By Lindsay Ash
CANCER… the very word causes a reaction and it’s often even whispered as its very notion triggers a morbid fear.
Why have I brought the C word up? Well, basically, I was told in June last year that I had it. Firstly, I wasn’t going to tell people the news, except those who really needed to know, basically The Bean and my mother, as I didn’t want to worry the nearest and dearest, such as the children, and I also didn’t want people to treat me differently.
This is something which some people definitely do and, I hasten to add, that they do this in a very pleasant well meaning way, which is slightly unnerving when you have asked “will you still go when Man Utd are in the conference?” and get a grin and an “I might” in response, instead of “**** off Lash, you *”.
In the end, I felt I had to tell people, mainly because I didn’t want people to hear the news from others and also because there is only so much 0% beer you can drink before questions are asked.
But why am I writing this for the JEP? Partly because I am running out of topics but principally because several people have told me that the more people talk about it and read about it, the less of a negative reaction the C word may get, and that talking about it may help those with it to realise that it is increasingly curable and, if not curable, often liveable with.
The latter I am not sure about, as one of the things I have discovered is that most people’s treatments and reactions differ, and while there are similarities in the fact that each journey has its main road, there are more small lanes than the Jersey countryside. Also, every person will have reacted differently to the news and coped with it differently, and I hope that my more laidback approach doesn’t offend those who were not able to respond in that way.
In fact, my partner, The Bean, (aka Amanda Le Brocq) found it very difficult to process and said how helpful Macmillan were towards her. It’s also not everyone’s cup of tea to hear medical details, a point illustrated when my son was born and pictures of the caesarean birth, with him being lifted out, were passed around.
While the women in the room took great interest, when my dad saw the pictures, his response was: “Oh my God, what’s that?” My mum replied: “Well, you don’t have to look if you don’t want to.” “Only a stark raving lunatic would want to look at that.”
Anyway, I shall start at the very beginning because, as Julie Andrews said, “it’s a very good place to start.”
In late 2023, I began flying fairly regularly, taking day trips to see my dad who, then aged 89, was in a nursing home. He passed away in January 2024 (not a great start to not a great year).
During those flights, however, I noticed, when doing up my seat belt, a feeling of very slight discomfort, rather like wanting to pass wind. (By the way, I should say at this point that I have bowel cancer, and there are more than enough toilet references to keep the great Billy Connelly in scripts for some time.)
I didn’t think a great deal of that minor discomfort at the time, as I had been tested for the cancer three years earlier and the result had been clear. I looked up the signs on the internet, and it sounded far more as if I had trapped wind or IBS than bowel cancer.
There were no visible signs of blood when I went to the toilet, and people were still referring to me as “a fat f***er” on the golf course, despite my efforts in the gym which I had commenced two years previously. In fact, having recently increased the weights I was lifting, I wondered whether I had a strained or torn stomach muscle.
The feeling persisted, though, for several months, and I asked for another test to be done. I returned it and the reply, like the previous one, was very swift. (This has also been the experience of a lot of other people who a;so decided to do the test when they learnt of my diagnosis.)
However, this time, when I got the result, it was a tad more worrying than the previous one, saying that blood had been present in the sample, and that they would like me to come in for a colonoscopy or, in layman’s speak, to put a camera up my a*.
I have to say that, even at this stage, I felt the problem would be something else, and so reported at the anointed time to have the procedure.
The night before such a procedure, you have to have a bowel preparation solution, a drink with an interesting description, such as “mango flavour”, but which tasted more like a flavour you don’t often see written on a soft-drink can. I would have called it “pretty foul”. It also had a very violent effect on my bowels.
The Bean asked whether that effect was like having an upset stomach on holiday. It was a fair question and the answer is yes, probably, if you are in Delhi. However, you don’t get the stomach cramps, which is a plus.
When it came to the procedure, I was given the choice of being sedated or just getting on with it.
I went for just getting on with it, mainly because that meant I could go and have a beer afterwards, rather than being banned from drinking for 24 hours.
The procedure was pretty painless and swift, the reason for which I was about to find out. Upon returning to the waiting/redressing area, I was told to take a seat and the doctor would speak to me.
Even then, I thought that everything was pretty standard, as I had seen the doctor speaking to people before I went down.
It was only when I was told they were just waiting for a room and that my partner (a posh description for The Bean) could come in as well that I thought “mmn, this doesn’t look too clever”.
