WHEN it comes to cancer treatments there’s a lot of talk about percentages.

There’s a lot of science behind the treatments these days. Trials let oncologists know what success rates to expect for various treatments to various cancers and are happy to share these with patients. It’s an exciting time for medical professionals treating cancer patients.

A few years ago it was a fairly grim side of the medical business to be involved in … let’s face it, they were dealing with a disease that they could do little about. They managed the bad news and got on with collating their research notes and statistics.

Today things have changed. They can celebrate remarkable strides forward with patients coming through treatments to live for many years free of the cancer that perhaps only a decade or so earlier would have ended their life. That’s the good bit and thankfully it continues apace to improve.

Unfortunately, there remains the reality that some cancers still don’t respond and some remain seriously scary. My lung cancer falls into that scary category because, despite removing the left lung where the tumour developed and grew, the cancer spread out and into my chest wall.

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For 12 weeks – the entire time of my total shielding/isolation from coronavirus – I have been receiving two types of chemotherapy combined with an infusion of immunotherapy administered through intravenous drips every three weeks. Last week was a day of reckoning for me and for the team who are trying to extend my life. I was going for a CT scan that would indicate if any of these treatments – and all the side-effects that came along with them – had actually achieved anything.

The scan would show if the cancer had spread or if it had been stopped in its tracks or even receded. My confident smile belied the utter shambles of nerves below the surface – a tactic my wife and I use for each other without any convincing effect. But we daren’t crumble in front of each other – our confidence is all that keeps each other going in times such as this.

I was in the main part of the hospital where a great many people walk about between clinics and wards. It was the most exposed I’d felt since this all began back in the second week of March. The scan was quick and efficient. I wore my mask and so did the radiology staff scanning me. I am very aware of my vulnerability to infection of any kind.

When I attend the hospital for chemotherapy treatment we are all kept well away from the main hospital areas of activity – discreetly entering through side doors and directly into a bespoke treatment room. It all seems very safe compared to this.

With the scan completed it quickly sunk in that the real fear was about to begin. It’s about the waiting. I’d been told that if the scan was okay we would discuss the next stage of treatment when my oncologists phoned me tomorrow. If the scan wasn’t good then we would be having a different conversation.

Four days after the scan the communication came through – it was good. There “is no measurable tumour”, I am told. The treatment appears to have stemmed cancer activity from progressing. This is not the time to put the flags out but it seemed a good time to breathe again.

Now to plan the next stage of treatment which will involve more immunotherapy and possibly some more chemotherapy – a discussion we can at least now have and consider the percentages of each option once again.

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Is this like being given a reprieve from the gallows but being told you remain in jail in solitary confinement? Perhaps, but it feels better than that because it’s given me some hope that for once the percentages might be in my favour … that all those years of research and trials and evidence-based treatments might actually be delivering for patients like me.

With that news there was a lighter spring in my step as we welcomed our granddaughter to our garden to celebrate her 18th birthday. Camped far away at the bottom of the garden with her mum, dad and younger sister we sang happy birthday. My wife and I kept a safe distance as they ate cake and we all raised a glass – Elleigh and her mum toasting with some fizz.

I joked that I’d slipped a few drops of Scotch into my alcohol-free cider but then folk began to wonder as soon afterwards I started to look distinctly wobbly. I could hardly keep my eyes open and fairly suddenly had to make my excuses and head inside on unsteady legs to go for a sleep.

My wife is a brilliant nurse and administers my drugs to me with the precision of a brain surgeon. I, on the other hand, am a bit slap dash and had mistakenly plundered the night-time morphine drugs instead of the lunchtime mixture of less potent drugs.

I slept for a straight 15 hours after my self-inflicted morphine overdose and missed the birthday cake, dinner and the next morning’s breakfast. At least they had the good grace not to laugh too loudly and they did leave some cake for me. Suffice to say Laura is back on drugs duty and I am delighted to be able to be having a conversation with my oncologist tomorrow about the next round of treatment options to help me battle on against this lung cancer that has so invaded my life and the life of those closest to me.