Early Days

I didn't know if or how I was going to end this blog, so decided to take a break from it whilst I tried to figure it out.

I'm on a completely different journey now, not one of cancer, but one of loss on an absolutely indescribable scale and I think I'll keep writing. It's quite therapeutic and maybe, when Esmée is old enough, I might let her read through some of the posts so she can read all about this time in her life and hopefully understand more about what's been happening.

In early December, I wrote a little bit about Steve's death, the immediate aftermath and the funeral. This was written through a very cloudy mind and although things are still foggy, they're a little bit clearer now.

Steve died very suddenly on the day, it wasn't at all expected. I had fought to get Steve out of the hospice and back home about 10 days before he died. I never second-guessed my decision to do this despite doctors advising me to keep him in the hospice, and found it reassuring that he died where I knew he wanted to be.

I won't go into detail about his final hours, those are very private moments between him and myself, as well as his family who were present at the time, but I'll be forever grateful that I was able to curl up with him on our bed, with my arms completely around him and tell him all the things I wanted to tell him.

The days and weeks following Steve's death are a complete blur. We're approaching the 4 month mark since he died and yet I can't really remember anything in particular that has happened since 12th November.

I know I went to see him several times in the funeral home. I remember people saying "that'll be really hard" or "I bet that was really difficult" but for me, it was a relief to just be with him.

Then there was the funeral; I remember some of that. As far as funerals go, it was pretty impressive.

I also remember his birthday. 22nd December; very soon after his death to already be dealing with a "first" without him and I didn't know what to do. I'd made plans to see some of his closest friends and family. I woke up in the morning feeling completely and utterly lost without him. I hadn't collected his ashes from the Crematorium yet as I hadn't decided what to do with them. But on his birthday, I realised that he needed to be with me. I walked up the to Crematorium, which is at the top of my road, and sobbed that I needed to collect my husband because it was his birthday. Whilst I was there, I ordered a ring from Ashes Into Glass, a company which makes the most beautiful memorial jewellery and other things incorporating the ashes of a loved one, which would arrive 6-8 weeks later. I felt better that I had my boy with me on his birthday. I bought a "Red Robin" tree and eventually I'll plant that in the garden in his memory.

Christmas is a complete blur. I made it as lovely as possible for Esmée but I secretly couldn't wait for it to be over.

I bought myself a pretty little diary for 2016 and decided to fill my days with things for Esmée and I to do. I never want to do much but how is that fair on my 17 month old toddler who goes stir crazy if we're not out the house within an hour of breakfast? I feel so lucky to have her, she is my rock as well as my motivation to get out everyday and get some fresh air.

I think about Steve and what he would want me to do. We never had that sort of conversation. Within days of discovering his illness was terminal, he was bedridden with sciatica caused by tumours in his spine and his health declined at an extremely rapid rate. This meant he was never really lucid for longer than an hour at a time, if that. But I know my husband, I know his zest for life - it's one of the many features about him that I fell completely in love with - and I don't think he'd be impressed if I wasted my life, the one I'm lucky enough to still have, shutting myself indoors and not making the most of it when his, that he wanted so desperately to hold onto, was snatched away from him in such a cruel and unjust way.

I've found a pattern that, at the moment, seems to be working for us to get us through the days. I'm very aware that children pick up on a lot more than we sometimes realise, they just can't always tell us. Because of this, whilst Esmée is still too young to understand what's happening, I only let her see her Mummy happy. So every day, we get up and I get myself dressed, put some make-up on and we go out, whether it's to the park, the farm, the aquarium, into town just to wonder around, to a friend's house - anything, as long as we don't sit and wallow indoors. In the evening, she kisses one of the many photos of her Daddy on our bedroom walls. waves and smiles, I sing her the song he used to sing her and she goes to sleep. Once she's sound asleep, I let myself feel however I'm feeling. Sometimes I can look at photos for hours and smile and laugh, other times my heart physically aches and I feel like I can't breathe but whatever happens, she doesn't see this side. She's a little girl and until she's old enough for me to explain why I'm sad and that it isn't in any way her fault, I don't want her to see it. I don't want to burden her with things she's too young to comprehend and potentially allow her to feel responsible for my sadness. She's my light during these difficult times and I want her to always know that.

People often comment on what a happy child she is, and I have to agree. I have a very content little girl and find it so reassuring to know that I must be pretty great at being her Mummy!

Valentine's Day was difficult. I planned a little date day with Esmée, which was lovely although I hadn't expected quite so many loved up couples to have made the same plans as us and seemed to be everywhere we went.

Mother's Day this year was tough too, not only because I've lost the person who would make sure I was spoilt on Mother's Day but also because 6 weeks after Steve died, my mum lost her own battle with cancer, too. I spent Mother's Day with Steve's parents, who are of course going through the unimaginable, and we managed to make a nice day of it through our heartbreak. I've always felt close to them and I'm sure that will continue.

I'll leave it there for now as I think I've covered the main parts so far.

I've been blown away by the love and support I've received from most of my friends, family and even strangers. People's kindness during the hardest time that I have ever, and will ever experience will not be forgotten, I'm so very grateful.

Thank you for reading.

