no more.
This means I am writing from your future because, please God, you will make it to here too.
A cancer diagnosis does not have to be a death sentence.
My clock, like yours, has ticked away. Tick tock, tick tock, tick … from finding that first frightening symptom, in my case, a small lump in my neck, to awaiting the results of my final scan, some six months later.
Here’s where you’re going … be prepared, it’s a tough motherfucker of a journey but, please God, you’ll make it!
Estepona… where my last Cancer Diaries blog is written. Thanks for reading!
Day 1: You will not be in control of your time. You will be sucked into a whirlwind of appointments both with your medical team and your family and friends.
Everyone will want a piece of you … and it’s up to you what you give to them.
You might give them everything… chapter and verse, in the (mainly misguided) hope that they will travel the journey with you. You may choose, on the other hand, to be more private, play it down, not impose on anyone.
There’s no right or wrong. Dealing with cancer is not a competition.
Information will be thrown at you, from all angles and no doubt always with good intention. Latin medical terms dating back to the days of Romulus and Remus will baffle you. I know. I studied Latin at school and there was never ever any mention of the words ‘cancer’, ‘shite’, ‘bastard’ or similar in any of our classes.
Your treatment plans will be compared amongst your network of ever-increasing fellow sufferers. Everyone knows a cancer case. Everyone has a different story. Me included. This is mine. Take it or leave it. I don’t give a damn. I survived cancer. That’s all that matters right now. Sorry, but with survival comes a deeper resolve. You’re either with me, or you don’t matter any more. Life is far too precious to carry passengers.
Your appetite will disappear and the weight will drop off you. A 5kg loss in one week is not unusual. I lost nearly 30 kilos in 10 weeks, and that is not exceptional. Yes. I was a fatty and now I am not. Another positive to come out of this!
Your emotions will run wild. You will never escape the feeling that you might not survive and therefore if, like me, you are not ready to accept this ‘inconvenience’, you will have moments of regrets, anger and frustrations but most of all, cling on to hope. It’s a life-saver. I know. It worked for me.
Your business will suffer. Dealing with cancer is expensive. If you are employed and you have even the basic healthcare plan, you should not have much to worry about. If, like me, you are self-employed, rebuilding a post-covid business too late to qualify for furlough or other benefits, money matters will add to the stress. Anxiety is a killer. Do not let it in. And cut off anyone who is likely to exasperate you. You do not NEED them right now. No matter how gorgeous they might be in normal life. This life you live is no longer normal. Adios to bad friends.
Your treatments will hurt. The morphine may take away the pain but that only leaves you drowsy and prolongs the recovery stage. Accept the pain and face it head on or you will take so much longer to recover. Being consumed with morphine makes for a more impressive story in the boozer. A bit like a fisherman boasting about their prized catch, but the reality is that you need to keep this disease contained. Do not let it dominate your life.
It’s not about how much morphine you were on but how quickly you get your life back on track.
The injuries you suffer will be many and varied. Innocuous things like a chapped lip or a mouth ulcer can grow into a volcanic-like eruption and leave you incapacitated for days or weeks. I had 32 symptoms at the last count and every bastard one of them hurt, some more than others … but then they go away. Slowly, but they do. I’m now down to just four or five and a husky, sore voice.
You’ll feel lonely. I had no partner to turn to during my treatment and that was tough. I loved her, but evidently she not me. I blame myself for that. And lockdown. And cabin fever. Looking back, the cancer must have played it’s evil part too. Let’s move on …
But, tbh, there were many times when you would not wish a loved one to witness the pain and misery you go through. You’ll be back on the dance floor soon enough. A short interlude without a loved one makes you stronger, more than anything it makes you ever more determined to get it right the next time! If there is ever going to be a next time.
But nobody walks in your shoes, ever, so those footsteps are yours alone. You walk alone.
Most of all … you will feel lucky. Lucky to survive, to tell the tail and to make up for all those times you lost. Lucky because no one takes you for granted anymore and you certainly take NOTHING for granted.
And lucky because people like the Macmillan and NHS and others have rallied around you and given you another chance.
I recently told an absolute stranger in the gym I had received some good news. He asked if I’d won the Lottery. I said it was better than that. Much better.
Live. Life. Love.
Smell the roses. Taste the coffee. Embrace the sunset. Cuddle those loved ones. Reach for the sky. Live again but this time with purpose. Life matters. You matter. The planet matters. Be more human. #AgeofHuman #BeMoreMandy
I cannot finish off my story without some apologies. So many people have tapped me on the shoulder or pinged me a message of support. Too many to mention here, but thank you.
