CHAPTER EIGHT-DON'T FEAR THE REAPER-June/July 2012

Chapter 8 covers the period of June/ July 2012. After 2 sessions of chemo had almost killed me I was informed my body wasn't capable of taking the final session. I was offered the agonising 6 week chemo radiotherapy trip which entailed a year long trip to hell with lifelong side effects.And it only had a 1 in 5 chance of success and extending my life beyond 12 months. What would you do? Would you go for it or would you avoid it and make the most of your remaining time? The thought of facing the nightmare of being burned alive which only had a 20% shout of making a difference was very very scary!

Here are a few paragraphs from Chapter Eight; Enjoy!

I slouched on my one and only sofa once again struggling to recuperate from the harsh hammering my dying body had had to live with during the previous petrifying grand tour of chemo land. When the word cancer bites one's mind you are instantly zombie-fied and transformed into a member of the walking dead starring in your very own Thriller music video. In this state of terror and dread you blindly dance along the cutting, poisoning and burning conveyor belt of conventional medicine. I dragged my decaying body along with my living dead comrades in a ghostly trance mesmerised into believing that this was the only feasible method of having any hope of avoiding impending death. But I mused, "is everything so black and white?" as shades of grey flickered across my ghoulish visage. Any alternative way was just plain quackery and doomed to failure. Or so I thought!

My chemical head was in a state of utter confusion this paranoid Black Sabbath as I contemplated the cancer industry. Now don't go getting your grey matter or your Ann Summers see-thru knickers in a twist as I don my army surplus thinking cap and chemo brainstorm the whole caboodle of ingrained concepts. The well-established viewpoints I had the spherical spheres to question at the time would result in eyeball rolling at best and blind rage at worst. Therefore I became bosom buddies with the countless so-called Charlatans and Kranks. And so would you if you were marching in my second hand combat boots on a quest not for the elusive fountain of youth or the even rarer elixir of eternal life but for any old damn thing which bestowed a little more oh so precious time with my wife and kids.

Well, first things first. I knew full well my immune system needed a shed load of tender loving care after being bombarded and almost destroyed by the chemo nuclear bomb. So the full on mega juicing with food of the Gods was continued with a psychedelic rainbow of organic fruit and veg entering my system daily. This had to be the main focus as I chased the distant pot of gold hidden in far off survival land.

The next port of call was the herbalist who mixed a magic potion of cancer fighting and immune strengthening herbs. Black Walnut, Red Clover, Burdock, Nettle, Dandelion, Milk Thistle and Wormwood were just a few of the bullets in this strange brew to help me in the war with the grim reaper.

I had an overwhelming feeling of well-being not only from feeding the pigeons but also by suddenly terminating trancing to Thriller. The song didn't remain the same because I was now moon-walking to Beat It. By not blindly following the mindless brainwashed zombies and by at least attempting to fight this deadly disease with every method possible a song and dance was put into each step when all hope seemed lost. Hi-ho, hi-ho it's off to war I go!

Now one little thing that should be easy peasy for anyone with even half a brain to comprehend. Cow's milk is meant for baby cows. Not rocket science is it, Mr Einstein? It has everything needed to transform a 60 pound calf into a 400 pound cow. It is not intended for human consumption. You may as well drink monkey's, dog's, pig's or cat's milk. What other animal drinks milk as an adult? Think about it you big cry baby! And we are drinking another species' milk!!!! If we should drink any milk as adults it should be human milk. Ewww, you vomit with disgust yet you happily slurp the milk from another species. Open your eyes because you are even crazier than me. Even worse is that your glass of milk contains dangerous substances such as growth hormones, pus, antibiotics and is linked to - yes, you've guessed it, obesity. So not only does it make you a jolly fatty but as an added free bonus supplies breast cancer, man boobs and diabetes too. Does the bloody dairy industry give a monkey's if it makes you ill? No way Jose, it only wants your hard cash just the same as my favourite heroin dealer on the street corner. Don't be fooled by the poster of the titillating large breasted female looking healthy drinking a glass of milk. Don't ogle with lust or admiration at her sexy boobs but stare with x-ray vision at the very unsexy tumour forming beneath the skin. Don't be a big tit. Give up this foreign invader for your health and for compassionate reasons too which will be explained later.

