I'm still too young for this shit.

2 comments Monday 1 March 2010
Hi there, how are you?

Thanks for waiting. I wasn't sure if you'd still be here. You alright?

Anyway, thanks for dropping by...I appreciate it! I hope you're doing well...

I give you my apologies that this second (and final) part of my blog has taken so long to write. I needed some help in remembering things...

Also, I think I should make the point that this blog is merely a tool for me to tell you this story of mine. I'm not one of these guys who talks just for the sake of talking you know. I figured I have an interesting story to tell and this place is as good as any, for me to tell you guys.

It's been good for me to write this and I hope whatever you take from it (if anything) is good (for you). I'm not rooting for any particular feelings from anyone in writing this by the way, I don't need any sympathy, trust me, I'm alright on that.

I know there are some of you people out there that have been looking forward to this....and again, I thank you for your patience....as the motto for Guinness goes....all good things come to those that wait ;)

This part has been quite tough for me to write for a couple of reasons:

a) I made a gigantic mistake in not writing down much at the time.

b) I was out of my mind on large doses of morphine on a fairly regular basis when I was in hospital.

By the way, morphine really is brilliant stuff if you didn't know. I really was totally gutted when they finally told me I could have no more :(

I can remember certain things from back when this was all happening, and when I talk about those things with friends or family members who were there with me at the time - they can then use a particular memory and then link that to other things which aids the process of unrolling the whole story.

So this bit of my blog is just going to be one (fairly large) story detailing how things went, with a series of mini stories that came about at the time and also some of my feelings about stuff at the time too.

If that is of interest to you, then I invite you, my dear reader, to continue following the words what I have wrote...

The prospect of a long stay in hospital tends to conjure up a few images: Sexy nurses, blood being taken from you, bedpans........yeah...well, I really didn't care for any of that stuff, sure the sexy nurses are a bonus, but really the main thing on my mind, was to get better, then get out of there.

A cancer patient only has one wish, to get better.

I had a lot of people wishing me well, praying for me, hoping the operation went well. All those things mean a lot to me and I appreciate and cherish the thoughts, words, and efforts of each individual person.

Really, no one knew what was going to happen. The most anyone could do - was wish me luck and be there (in person or spirit) for me. That was all I needed really and that gave me a incredible amount of strength.

When situations like the one I found myself in occur, you can find yourself at a fork in the proverbial road of life.





One way, will lead to unnecessary stress and eventually end up really messing you up, or worse.

The other way, is the only real option, to the thinking human, at least. The option to stand up and fight. To show your true colours, show what you really are made of.

To quote the late great Richie Pryor: "I believe the ability to think is blessed. If you can think about a situation, you can deal with it. The big struggle is to keep your head clear enough to think."

Amen brother Rich! Amen.

Clarify just what exactly is happening, take stock of what the situation is, and then plot your way out of it (I went with the second option by the way, just in case you weren't sure).

I didn't believe it at first when I was told the news, it was just like the doc had reached into my body, pulled my heart out, then stamped on it, then picked it up, threw it on the ceiling...only to then throw it out the window and watch in awe as it lands in a blender which was not only very strategically placed, but somehow plugged into a plug socket (and on full power).

After a few minutes of allowing me to soak the news into my brain, we talked about what my chances were and what was going to happen. The specialist guy was fantastic in how he handled the situation (as I described in my first blog thing). When it came down to it (the operation) – it was just me, on my back, in theatre. At the mercy of some of the best surgeons in the business (this is a simplified formula, but it's true).

Thankfully, I came out alive (this stuff don't write itself you know) and that, that is all that matters.

It's good to be alive you know, living can be quite cool. When I wake each day, I'm grateful to still be here and have the opportunity to experience this thing what we call “life”. Each time I leave the house, I can walk with my head held high as I value life much more than I used to now.

Generally speaking, you are born into this journey called life with a few things. You are given a mind, a body and a soul and it's up to you what you do with them.

As time went on during my stay in hospital, I became a little more comfortable with my surroundings. Having a routine can be a good thing.

