by The 58-year-old Andy has been married to Dianne to Dianne for 19 years, both ex-civile servants. He has a professional rugby player, Harry, 23, from an earlier relationship.
I am a real Lancashire boy in my heart who played rugby and led life to the fullest. My wife Dianne and I are both former officials who retired early in 2018 and enjoyed the good life. We went to the gym six times a week, traveled through the world and enjoyed watching my son Harry, 23, professionally rugby.
As an animal lover, we thought it would be fun to sit as you take care of people’s pets in well -beaten places. After 20 years of marriage and long careers, it felt a bit of adventure, which took us from Yorkshire to Hawaii.
In fact, we came back from two months on the island of Kauai and should go to the Far East for three months when I noticed a little discomfort on the left side of my stomach. No pain, rather a niggle. I almost didn’t go to the family doctor, I assumed that it was muscular, because as the gym, I surpassed it for a man my age. And admittedly, an additional weight at 18 stone was worn because I always liked my food and built a rugby player.
“Oh, go and let it check before we fly,” said Dianne. So I did it.
I think I only had the door of my local GP, Dr. Luthra, darkened. What he noticed as soon as I sat down and said I felt stupid to waste his time, but I had this stitch. “I’m going to take it seriously, Andy,” he said, because as he put it, “it usually never works here”.
That was on December 9th last year. Thank God he was so wise.
He immediately arranged an ultrasound that took place on December 16. His decision saved my life.
The ultrasound emphasized what they thought was an enlarged lymph node. A CT scan followed days later, and while the lymph node turned out to be nothing – by mere coincidence, they discovered a small tumor on my pancreas.
An MRI scan followed to determine its size, and then a biopsy followed a colonoscopy and endoscopy. This emphasized that the tumor contained something that described it as a “high -grade dysplasia”, which speaks medically for the last stop before the adult cancer. I was told this news about Christmas Eve with Dianne at my side. We decided not to say the family and spoil Christmas for everyone, I knew it could be my last, and the last thing I wanted was pity and possibly panic.
The only option was a whipple process. Coincidentally, my good friend David had had exactly this procedure for pancreatic cancer in level 3 a few years earlier.
I called my friend. “Tell me the truth, David,” I begged. “No sugar coating. What does that mean?” He repeated what the doctor said that it was a complex surgery, in which parts of the pancreas, stomach, the duodenum and gallbladder were removed and the digestive system is redirected. “Oh, and there is a large artery in the way it can be risky,” said my cheerful friend. “There is an opportunity of 8 percent to die on the operating table.”
David told me that in the night he ate lobster and suggested that I also enjoy what could be a final meal even.
When my wonderful consultant Ms. Sultana set me and explained all the risks, also that I would have to take dietary supplements for the rest of my life and then become a type -1 diabetics, I thought I was an idiot when I was still nodding through the whole and was already aware of David from David. “Okay,” I said. “Bring your knife out.” It wasn’t as if I had a choice, if I didn’t agree to the operation, I would still die. It had to be brought to court.
Before the operation, I went hell for leather, trained three to four hours a day and stopped drinking to give my body the best chance on this operation table. But I still made sure that I put my will in order that I wrote letters to all my loved ones and even selected my own funeral music if that was.
After David’s advice, my “last dinner” was homemade Spaghetti Bolognese (no lobster for me, thank you).
On March 11th I had an operation in the Royal Blackburn Hospital that lasted 10 hours. It must have been worse for Dianne than me. But I woke up clearly and was said that it was as good as was to be expected. I think it’s the blood loss in the operating room that can kill you, but I had survived.
The pain was different. I was on every available opioid, including fentanyl – which caused me to feel terrible – but I needed it.
The next day I was told that I should get to the chair next to my bed. Theoretically simply enough. In reality, the chair felt like feat similar to climbing Everest. But I did it.
The opioids made me feel bad and out of control, I don’t even like to take paracetamol, but I took them with me at 18 days.
Every day after, it was about progress. The wind was the first milestone that I had to reach. When it happened on the fourth day, I celebrated. Loud. Much to the horror of my colleagues in the community.
They only let me go home until I had a real intestinal movement that lasted eight days and was just when Dianne arrived. “Guess what I did?” I told her triumphantly and never expected such joy from my wife that I made a feces. There are moments of glamor in every recovery.
The histology results came back in the Easter week: it was a high -quality dysplasia, but just in time so as not to be cancer -like. If that had stayed in me for a few more months, I could be in my last year of life.
I broke out in tears. I didn’t expect it, I’m usually not emotional – but the relief only overwhelmed me.
I am now back in the gym and slowly build up and I recently managed my first 5 km run. Slowly, but I did it. We have in Aruba on the house in July and I plan to fight completely from this trip.
People say that the NHS is broken, but I feel emotionally, just thinking about the first -class care that I had happy enough to receive. From time scales to specialist knowledge, I could not have received a better service and no better treatment.
It is better than winning the lottery, the happy escape I had. If I had waited until jaundice or other symptoms, it could have been too late. I now tell every man over 40 – don’t ignore Niggles. If you have abdominal complaints, have it checked. Don’t be proud. Simply go.
And as far as Dianne is concerned, I couldn’t have done it without her. She is not just my wife; It is part of everything. She went through it as much as I did. We are a team.
This experience has not changed my attitude to life, but only confirmed what I knew: life is short and it is life. We always talked about moving to Spain. Now we are. We decided. Why wait?
As Susanna Galton tells
Pancreatic cancer effect Starts your bake, bake, brew, BBQ Campaign this summer, a nationwide initiative that brings people together to collect important means for those affected by this devastating disease.
