To Manchester and back.

It's Sunday evening and I need to update this blog.

It's been a long time coming because the developments since my last post might be, euphemistically described as, unpromising. If you haven't heard the details, I will take you back to where I left off, blogwise, with a decision to be made about joining the immunotherapy programme at Manchester's Christie hospital. It was a no-brainer, I quickly said 'yes' though I'll admit to having some continuing anxieties about the side effects that might be expected.

However, I never started Manchester. My acceptance of a place prompted the organising of two pre-admission scans; one an echo-cardiogram to establish whether my heart could cope with the stress of the treatment and a new baseline CT against which future post-treatment cycles could be measured. I passed the first but failed the second.

But I need to rewind.....

Prior to these scans we had left Brum to start a ten-day holiday in Scotland, taking in stops in Boat of Garten, a cottage in the Torridon area and a Bank holiday weekend in Edinburgh. Before the trip North I had already begun to experience some pain in my left hip and this quickly worsened so that by the time we reached Torridon, I was pretty much confined to the bedroom apart from brief journeys out with the aid of a stick.

I was able to take some vicarious enjoyment from Joe's kayaking and walking trips but I was in truth, frightened about what might be happening and eager to get home. We left Joe in Edinburgh to visit some of the Festival Fringe events and once the Bank Holiday was over approached our GP surgery for help.

At the same time there were the scans to undergo. A week after arriving home, I had completed both and awaited results. I had already asked for the CT scan to include the pelvic/hip region and just a few days before I was due to be admitted to Christie's I was told that the scan showed metastatic spread to the head of the femur requiring urgent surgery. I was advised to avoid any weight-bearing use of the left leg and referred back to the QEH.

We were devastated. The tsunami of fear and distress was not unlike that which we had experienced at the time of the original cancer diagnosis more than two years earlier. Not only had our hopes for a cure evaporated but I was faced with the prospect of major surgery and uncertainty as to what else might be happening given that I had been off 'chemo' drugs for 8/9 weeks. And as a constant reminder of my plight, I now go nowhere without a stick (a few feet), elbow crutches (a few metres) or wheelchair (for any greater distance).

Friends and family have been generous and supportive but being so disabled is difficult to accept.

A week later, I had a meeting with my QEH consultant oncologist who managed to establish that the referral he had made to the Royal Orthopaedic Hospital had resulted in an appointment for the following Tuesday. Yesterday, I visited the ROH for x-rays and today, I wait for Tuesday's appointment.

I feel a little better than I did but the waves still threaten.

So, I am trying, as my brother John advises, to 'stay in the moment' by which he means, 'don't think too far ahead, take things one day at a time and try to be positive.' It helps, up to a point but with both the cancer and surgery-clock ticking, it is both difficult to weight and wait-bear.