My routine in hospital mainly consisted of waking up, having a wash, getting dressed and joking around as much as possible to pass the time, keeping the spirits of my ward up and playing top trumps with my family, watching TV and then going to sleep (this did sometimes vary, sometimes). I was aloud to bring my laptop in, as well as my music too, which I couldn't have done without as those things are important to me.

I have very hazy memories of my times in hospital, as I said at the beginning of this blog. The stuff that was pumping around my body then - not only numbed the pain - but also it made it harder to recall things (unfortunately morphine has a bad side too).

Anyway, it was September 5th 2006 when I was first admitted to the Nuffield Hospital, Oxford, England. This was just a few weeks after being "diagnosed" by the specialist guy at the Radcliffe. I was very lucky that I didn't have to wait any longer. I was to have my first operation the very same day.

I arrived in the morning, and we weren't given a set time for me to have my operation.

So there I was, on a bed, just chilling, waiting for the shout.

I passed the time with my family by talking about what was going to happen. How we imagined things were to be done and just normal stuff families talk about...we joked, we laughed, we waited...

The shout eventually came early afternoon, around two o'clock I think it was. Before I went into theatre though - the anaesthetist guy had to do his bit. His “bit”, was to use a black marker pen and draw an arrow on my right leg (where the surgeons were going to do their thing). Naturally I found this very amusing. Before the guy drew on me, I asked him what he was doing (I'm very inquisitive you see, especially when someone wants to draw on me), he said “I'm just going to mark you here, so the surgeons know what leg it is that they will be operating on.” I nodded to show I understood and chuckled at the thought that I could possibly go into theatre – have an op – only to come out from there with the tumour still in my leg, but the other leg, the leg with no problem, cut open.

After that guy left, my sister got a different pen and we decided to write “This way up” by the arrow, just in case, as you never can be too sure.

I also had a big sign saying “nil by mouth”, so I couldn't eat or even drink. At the time, my family were eating, so you can imagine how that made me feel. It was a really hot day that day, too. My sister lovingly gave me some chewing gum to make it a bit better.

Before I went in for the op, a nurse came over and gave me my “operation clothes”. Basically, something to cover my front. I had a bit of fun with them as you can see for yourself below:


By the way, that's not a shower cap.

...Before entering theatre, you are taken to a small room (pre-op room) where the doctors prepare the stuff they need for the operation and make sure you are alright(!) and ready for what is about to happen. My mum and my sister were with me up until I entered the room (only patients and qualified staff past that point). Of course, I already knew what was coming, so I took my opportunity to have a bit of craic with these guys. The man who was in charge of taking me to this room asked me what my job was along the way, I said that I was a salesman (I was) and that I thought I would be able to get him a good deal if he came into my shop. Everyone laughed and the tension was eased a little (I have never owned a shop and I probably never will).

As I got into the pre-op room, somehow, the conversation had turned to football and I was telling the guys the then situation of Watford FC (the football team I follow), I don't think I managed to finish my sentence before the drugs knocked me out.

My sister had waited by the operation room door for a long time. A nurse came out to her and said that she knew me - through her son who was a friend of my brother – and she went on to tell my sister that I was fine and she gave her my glasses, as I'd asked the nurse to give them to her.

Next thing I know - I'm conscious in recovery and the operation is complete.

Recovery, funnily enough, is a room where patients recover after an operation.

When I was fully awake, I got one of the lovely nurses to let me drink some water and also to get my laptop plugged in and working, I wanted to play a game (Grand Theft Auto) for a few hours. The nurses made me some toast with jam on and I had some tea, too. I ate the toast, drank the tea and promptly threw it all up. It was too soon after the operation for me to eat - but I hadn't touched food for so long that I just had to eat something.

After making some small progress, the nurses saw fit to move me, as I was "too well" for the room.

So I got moved to a new ward where I didn't know the staff there and I was worrying about needing a pee. At the time, I had an epidural attached to me, so you can imagine that the whole peeing thing was a bit different to the usual. I was still thirsty and wanted to drink but I knew it'd make me want to pee. This was the start of what is known in my family as: “the catheter nightmare”.