And thank you to Veronica Murray who wrote that amazing poem … yes, cancer should not mess with Mr G unless it wants its teeth kicking in.
Some have taken offence with my tone or the facts as I remember them … to you, I will say this. This is about ME. Not you. My interpretation of the facts are exactly as I see them and should you wish to contest them, well, put some effort into writing your own blog. That’s your prerogative and this is mine.
Thanks too to my Sherpas who have lent me their belts, walked the Thames path, taken my calls at silly o’clock and even laid down beside me when all felt lost. I was offered so much generosity. So much it fills me with tears even now as I write this. You know who you are.
There’s some truly beautiful people in our lives… none less so than my children and I include their partners in this… and, of course, my niece to whom I have grown even closer than before.
To one incredible woman I especially say this, wow. Thank you. Your friendship is far more than I deserve. I will forever be indebted to you.
And to the guy who came out in his car to find me in Netherton that Sunday night. I pretended to know you, but I didn’t. I’m sorry. Who are you?
And my final call is to someone I wish to dedicate this blog to.
As the song goes, “You’re in my heart, you’re in my soul. You’ll be my friend when I grow old …”.
But the fact is you won’t. Your cancer, unlike mine, is terminal and I will grow old without you. I’m not yet sure if I can forgive you for that. But I guess I’ll just have to.
#BeMoreMandy
Support #NHS and #MacmillanSupport
#BeKind
Nadio … onwards and forever upwards!
Started 7th November, finished 23rd November 2021 in Estepona
PS. Thank you to that lady in Da Sandro’s the other night who has read my blog. Your enthusiasm for my blog was contagious, as was your appetite for a happy ending. I am, in the nicest sense, that happy ending! Thanks for saying hello and making me feel special!!
Asking questions of ourselves is doubtless a useful means of delving deeper into our inner consciousness. It helps us to understand better who we are and the world we live in. On that basis, and assuming it can only be a good thing, here’s my attempt to explain why I write …
I like words. They interest me and entertain me. They are available. 24/7. They do not require me to pay a deposit, a booking fee or service charge. Yes, they are free. Free to me.
I need no tool to make things out of words. Nothing like a paintbrush, hammer or chisel … just my thoughts and perhaps a piece of paper or better still a place in the cloud to where I can return.
I write in layers. From the bottom up. Starting with the title or concept and then, like a painter working on canvas or a musician perhaps in the studio, I add a layer or two or three or four … until I am content, but seldom happy, that the piece is complete. For now.
This way, a piece can always be added to or subtracted from. A little like Rodin when he dismembers his sculptures to form individual pieces such as his collection of hands or feet. A new collection from a roux of a concept.
Yes. I make words and concepts up. They intrigue me. I write because I can.
But I wish I could ignore punctuation like a lyricist does. Such audacity. Such bravery. How dare they break with convention so effortlessly with no regard for the rules.
One day, when I grow up, I want to be a lyricist and paint the world a kaleidoscopic incarnation of what’s in my fertile head.
Will you be there to greet it? Consider yourself invited x.
Keeping to the purpose of this blog ie. to raise awareness that a cancer diagnosis does not have to be a death sentence, and having recently attended my daughter’s wedding, I thought it would be timely to reflect on some of the highs and lows of my particular journey. Since starting to write this, several weeks ago, the clock has inevitably been ticking and my day of reckoning is quickly approaching.
Does that sound a little dramatic, well it wouldn’t be worth blogging about if it wasn’t!
Apologies if I have omitted to mention certain occasions that are special to you individually, such as my visitors, those who have shared poems, songs, drinks, dinners, gigs and stories with me and the Sherpas who have walked my miles. The list is already long and varied so please forgive me.
The Diagnosis
Strange as it may seem, when the oncologist announced it was the ‘c’ word, I was mightily relieved. Having had some very important and beautiful people who are close to me, pass away with MND, Parkinsons and MS, throat cancer was the least daunting of all the above. A slight tear followed by a high five and “let’s crack on” set the scene for what was to follow back in April 2021.
The Friendships
I could write a book on this! I have 17,000 connections on LinkedIn and almost 3,000 ‘friends’ on Facebook. Is everyone a true friend? Do they matter? I guess my response to that is yes. Everyone matters in some way or another.
But it’s the broken friendships that tend to be the ones which keep you awake at night more than the cherished ones. Immortality brings a certain temporariness which elicits a desire to fix things. To mend broken ties and fix broken hearts. Inevitably, sadly, not are all fixable no matter how hard you’ve tried.
The Blisters
Nothing prepared me for the blisters. What started out as a slight rash on the left-hand side of the neck, by week five had turned into an itchy, gooey, green, sticky mess. Stretching almost from ear to ear, the pain was tough and the sight was gruesome (my humble apologies to anyone who witnessed it).
