Twenty years ago today Mr C got the all-clear from his testicular cancer. Yes, that’s right, 11 September 2001. The day the world changed forever. And with it being 20 years, I’ve spent a lot of the day reflecting on the eight months that also changed his life forever. This is really his story to tell, but he can’t do that anymore. So, I’m going to tell the story of one of the strongest people I’ve ever known. I think he’d want me to.
It was February 2001 when things really got bad for Mr C. He’d been going back to his GP on and off for around 18 months ahead of this with various symptoms. At each point he was reassured that there was nothing to worry about. He never got a second opinion or pushed for one. So, in February 2001 when he was in so much pain and could barely walk because of how swollen his testicle had become, his GP finally sent him for tests. Within three days he was being operated on to remove his testicle. I remember vividly going to see him after this operation and thinking how well he looked. He looked well because he was no longer in pain. Little did we know just how ill he actually was, and what would happen within a matter of weeks.
Three weeks later we learnt that the cancer that had started out in his testicle had spread. He had three additional tumours and would face intense chemotherapy and potentially more surgery. He was just 26 years old and there was no guarantee he would make it. The staff at St. Barts hospital in London were simply brilliant with their support and the speed at which they moved to get his treatment started. Over the next couple of weeks, he had to make sperm deposits in case the chemotherapy left him infertile and then on 30 March 2001 (my 20th birthday) he started chemotherapy. He would go in every Thursday, have a cannula in each arm with the drugs in and be in hospital until the Sunday. He’d then have three weeks off before doing this all over again. It was intense. He lost his hair. The steroids he was on made him put on weight. He was exhausted. But he always, always wanted to fight.
Until one day in June. It had all got too much for him. He encouraged me to walk away from him and live my life. He was worried that I hadn’t signed up for this and it wasn’t fair on me. For anyone who read my blog “Being Mrs C” you’ll know that I didn’t walk away at this point. But it was hard to watch him lose his fight. Gradually he got it back, he felt had his whole life ahead of him. He wanted a future. So, he kept fighting. And then in August 2001 we learnt that while the tumours had shrunk, he would need that further surgery. Because of where one of the tumours was, there was a chance that to remove it would result in him losing a leg. He still signed that consent authorisation. To him, having a future without a leg was better than no future at all.
The day of his operation, his dad and I went to London. Delays on the train meant that we didn’t get to see him before he went to the operating theatre. This pained me beyond all belief. So, we just had to wait. We went for breakfast; we went for a walk via St. Paul’s Cathedral (it seems ironic now that the Remember Me project for those lost to COVID-19 will be in St. Paul’s). I can’t tell you what else we did but I do know that I’ll always be grateful his dad was with me that day. When we eventually made our way back to St. Bart’s we thought we’d be seeing him shortly. It was still some hours to go. His surgery was taking longer than anticipated. I think it was just under nine hours until he made it back onto the ward. One of the first things he did when we saw him was lift the sheet to check on his legs. His sense of humour even on such a day was there to see. A few hours later the consultant told us that everything had been removed. All was looking positive, but we’d still need to wait a few weeks to be sure. He was in hospital for a week after this surgery. He’d essentially been cut in half and it was going to take time to recover. He had a lot to endure, obviously helped when on one visit I tripped over his catheter… It’s a miracle he stayed with me after this!
And then on 11 September 2001, he got the news he’d been waiting for. He was clear of cancer. We spent the morning at St. Bart’s and then met his dad at a pub in Westminster to celebrate. We then got on the tube. It was rammed. We weren’t sure why, it seemed most odd. As we pulled out of London, we overheard a guy on the train talking on his phone about World War III breaking out. We didn’t have a clue what had happened. This was before smartphones and all we could do was wonder.
I remember us getting home, switching on the TV, and finding out about the unbelievable events in the USA. The euphoria from the morning left us. So much loss and devastation was happening overseas, it was quite hard to be jubilant. We just sat there for hours watching the news in disbelief. It was like something from a disaster movie, this couldn’t be real life surely? Except it was. And it made the day of his all-clear memorable for all the wrong reasons.
Over the next few months, he tried to find a job (he’d just started one when he was diagnosed and unfortunately couldn’t stay). He really struggled to even get interviews because of the gap on his CV. It turned out that all-clear was fast becoming an anti-climax. Life wasn’t all cupcakes and roses because of it. I started to see the change in him too. He was far less tolerant of things. His temper was shorter. This experience changed him. Yes, there were so many elements of the old Charlie there, but you don’t go through what he did, staring death in the face and expect to still be the same person afterwards. You reassess your life. You reassess the people in it and how they treat you. You have new expectations. I’m not saying this happens to everyone that goes through an experience like this, but it certainly happened to him. And I can see it happening to me too now that I’ve been widowed. I haven’t personally stared death in the face, but death has affected my life in a way I’m still trying to comprehend.
But this experience also made him appreciate life more. He lived for the moment. He realised life is fragile and made it his mission to just enjoy it. He was told on more than one occasion that he should lose weight, but his philosophy was that he liked food and he wanted to enjoy his life. Not live governed by other factors. He was the life and soul of the party. He treated everyone equally. He wanted to make sure that everyone enjoyed spending time with him. But above all else, he became fiercely loyal to all his friends and family. For the people who had been there for him. The people who visited him in hospital. Who took him unbelievably noisy toys! But in all seriousness, those people who were there for him then are now there for me. He was blown away by the support in 2001, he’d be blown away by the support for me now. I just know it.
And as the years went by, he’d remember this day. Usually with the phrase “B*ll*cks to cancer.” But he never forgot the significance of his all-clear date. He would make reference to the tragic events that had happened as well as the milestones he was reaching in Facebook posts. I’ve been reminding myself of them today, it makes me feel closer to him. And one stopped me in my tracks. It ended with this paragraph “So please, while we must remember this date, the horror of what happened in New York and share our support with the families of all those who were lost, some still have a reason to celebrate this date, people were saved, children were born and illnesses were beaten. There will always be light no matter how dark this life can get.” He knew this first-hand. His life had been dark but in typical Mr C fashion he always looked for the light, he knew it was there. And since his death, he’d be so honoured that his Testicular Cancer experience is raising awareness and hopefully giving light to others via raising funds for charity. When the funeral directors asked me the name of a charity for people to donate to after his death, I chose The Oddballs Foundation. So many of our friends, family and colleagues now get their underwear from Oddballs, over the weekend one of his school friends completed her first triathlon and the little boy who was ring bearer at a wedding (he’s not so little any more!) will be running Scarfell Pike. Because of the significance of the date, they also chose to raise money for The Oddballs Foundation in his memory. He’d be so honoured.
But above all else, I know without question that this philosophy he strongly felt about finding light after darkness, the strength he displayed when living with his cancer and the character he showed after he was given the all-clear is something that has stayed with me to this day. I can’t, and won’t, let the darkness beat me. The strongest man in the world taught me that. I will always continue to look for the light. And I will do it because of, and for him.
Life is a rollercoaster 