Dashing through the snow – by taxi, by train, and by running as fast as I could – I made it to the theatre just in time to see a play about a brother’s mental breakdown. Emerging victorious into the theatre bar, my friends applauded as I told my tale of travelling from the mean streets of South London to the sparkly showbiz world of Soho, twinkling with the glow of Christmas lights. I told them how, despite having incurable cancer and being unable to run due to a massive hernia, I strode gazelle-like through the streets of London. That was the story I wanted to tell this week. That’s what I wanted to happen.
As I thought about my route from my cancer hospital to Soho Theatre in central London, I envisaged myself as a bit like a contestant on the Channel 4 show Hunted. Their goal is to get to the extraction point and win a share of £100,000 while evading capture. And while their route is all about avoiding being stopped by the hunters, I planned a route that I hoped would prevent encounters with people ambling while looking at their phones and travellers unsure of how to use a ticket barrier.
The problem I had was that while I was planning my route, I was having chemotherapy, and no hospital in the UK would let me leave the premises with a cocktail of dangerous drugs attached to my arm and a pricey infusion machine.
This meant that, to arrive at the theatre by the 7pm curtain-up time, I had to be freed from the shackles of healthcare by 5.20pm.
Even then, it would be tight, but I still held on to hope.
I had hope because it’s all I can have, as an incurable cancer patient who wonders how many more times he’ll even be able to consider going to the theatre.
I had hope because when hope is gone, everything is lost.
I had hope because I had really wanted to see the show ever since I saw it advertised on Facebook months ago.
But at 5.20pm, I still had two infusions to go, and so as the clock struck 5.21pm, all my hope was gone.
I should have known I had no chance of making it when I phoned my hospital’s scheduling team on Monday to ask whether I should be concerned about not having any treatment booked in for Wednesday, and was told I was on a list and that I’d know by 8pm on Tuesday. (I actually got my appointment time at approximately 4pm on Tuesday, so 23 hours before treatment.)
I should have known I had no chance of making it when I walked into the blood test room on Tuesday morning and the nurse told me how they were completely screwed the day before, as they had 350 people booked in for blood tests, with some patients waiting three-and-a-half hours.
I should have known I had no chance of making it when I walked into the waiting room before treatment on Wednesday afternoon, and a nurse came out to apologise for the delays.
And so, in the same way having incurable bowel cancer has meant I have had to revise my plans for life and death altogether, I had to adapt my expectations for the evening.
I was supposed to watch the play with a group of friends, but since they didn’t know each other very well, I sent them some pictures via WhatsApp with a brief description for them to discuss before the lights went down and the play began.
And I decided that, despite feeling nauseous from my treatment that day, I’d meet those friends at the bar after the show finished.
It wasn’t quite the night out I’d envisaged, but I had a really nice time. (And I’ve booked a ticket for the play when I don’t have chemotherapy so will get to see the production.)
I guess it goes to show that, despite cancer doing its best to smash a wrecking ball through my life, fun things can happen when there’s a bit of readjustment.
Sometimes this readjustment is easy, and sometimes it’s the hardest thing in the world. This is why I’m leading the Daily Express’s Cancer Care campaign so that all cancer patients can have access to mental health support both during and after treatment.
This support will help them readjust and come to terms with their disease so that they can live as good a life as possible for as long as possible.
This story originally appeared on Express.co.uk