We went in and the doctor arrived, accompanied by a nurse, Cate Goode, who I was to get to know very well. At this point, I felt the situation was getting less and less clever by the minute. Why the nurse?
The doctor explained that he hadn’t been able to do the full inspection of the large bowel because there was a growth in the way, and I would need scans to find out the full extent of the situation.
Okay, here we go: the $1m dollar question. “Are we talking cancer here then ?”
The reply was that while there were chances that it wasn’t cancer, he was pretty certain that it was and that Cate would be our contact point. Cate then explained the next stages and that we would meet Mr Kassai who would see what we were going to do about it.
Cate must have one of the toughest gigs in the Hospital but she did it brilliantly, explaining there was so much that could be done now and detailing the various support groups.
I was fairly calm and was more worried about The Bean, who had welled up a bit after the initial news but was now pulling herself round with a lot of questions and becoming the pillar of support she’s been throughout.
Cate then left and a young nurse appeared who explained that she needed to take some bloods. We then had the following conversation.
“Are you okay with needles?”
“Yes, when you’ve done as much heroin as I have, you get used to them.”
Her face was one of mild shock, so I swiftly added: “That’s a joke, by the way.”
She looked very relieved at that point. I am not sure they are used to people messing about, having just been given the news.
I blame a chap called Andrew Yates Bell, who was the consultant urologist at King’s College Hospital London. I knew him through playing tennis. He was a fair few years older than me but had played good tennis in his youth, partnering his sister at Wimbledon. In fact, in one of the lead-up tournaments, they had beaten Ann Jones.
However, I digress. He had told me that he always liked to put the team at ease before an operation and one of the stories he had used was that while removing someone’s testicle, they had tried to replace it with a prosthetic but they were out of them, so he sent someone off to matron’s room to get an olive, which they used instead. When the chap came back a few weeks later, he asked how everything was going and the reply was that it was all great but there appeared to be one side effect, which was that he was drinking an awful lot of dry martinis.
Anyway, we thanked the young nurse and trundled our way back to the car park en route to The White Horse and a much-needed drink, here my words of “well, we’ll just have to see what the consultant says” was not cutting much ice with The Bean, who was already Googling it and baffling me with a range of medical terminology and treatments.
Things then seemed to move quickly. Firstly, we had a call from the doctor to tell us the results of the biopsy, which had confirmed that it was cancer. Then we had to meet Mr Kassai, who explained the tumour and what could be done. This was now getting to the real crux. Basically, it had grown to an extent that it could block the bowel, so the first port of call was to operate to fix a stoma bag.
That was something I hadn’t been expecting but then the further news was that it was very close to hitting something or other and not something that was easy to operate on, so he recommended six doses of chemo to shrink it before operating. This would be followed by another six doses to really do it in (my words here, obviously).
The Bean then took over with more serious questions about far the situation had gone, which stage it was at etc. In fairness, the doctor came straight to the point and pulled no punches, which suited me. He said there were four stages, with one being very treatable and four being pretty grim.
Mine, he said, was stage three, which, in his opinion (expressed in my words) meant that I had a 60% chance of making it. As a racing man, I took some heart from that, as 6-4 on was a warm favourite, although I’d seen plenty turned over as well.
It was with mixed feelings that we drove home. The Bean was by now pretty proficient in it all but a bit alarmed by the state of affairs, and I was thinking the odds were in my favour… just.
Things now began to accelerate fast, and I was booked in to have the first operation, to fit the stoma bag. I met Cate and Katie, the two nursing specialists in that area, who were, and are, brilliant.
I then met the pre-op nurse, as is standard, who takes your bloods and blood pressure and asks various questions regarding your health, the highlight of which was this.
“How much do you drink?”
“About four pints and two glasses of red.”
“A week?”
“No, a day.”
“Do you want to be referred to our drug and alcohol unit?”
“No thanks”
I then slightly reassured him by saying that no, I don’t drink first thing in the morning and that, yes, I had gone several times without drinking, including during Dry January and Lent.
I didn’t go into details of my days working in the markets where it was normal to drink at lunchtime and after work. When the bloods came back, they showed that my liver was okay. At least something was, eh?
So it was on to the theatre, the operating one that is. The Opera House was shut, of course.
In next Monday’s JEP, Lindsay Ash continues sharing his cancer journey, explaining more about his treatment, adjusting to a new way of life, plus the facing unexpected challenges of going through chemotherapy.