Morning times were spent trying to disgorge the chin from the neck whilst not feinting with the pain. Big glugs of morphine helped, as did yelling loudly (in my head) and blowing hard as if cycling up Pole Moor in top gear.
But you know what … it went almost as soon as it came and some three weeks later I was scab free and on the road to recovery.
The Hunger
Learning to live with hunger is tough. It’s an insatiable, if such a thing can be a noun. It’s not going to kill me and it’s probably better for me than my old habit of eating until I am beyond full. But it’s a small, constant reminder that even the simplest of things are not worth eating if they result in painful consequences.
Spare a thought for those who are genuinely hungry. It’s not classed as an illness, but it’s debilitating, demoralising and needs eradicating.
The Mask
Being bolted down is not my idea of fun. 7 bolts and not enough space to so much as lick my lips, this mask was scary. I dreaded it. Hated it. Then … I had a word with myself. This mask was helping to save my life. It was helping to pinpoint the radiation to the core of the cancer without causing further damage to my voice box and other glands. And so, over time, I learnt to respect the mask. To embrace it. I even lied to it once and said I liked it!
The Drink of Water
It brings tears to my eyes even now when I think of the challenges I had to simply drink a sip of water. One of life’s most basic functions became impossible without choking and the water going down ‘the wrong hole’ and causing potentially disastrous pneumonia.
When the nurse provided me with some thickening agent, my low point turned to a new level of determination. No way was I drinking thickened water. It was like glue. So I drank through the peg in my stomach or not at all.
The Walks
The walks were many and varied. At times, a 100m walk to the end of my pontoon and back was too much. On other occasions I’d plod on for up to an hour or so. Some of my highest points were when walking, often silently, with my Sherpas. One step at a time. Sweet Jesus. And we got there.
The Covid
Being treated for cancer is a lonely experience. Having to be subjected to long stints of isolation only adds to that loneliness. Constant visits to hospital to get tested seemed to only add to my risk of infection and certainly contributed to the feelings of loneliness.
Spare a thought for those who were denied access to their loved ones when they needed them most including the three guys I met on the ward who went months and months without visitors.
The Voice
The list of symptoms (32) is long and far reaching. Not only physical but mental challenges lay ahead as anxiety and depression can loom just around the next corner. For me, the morning when I joined a zoom call and nothing came out of my mouth, that was tough. Scary. Painful and isolating. It’s not easy being a marketing consultant during lockdown when you cannot even talk!
Fortunately, it has not lasted forever though it will be some time before it’s strong enough to shout from the terraces: Come on you Terriers!!
The Journey Back
So far, I’d say I’ve been on two distinct journeys. One that took me down into the mineshaft of darkness and despair. A slow descent into an unknown chasm of increasing pain, loneliness and foreboding where all seemed lost and then the return journey punctuated with joyous family occasions, sporting achievements including the most minor of victories and, of course, the deeper, most beautiful of friendships.
Smelling the roses and counting the night stars is not romantic hype reserved for the movies, it’s actually a dream come true for some of us and long may it last.
What’s next?
I write this at 2:30am on Tuesday 26th October. In another week I will have a CAT scan which will show if all is clear. It’s a four hour process that involves die put into my veins then I guess it gets tracked around the body and if it turns a funny colour, then it’s bad news. I’m sure there will be a more technical explanation.
I do not find out the results until 10th or 17th November.
I must admit. This waiting is starting to get to me. Life is what happens to you when you are busy making plans (John Lennon) … and death can be a terrible interruption (me). One I can do without.
If it’s good news (estimated 75% chance), then phew! It’s not spectacular, but it’s extra special, a future life of counting every star, smelling every rose and thanking every day that comes my way.
If it’s bad news (yep, 25% chance), then I guess it’s time to write the bucket list. It will not be a long one, I’ve made sure to tick lots of things off along the way already.
But it will be a good one, with one or two parties thrown in. I hope NOT to see you there but if you are, well, it was meant to be.
Nadio
It’s been a journey!
Response from Dr Sarah Partridge, Oncologist …
Excellent….well done. Particularly liked your own self-hypnosis reframing of your mask…a physical manifestation of tough love! Also your dogged determination to see the cup half full and keep walking, metaphorically and literally did get you through this quicker than most do. Do keep doing your positive affirmations, exercise, and smelling the roses…..I am convinced that with acceptance, and the goal of treasuring our loved ones, life, and the good things, that this embodies a special self-made immunotherapy that is also key to maintaining your well-being. Even though we all have patches in the ‘valley of doom’ , we just need to stay connected, ask for help, and the ropes, pulleys and help will pull you through. I do love a metaphor! Keep going with your self-hypnosis! You may be surprised at how much you can do with it beyond the cancer treatment…..keeping your mouth moist, boosting your taste etc..All the best,Sarah
On May 31st 2021 I published a blog: My Cancer Diaries: ‘Day 4: When winning is everything’ in which I attempted to describe the sheer determination I put into winning that tennis match.