A Holiday in Cambodia or dancing to the Zulu beat in Destination Zululand appeared far flung and far fetched but I had to provide my adventurous intrepid spirit a belief that more breath-taking, intoxicating escapades lay ahead when I finally fucked off this bastard cancer. So I ventured online and ordered book after book of long distant walking trails in the UK. Laughable really because I struggled to even limp 10 painful steps. However, I could abscond from my cream sofa detention centre and liberate myself by dreamily trekking each of these paths with my wife and kids. They were my world. As each guide book arrived I would plan the adventure; studying maps, viewing photos, landscapes, villages, waterfalls and much more. I walked through romantic forests hand in hand with my perfect pretty partner, snogging at each kissing gate, up misty mountains and across wild desolate moors shooting videos of the kids running and playing. Hot soup and half a real ale by dancing open fires in remote country pubs and sleeping at charming quaint village inns. I walked trail after trail carefully outlining the places to view, scoff food at and get some shut eye in. Of course I always focused on the happiness of my beautiful wife and kids. I delighted in purchasing my loved ones treats and surprises in the village shops and markets and showing them fantastic sights taking heaps of snapshots of the happy family. I even visualised the clothes we wore on each day's trek. Alas, the majority of time was spent in the very cruel real world of terminal cancer but it was magic to be able to flee with my loved ones through an enchanted wood, across a fairy tale bluebell meadow, inside an otherworldly medieval castle whenever the Grim Reaper's taunts became a little too much to bear.

The Barnes army once again trooped into the white room with black curtains and met the smiling oncologist. I sat on a comfy cream chair holding my dream girl's hand. The main man apologetically informed us that I couldn't have any further Chemotherapy because my broken body wouldn't be able to take it and it would be the death of me. Singing ay, ay yippee, yippee ay: no more journeys to the centre of chemical insanity for me. "So, what next?" I inquired.

"I regret to inform you that without any further treatment your maximum life expectancy is just 12 months, he professionally explained. Shit, shock, horror. The Grim Reaper has got me by the short and curlies and I am in very deep shit. "However there is one glimmer of hope of extending your life," he remarked with a frown across his serious forehead. He than clarified that a full-on 6 week course of radiotherapy with weekly doses of small amounts of chemotherapy could possibly extend my life. He sternly warned that this would be the most agonising and terrifying experience of my life which would have horrific lifelong side effects. And if you gasp in shock and fright at that offer there is even worse to come. It only had a 20% chance of success. The toxic trip to Hades wasn't a walk in the park but it seemed like a piece of piss compared to this proposed journey to the burning fires of hell. It would be a year long nightmare of torment, pain and disability and it only had a 1 in 5 chance of succeeding! Fuck that bloody nightmare excursion to hell. As if I haven't suffered enough already! I will spend what little time I have left loving my wife and kids, not collapsed in agony for a year on my sofa. Bollocks, bollocks and even more fucking bollocks.

As well as not opting to burn my neck I also elected not to burn my bridges and informed the main man I needed a week or two to play things over in my terrified mind. Talk about being between the devil and the deep blue sea. On one hand a slow painful death from cancer and on the other an agonising trip to the fires of hell with an 80% failure rate. Syd, would you like a steel toe-capped boot in your right testicle or your left testicle? There was the third option of ending it all and topping myself but my deep love for my wife and kids meant that that choice was a non starter.

At the eleventh hour, 59 minutes and 59 seconds I unenthusiastically volunteered to go to torturous red hot inferno land. A voice inside my tree screamed, " Don't do it Syd, this is not the answer, this will really fuck you up." I ignored my inner being because I was prepared to face all my demons and scary monsters for just a little more time with the ones I love. With a million nagging doubts in my skull I gave the good bad news to the oncologist and was informed that the jolly jaunt to anguish world would depart on 21st July 2012 and I had my seat reserved and confirmed. I was shitting myself but decided to try and make the most of things before the frightful nightmare began.

A trip to the oral and maxillofacial unit at Preston Royal my soon to be home from home was the initial stage of my trip to hell. A kind friendly dentist with bright blue Frank Sinatra eyes informed me that he would have to extract 2 teeth that were decaying. He warned that any extractions, fillings or root canals during or after the radiotherapy could cause osteoporosis. This would mean my jaw bone disintegrating and they would have to cut bits of bone from my legs to build me a new one. A long and very painful process. Fuck that for a game of soldiers! "Rip them out, old blue eyes," I instructed. I didn't blink one of my bored eyelids at the needles or the ripping, twisting, tugging and pain. This journey has changed me from a timid scaredy cat to a hard as nails fearless tiger.

The next exciting little adventure to Preston Royal occurred a week later when I went to get my radiotherapy face mask sorted My head was clamped to a table and the nurses covered my face with some kind of warm sticky plastic which they moulded to the shape of my face. It was a suffocating unpleasant experience. But unpleasant experiences happened almost every day since the cancer diagnosis. Eventually the mask was ready for the radiation but I wasn't ready; I was dreading it.

I went with the missus and Jo to a transport festival in Fleetwood. Jo insisted on going on the ghost train. I tried to deter him by explaining it was scary but his 3 year head refused to take no for an answer. So, I reluctantly agreed and we sat in a chair ready for the ride. The instant we went through the doors into the ghostly darkness Jo started screaming, so I told him to close his eyes and held him close. It was soon over and he cried, "I never want to go on the ghost train again."

"Neither do I" I reflected. But in just a few short days it will be my turn to take the bloodcurdling, spine-chilling locomotive ride to my worst nightmare. I hope my wife holds me close when I close my eyes and start screaming!

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