This war of mine.

On Wednesday this week I was to receive the results of my latest CT scan. These results were of particular importance because they were the first scans I’d had since recently having to try a type of Chemotherapy due to my Immunotherapy failing earlier in the year.

Though the chances of this Chemotherapy working were actually quite low, it was still worth trying. So the plan was to have 3 cycles (treatments) once every 3 weeks, and then we were to scan my body to see if it had made any difference.

Key decisions were to be made based on these scan results, decisions on what to do going forward. If, of course, anything was doable. This was a meeting to discuss my future. My life.

As the big day approached, and with its importance in mind, I felt my thoughts begin to race. I guess it doesn’t matter how calm you feel, and I do feel calm, such a thing just can’t be helped.

I feel great in myself, but could that mean the Chemo isn’t effecting my body, and therefore, my Cancer? I feel well, incredibly well, but back when I was told my Cancer had started to spread, I also felt well. Could the tumour’s have grown substantially this time around, rather than the usual slow growth? Could the Cancer have spread elsewhere? What if there’s nothing else for me to try?

Am I just being stupid?

It’s the unknown that gets you. No matter how ready you may be, the unknown is always worrying. But you know what? There’s absolutely something worse than the unknown – and that’s the known.

Knowing exactly what your fate may be, and worse, knowing you have no power to change it. That’s something far worse than the unknown. In fact, witnessing people worry about the unknown feels almost petty at this point.

Wednesday meant coming closer to potentially having any number of desperately uncomfortable truths made undeniably real. But, I had no choice. I had to face my fate.

In an effort to calm my thoughts, ease my mind, and prepare for what was to come, and perhaps in reaction to recently watching an extensive documentary on the Vietnam War, I found myself considering a single thought in response to the known and the day to come –

I am at war. A great battle is taking place within my body, and this meeting is an update, a situational report, an attempt to understand our current situation and work out what to do, how any failures may be salvaged or successes acted upon.

This type of report is a common part of conflict, it takes place throughout any and all situations of struggle, and there are many occasions in which the facts have been faced and that report has reported on failure, forcing drastic changes, new strategies, altered attitudes, and the strengthening of the mind, the will, and the resolve, in order to win.

This was how I chose to view my situation. A report. An update. And no matter what that report expressed, I would see it as just that – A new understanding. And there’s always potential in new understandings.

Looking at things this way really did calm my mind.

There was a reason why I considered such a thing, and why so much of that thought process was based around turning failure into success – Because failure was exactly what I expected to be told.

I expected to be told the treatment wasn’t working. I expected the tumour to have grown. I expected it so much, in fact, I started writing this blog post, with growth and the failure of treatment in mind, days before the big day itself.

And because I expected it, I didn’t consider those things bad news. The only bad news I could receive was if I was told the Cancer had become more aggressive, either growing at a quicker rate or spreading elsewhere. That, to me, was bad news. Anything else was something to be acted upon. But only if I faced and admitted the facts presented before me.

Well, the big day came, and I was told all the things I’d expected. My tumours, both in my Lungs and my Liver, have continued to grow, but that growth is still very slow and slight, which is good. And no new tumours have appeared, which is also good.

Of course this meant my Chemotherapy was cancelled. And that means, once again, I find myself wondering the wilderness while my Oncologist asks elsewhere to see if there might be any other options available to me, though it was made clear the chances of there actually being anything out there was slim.

Still, it’s always worth looking and asking. And though I may be walking that wilderness again, I’ve been there before, I know how to deal with it.

While sitting in that meeting, and with the confirmation of the facts, a quotation I’d heard in that Vietnam War documentary came to mind. In fact, I’d considered its parallels to my situation before the meeting.

President Lyndon B Johnson had said, upon the realisation of all the overwhelming difficulties the United States faced thanks to the Vietnam War – “I feel like a jackass caught in a Texas hailstorm. I can’t run, I can’t hide, and I can’t make it stop.”

That was me. That was how I felt. Trapped within a storm. And so in that moment my life shared itself with any number of major historic conflicts. Events of great struggle, of immense difficulty, came together to mimic my own. Our wars were the same.