This blog is all about a return to the courts some 3 months later to compete in a club tournament…
The week did not start off well. It was August Bank Holiday Monday, traditionally one of my favourite days of the year. A time to roll out the BBQ and one last chance to catch the summer vibe before the dark nights set in. Now I’m living on a houseboat on the Thames, it’s even more of a ‘big’ day as it’s also exactly one year since I bought the boat.
But. I wasn’t well.
All I could do was stay onboard and keep wrapped up whilst my body ached and shivered through days of constant drowsiness. By Monday evening I sent an email to my oncologist and copied in my MacMillan nurse to say how I was feeling and to ask for an appointment.
Was my cancer coming back? Had it not been fully eradicated anyway? What was going on?
I do not mind admitting, I was scared. Scared and lonely. 3,000 friends on Facebook, over 17,000 connections on LinkedIn, 10,000 readers of this blog and a network of family, neighbours and sports club members as big as a small army, and I felt alone.
Get a grip Nadio!
The doctor wrote back to me at midnight to reassure me that it was likely to be something “not the cancer” and that I was welcome to go into the clinic that day but as I had an appointment on Thursday it was perhaps safer (Covid) to hang on until then.
During some of the darkest times, we have some of our most enlightened moments. Have I missed anything?
She then followed up with a 40 minute call in the morning and reiterated her advise plus offering to give me a full body scan if my backache continued to worry me.
This is highly significant and I’m sure my good friend Geraldine O’Connell will not mind me mentioning at this point that her husband and one of my lifelong best buddies, Michael, recently died from secondary cancer in the spine after he had been cured for cancer of the tonsil.
Paranoia is, I’m afraid (see what I did there!), a byproduct of being a cancer sufferer (I hate that word) and I am no exception. It was very scary and I do not mind admitting I hit some low points this week.
To add to the emotional rollercoaster, I became a grandad for the second time! My oldest son Luke and his long term partner Lauren gave birth to gorgeous Robin Joni (Bobbi for short). There’s nothing that questions your mortality more than the birth of a child. I need to be the best grandad I can be, and that definitely requires me to kick cancer!!
Welcome … introducing baby Robin Joni
And so, on the Thursday of this week, on a day when temperatures finally hit the late 20’s, I got an Uber to the hospital dressed in my winter woolies and shaking like a shitting dog!
The ENT department at Charing Cross is akin to a small airport. It’s bloody bedlam, but, with respect to the brilliant staff (one of whom I later saw outside and had the chance to thank him for treating me like a lord on my day of diagnosis) … organised and personal.
During my wait to be seen, I had a brief chat with a fellow cancer patient who looked horrendous. He was possibly younger than me but stooped over and dozing all the time. He had finished his treatment 6 months ago but for reasons best known to him, had continued to take the morphine.
Anyway, 30 minutes later, he came out of his consultation a new man. He had got the all clear and having seen how quickly I was recovering, has decided to stop taking the meds. I wish him the very best.
If you’ve tuned in to this blog to hear all about the tennis, then hang on a mo, I’m nearly there!
So, on this Thursday I had my nasendoscopy which involves a camera up the nose and into the back of the throat.
Gulp. Gulp. Gulp.
Three good gulps and it’s there!
Not the nicest of procedures but by now, you just take what’s coming. It’s all for the ultimate cause so just suck it up, excuse the pun!
The good news!!
There is no visible sign of the cancer. The CAT Scan in November is the definitive test, but this is bloody good news in the meantime!
What’s also good news is that I have a mild oral infection which explains my weakness and shivers. A good dose of antibiotics and I’ll be fine again.
And so, two days later, after hardly being able to walk for over a week, I entered the Barnes end of season tennis tournament.
Some four hours later and having played more tennis in a day than most people play in a lifetime, I came away a winner.
What did I win?
The right to say I’m back!!
Phew. Thanks for listening.
Nadio Granata
Sunday 5th September 2021
Chiswick Marina
Not my words … but highly relevant right now!
PS. A special mention for my dear friend and doubles tennis partner Patrick who did not take part in this tournament. It’s not the same without you. See you at the next one buddy!
Link to fundraising page for the brilliant MacMillan Cancer Support
Nadio Granata's Personal Blog 