After my final week of chemo I overrode my oncologist’s advice and went back to work drugged up on anti-sickness tablets, still with the pipe sticking out of my chest. I couldn’t stand being trapped in four walls any longer. It was clear my colleagues thought: ’Oh well, he’s back at work so it can’t have been anything serious.
A further scan followed a month later, and then I went back to see my consultant on what I call Oddball Day – a clinic for all those blokes with a left one or right one missing, or in some very rare cases, both. My appointment was at 2pm so when it got to 5pm and I was the last person left waiting, I’d lost probably another stone and a half in sweat, convinced the chemo hadn’t worked. My consultant popped his head round the door and must have seen that my blood was in my boots because he told me at once I had the all clear.
So that day became the best day of my life.