The morning after my operation arrived and I was (as expected) feeling the pain big style. One of the nurses on duty suggested that I should have some black tea to make me feel better, so he made me some. I drank it. It didn't make me feel any better. In fact, I actually got worse. The same nurse told my sister to go to the chemist to get me a lavender bag (very gay, I know) that they could stick in the microwave and some ginger (no, not some random ginger person - “Zingiber officinale” - to use it's Binomial name) to help me stop being sick. My lovely sister went off to town on a mission and got all the stuff required, but still, I was getting worse. I was being sick everywhere and using my lungs to their fullest capacity (screaming and shouting my arse off).

My mum and sister are ex carers so they were quite handy in caring for me. But as I am such a stubborn guy, I got cross and told them I didn't want any help. I wanted to do this on my own. I didn't particularly want to be sick all over them, they're my family!

I held my sisters hand and really squeezed it hard. Eventually, my mum lost it and got another nurse in. That nurse had a good look at me and then took it upon herself to decide to get “the pain relief nurse” (chain of command in full effect, eh) she came and looked at me, then decided - yes, I did indeed, need to pee (cheers for the confirmation, love).

However, I still had the epidural and my system was confused with all the stuff going on. After that, a whole load of doctors came in, a mix of some professionals and some trainees. It was like I was a star attraction at the zoo. They shoved my angry family out and gathered around me to begin trying to fit a catheter. But they couldn't do it. They tried and they tried but it just wasn't happening. I was in agony at this point and screaming the place down, swearing and all. Everyone in the other wards could hear me, I was putting on a real show. My family weren't pleased one bit, as you may imagine. My sister said to the nurse that this implied that I was making a bit of a fuss about nothing, as I had had a rare bone cancer for months and was waiting until I was in hospital for me to be treated and that I have one of the highest pain threshold of anyone my sister knows. The nurse stopped talking then.

After what seemed like forever, they stuck a tube in me, after realising the whole putting a tube on the end of my penis thing wasn't really going to happen (unfortunately I have no pictorial evidence of this for you guys, I'm sure you're disappointed about that, my face at the precise moment they told me their intentions was ripe for a picture, I think they call it a Kodak moment or something).

Anyway, after that - I filled 2 and a half bags with pee straight away and then I was cool.

I had good friends come and spend some time with me quite often during the period I was in hospital, which of course helped me massively. Whether it was me sitting/lying in bed - with my friends sat around me talking about things/joking around/watching Richard Pryor stand ups on my laptop or playing playstation/eating takeaway - I took a chance and rang for a pizza delivery to my bed and it worked! ...whatever - it all helped.

Another thing that helped me was having my music with me via my laptop and my mp3 player. At any time, day or night, I was able to listen to music. If you were to ask me which song I listened to the most, I guess I'd have to go with the Jeff Buckley version of Hallelujah, although, Lucky Man by The Verve wasn't far behind. Man, I must've listened those songs near a thousand times in that place. It may sound a little weird and perhaps corny, but I think it kind of cleansed me a little in my mind.

Even the old English guy chanting weird stuff in the middle of the night couldn't stop me from concentrating on listening to my tunes. I mostly listened to my stuff before going to sleep, it really resonated with me at the time and I guess it still does now.

As I mentioned earlier, my memory of this is quite hazy, but there are some stand out things I can recall. Some of those things are;

One day a trainee doctor came over to me to redo my intravenous – he did the easy part as he removed the one I had in fairly well, but the problem came when he attempted to attach the new one. First one he tried, my body just said “NO” and pushed it back (along with some blood pouring out). He apologised and decided to have another go, I said OK. This time, the needle popped out from my skin and fell on the floor along with some more drops of blood. I said to the guy “Ok mate, you tried your best but this isn't happening is it? Go and fetch me someone who knows what they're doing.” He nodded, showing he understood. A nurse came in and sorted me out within minutes.

Another day, whilst I was lying in bed, my sister who was sat next to me, suggested that I ask for my prosthesis back. She said it'd be a nice souvenir, something real that we'd be able to actually see and touch (if you were to touch). I pondered on this briefly for a moment before coming round to the idea. I asked my MacMillan nurse Helen to see what she could do. Early the next morning my surgeon Duncan appeared by my bed, grinning, with the prosthesis hidden within a newspaper under his arm. He mentioned that "it isn't really normal practise to give the prosthesis back to patients Liam, but seeing as you asked..."

