My Speech from the Event

So then, here we are. Welcome! Thank you so much for being here this evening, it really does mean a lot to us to see so many people here.

Now, I’m only too aware that I’ve said A LOT so far. Just the 23,475 words to be exact on my hit blog, so I will try to keep this relatively short.

Yesterday was the anniversary of when I was told I had cancer. Something I never imagined would actually happen to me. It feels like hours ago on one hand, and a lifetime on the other. 

It’s funny, I don’t really recall much from that day. I couldn’t tell you what time the appointment was or much of what was said – other than “it’s cancer”.  I do remember it was raining though. 

I was as naive and, lets be honest, sheltered as they come when it came to knowing anything about cancer. 

Once diagnosed, I relied entirely on Evie and my parents to tell me things I needed to know. We were given a guide book, (not of the most fun variety) which to this day I have never opened, and not once did I ever google it. Such was my staunch commitment to avoiding any source of information, I didn’t even appreciate that it was a form of blood cancer for a good couple of months!

I was determined not to give it the time of day or acknowledge it beyond what was needed, instead  focusing on the key facts; it was stage two, not four. It was treatable and did not spread throughout the body. 90% of people come out the other side.

Well then, and excuse my language for a moment because I’m only going to say it once – lets fucking go.

I remember wanting to start the treatment the next day, but if memory serves there was a good three or four weeks to get through first. For the important things. You know, like the biopsy to absolutely confirm the treatment plan, the drugs, etc., endless trips to the consultant and oh yeh, the trip to the fertility clinic to put some of the wee fellas on ice before the zapping began.

What followed was a long and testing six months. You’ll never know how much you appreciate having a shower with both of your arms by your side until you have to stick one in the air in a Michelin man sleeve to avoid the bloody PICC line from getting wet… every single time. 

Our lives quickly became a two week cycle. It almost felt unfair that by the time I was feeling ok again, it was time to go back and start over. Mentally, it was harder than anything I’d ever faced before, with each wave of treatment feeling like I’d been hit by a train… shortly after downing a bottle of vodka. 

I’ve not had a proper hangover since (maybe tonight’s the night?), but that is the only way I can describe the days after chemo. An all-encompassing, full body, toxic hangover.

Thankfully, after four rounds the cancer was gone. I can’t recall the names of the ABVD cocktail of chemicals that they pumped in to my body every fortnight, but the mere fact they had completely cleared my body of cancer – including a 9cm mass in my chest – continues to blow my mind to this day.

So onwards we went, essentially cured of cancer but still facing some of the darkest days over the following eight rounds. My hair did a tremendous job of hanging around until it didn’t, and before I knew it everything was gone, bar bizarrely the outside of my legs and forearms. Most upsettingly, my eyebrows disappeared in a hurry too, leaving my face looking like a puddle of yoghurt dropped on the floor. Again, you’ll never know how much you appreciate eyebrows until they’ve gone.

Those last few weeks were some of the hardest. I was in full chemo-face mode, completely unable to sleep beyond 3am and mentally and emotionally drawn out. 

But we got there.

I have the odd scar, on my neck and arm, and I carry a degree of anxiety with me wherever I go that it might come back, but I refuse to let it take hold.

Over the duration of this experience, I’ve come to realise that whilst it sucked to be the person with cancer, it may actually have been worse for my family and friends. I had an element of control; it was up to me to take my tablets, to turn up to my blood sessions and to get through the chemo. But what about my family and Evie? Beyond taxiing me all over the place, taking my temperature four times a day and keeping my stock of Colin the Caterpillar replenished – watching me gradually get worse was hell for them, something parents certainly shouldn’t have to endure.

But cancer doesn’t discriminate. It didn’t matter that I was 32 at the time, or ran a lot. You’ve seen the stats, one in two of us in this room will, unfortunately, get it in our lifetimes. 

And that is why it is so important that we continue to raise awareness of the known symptoms of all cancers and the preventative measures that we can take to protect ourselves against them. 

People regularly tell me I did so well to keep going to the GP until we got to the bottom of it. I didn’t really, I was just sick of changing my washing detergent.

So (and I’m wrapping it up now, don’t worry), it is vital that we give our support to the lesser well known charities such as Lymphoma Action, so that they can continue to support people affected by this really shitty disease. I want to thank them for everything they did and continue to do for me.

I could spend the rest of the night thanking people – my family and Evie, my friends – everyone for getting me through the last year, for my door step drop offs, for keeping me company in the depths of chemo misery, for not seeing me as an infectious zombie, for helping set tonight up, for everything. Thank you.

Today isn’t about me – as much as my ego might like to think otherwise. Today is about having the opportunity to have a tomorrow.

And finally, just before I go, I want to thank all our sponsors who all played a part in my recovery in one way or another – Mansfield Money, Solesmith and Been, thank you so much for that and for contributing to tonight. 

Thank you.