So, then. If this is warfare, how would I report on it? How would I sum up my current situation like that of a situation of conflict?

Well, an invader has made multiple footholds on our land, and our best efforts to remove them, backed by our best technologies and sciences and most experienced fighters, have twice now, been thrown back. In an effort to ease some of our suffering, we have used our most powerful precision weapon to make targeted strikes on one key area, the effect of which will take time to process but we already know will not alter the outcome of the greater war.

A lack of intelligence hinders progress. And despite continued sacrifice, despite exhausting our best efforts to the point of no other options, our enemy has spread elsewhere, and their influence has seemingly grown only stronger.

Considering all this, our situation can be summed up as follows – We are in the process of being defeated. We are losing.

I am in the process of being defeated. It might sound frightening, defeatist even, but with the acceptance of this truth, comes the confirmation of another – I am still here. And by accepting the reality of the situation I can then put my mind to the task of rectifying it.

Right now I find myself fighting for the very land I stand upon. My body, my memory, everything. And the longer I do so, the longer I keep the fire that represents my life alight, the more time I give others to find a way to help. The situation dictates no other choice.

My Cancer is rare and difficult, and it’s winning. But it hasn’t won yet. We’ll do what we can, when we can. And even if there aren’t other treatments, I still have options of my own.

To me, what I was told on Wednesday was the failure of something we expected to fail, but we had to try. And with it’s failure we now have to hope we can find something else, and if that fails, we’ll hope again, and so on and so forth. This failure was part of an expected process. An expected conflict. It’s not bad news, it’s just news.

As I walked away from that meeting, something else came to mind –

Around the midpoint of the First World War, an internal report was commissioned with the express purpose of quantifying and understanding how the United Kingdom was faring.

After an exhaustive list detailing nothing but difficulty, struggle, shortage, massive unrecoupable spending and an already horrific loss of life, the report closed on the following note – “All this it is no doubt our duty to bear, but only if it can be shown that the sacrifice will have its reward.”

This war is my war, and it’s my duty to bear it. I’ve made sacrifices – my body has been permanently damaged, my right eye is gone, I’ve suffered immense pain and I’ve been the lowest I can possibly be, but I end this year in the best health I’ve been all year. I end this year feeling the best I’ve felt all year. Heck, despite the eye, and the loss of weight, which I’ve now almost entirely regained, and despite even some hair loss right round the back of my head, I feel unbreakable.

It might be that I’m just feeling well or it might be that my attitude has stumbled into the exact right place it needs to be, but whatever it is, I’m sleeping well, I’m waking happy, I’m doing what I want with my day and I’m happy doing it. This, to me, is reward enough for my sacrifices. Reward enough for always attempting to understand and come to terms with everything this world throws our way.

Cancer does not yet have it’s grip on me. I may be in the process of being defeated, but it’s exactly that, a process, one that can be endured, one that can be altered. The invader may have footholds on my land, but they’re yet to destroy key strongholds that represent my well being. For now, I can stand their presence, and that gives the warriors that would be my immune system, or any kind of treatment, time to find a way to fight back.

Mine is where I stand, and I still stand.

For now though, my war is on hold. I intend to enjoy this precious Christmas period as a free and healthy man. After which, in the new year, this short truce will end, and I will return to the front, to my struggle, and renew my hope that others will find a way to provide valuable support, and turn this process of defeat into a process of victory.

Struggle is something we all share. We all have to find a way through the storm. Difficulty and conflict is within our DNA. Everything we say and do is based around it. We function via struggle. From simple decision making to all out warfare. We fight. We always fight. And it’s all part of one continuous cycle, of learning, of becoming better.

With that said, and with my acceptance of conflict, of what must be done and must be endured, I want to wish every single person I know, whether you’re reading this or not, a very Merry Christmas.

Life is conflict, and Christmas our reward for that which we sacrifice. Despite this year, and all our struggles, we’re still here, moving forward through the storm. Our fire always burning. As one.

Much love.

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