I have the prosthesis at home, I tend not to carry it about with me (it's too big to fit in a normal pocket for a start).

A busy body woman on staff at Nuffield - late July 08, face like a bulldog chewing a wasp and spoke funny. Gave people food menu's when they were leaving, walked in on people washing to give them food menus. I don't mean to speak harshly of this person, but she was a real weird one though.

A lovely nurse lady called Jo. She very kindly lent me a film called Pans Labyrinth and I hassled her (and any other nurses who were around) about a missing fan, when I found it later, it was in my cupboard the whole time.

Sorry about that!

Nurse lady called Rosy, also really nice, was shocked when I told her about the cancer, said I was “her boy”.

Nurse lady called Nelly in April '08 in BIU (Bone Infection Unit), lovely lady! Looked after me and was another one that said I was “her boy”. We bought a toy elephant in her honour and named it after her. I love Nelly.

My MacMillan nurse, called Helen. Mere words can't do this magnificent lady justice – any troubles I had, no matter how big or small, she was on the case. She even used her contacts to get me tickets to watch my football team play a few times. I love you Helen. Helen was awarded The National Cancer Nurse Leader of the Year 2010, at the Grosvenor Hotel in London (that means she is the best in her profession) and also recieved a letter of congratulations from the Prime Minister. She's been with Macmillan for 12 years, I see the award as justifiable recognition for her.

Duncan Whitwell. aka “Big Dunc”. My surgeon. First class. Good sense of humour and just a top gentleman.

Max Gibbons, the man kinda behind it all whose face I rarely saw. Thanks for everything, Max!

My first Physio lady called Heather. Just a lovely sweet woman!!

Physio lady called Liz, said I'm “a perfectionist”, and a “first class physio patient”. She wrote out my exercises for me. Thank you, Liz!

A blonde Czech nurse, whose name I can't remember (really sorry), she helped take an intravenous out of my hand and put another in, was really nice, she accidentally spilt blood on my shorts and was really embarrassed.

When I spent some time back in the Nuffield, Oxford, in July '08 for treatment on an infection, I was in Ward F – room 12.

In there, were a few characters.

One, was an Irishman by the name of Pat.

Pat was a guy who I like to call a “proper character” and someone who I would gladly have a drink with (should I ever meet him again). He kept morale up in the ward and always displayed a cracking sense of humour.

Another character was an English man called Peter.

Peter was a funny one as us guys in the ward would be chatting away about something and he would be quiet for long periods, then, every now and again he'd chip in with a comment out of nowhere that would just set me off. He shared my thoughts on the nurse who had a liking to needlessly handing out food menus. A lovely guy, who I'd like to see again.

And Mike – an ex policeman who I nicknamed “The General”. He just looked like a real old style English policeman, white hair and moustache, and he had the voice to match. Mike loved telling his stories.

There is a corridor, within the Nuffield hospital, that you have to walk through to get to the physiology department. In a part of this corridor, on the wall, is a saying. Now, to be honest with you guys, I haven't been back in there for a while, so I might not get the exact wording correct, but it goes something like this: “You don't realise what you've got – until it's gone.” It's referring to the use of ones legs.

I had been going to physio for a while but somehow I didn't realise it until late on into my course. One day me and my mum were walking through the corridor (me on crutches), and I noticed it. I just stopped dead in my tracks and grabbed my mums arm. A grin as wide as the equator grew across my face.

“You don't know what you've got until it's gone.”


A brief update of how things are with me now:

I still live in Oxford, England.

I, along with some friends, created an internet site which is all about South American Football in late 2008, we are still going now and we're growing by the day.

I, along with some family and friends, did a 10k run for MacMillan Cancer Support in Regents Park of June 2010. Between me and my sister, we raised £1000.

I have a skydive for Cancer Research lined up in May of this year, which should be pretty cool.

I've decided to learn Spanish.

I'm hoping (along with some friends of mine) to get out to visit South America soon. The 2014 World Cup in Brazil is something I would like to see (in person).

There is more but I don't like to be a bore.

If you did make it the whole way down here – well done you!

Anyway, thank you for reading a story what I done wrote :)

See you later!
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