Gina Xx

Pre-diagnosis - one of the happiest times of our lives xx

Fly high, Superman xx

It's been 24 days since Steve died. He'd been chatting to me in the morning, albeit slightly slurred due to the amount of medication he was taking. The nurse had come to change his syringe driver, as she did every morning. She left the house around 10.45am, and at 12.30pm, she was at the side of our bed, pronouncing his death as he slipped away in my arms with his family around him, holding his hands.

We knew Steve wasn't going to get better, but we thought he had longer. Nobody expected Thursday 12th November to be the day. Shock set in immediately, for all of us.

Esmée played downstairs with a few family members, blissfully unaware of the devastating events taking place in the room above her.

I don't remember much of the last three weeks. The days have merged into one indescribably painful, yet completely surreal nightmare. I feel as though I'm having an out-of-body experience. It's like I'm floating, watching someone else's life fall apart in front of them, or as though I'm watching what should be happening 60 years from now, if it really had to happen at all.

I threw myself into planning Steve's funeral. Everything had to be absolutely right, the perfect send-off for the perfect husband and daddy. Steve's parents and I got together several times to discuss factors we needed to consider and ideas we'd had.

I made arrangements for a florist to visit the house - the same florist who did such a stunning job on our wedding flowers just two short years ago. We talked about various ideas - sprays, heart shapes, bright colours but not too "girly" - before eventually settling on something very unusual, and very "Steve" - a Superman tribute. He'd been known as Superman for years and had the outfit to match. He was my Superman, and everyone's Superman.

Steve's dad looked around some local venues to find a place fitting for a celebration following the funeral, and after showing me the favourites, we agreed on a beautiful harbour side hotel about 15 minutes from our house.

Steve's sister and brother-in-law took to designing and printing the Order Of Service cards for the funeral, which were absolutely beautiful. We included a poem written about Steve by one of his good friends.

I ordered personalised packets of forget-me-not seeds for mourners to take away and plant in his memory, and I arranged for the crematorium staff play a short, funny clip of Steve at the end of the service, right before the exit music played.

We all agreed that as a reflection of Steve's fun-loving, confident and hilarious personality, we would ask guests to dress in bright colours. This was to be the celebration of a wonderful (although short) life, and the beautiful soul of my husband.

The funeral was nothing short of the perfect send-off my incredible husband deserved. We had booked the biggest chapel in the area as Steve has always been so popular. There was no room left to stand, let alone sit. There were around 300+ people there, and I was inundated with apologies from people who'd wanted, but weren't able, to attend. We decided on a Humanist service, as Steve didn't have any particular religious beliefs. My dad delivered an amazing eulogy, and a close friend of Steve's spoke brilliantly as well. I believe we all did him proud and I don't think it could have gone any better than it did.

Now that the shock has started to wear off, I feel the deepest, rawest sadness I've ever known, as though a part of me has died with my husband. The fact that his death was expected doesn't take away from the immense shock, emptiness and crushing heartbreak. I knew within days of meeting Steve that he was the person I'd spend my life with. Everyone knew it, it couldn't have been more obvious that we were made for each other. I'm now facing life without him and that scares and saddens me beyond words.

He has, however, left me the most beautiful legacy, and I thank him everyday for Esmée. There hasn't been a day go past that she hasn't made me laugh. She keeps me strong despite the pain in my heart, and reminds me why I need to keep pushing on. Her little giggle is infectious, I can't help but laugh when she does. She gives me kisses and cuddles, strokes my face, climbs all over me and is an absolute joy. She is truly my world and for that reason, I will find a way to be "okay".

Esmée is at an age where she doesn't understand what's happened, if anything, but still recognises Steve in photos. She reaches out for them, smiling, clapping and waving. It breaks my heart but warms it at the same time, to know that she knows her daddy.

There have been days when I've woken up feeling strong and ready to take on the world. There are other days when the room spins around me, I'm sick and every breath in feels like an axe to the heart, a bit like when it's freezing cold outside and you take a deep breath in and it really hurts, except 100 times worse. I've had nightmares which have had me in tears before I've even opened my eyes, and I've had nicer dreams about him too. I haven't felt "alone" - I feel like he's with me all the time. I really believe that he is.

For now, I've adopted the method of taking things one hour at a time. When I absolutely cannot see a way to get through the rest of my life with this big Steve-shaped hole, I look at the time, and tell myself to just focus on getting through the next hour. So far, I have successfully made it through every hour that I've tried to make it through, so I think I'm doing okay. Esmée keeps me going and has me smiling constantly, despite the pain in my heart. I see Steve appear strongly in her and that brings me more comfort than I can explain.

I've been completely overwhelmed by the support and love I've had from my friends and family, and from Steve's. I knew they'd all be there for Esmée and I, but they've really carried me through the past few weeks and I'm so grateful for that.

I don't know where this blog is going to go now, if anywhere. But I thank you so much for reading, and I may write again one day.

Love, Gina x

Heartbreak. The Worst One Yet

I'm going to try and keep this one relatively short because I don't think my brain can handle too much more right now.

The last time I wrote, we were waiting for a CT scan and the for the new trial treatment to start.

For the past 6(ish) weeks, we've been going into hospital regularly for blood tests, consent forms and so on to get Steve up and running on the trial, and on Thursday last week he had a physical exam to make sure he was well enough and showing no sign of infection etc, with a view to him starting the trial this week.

On Thursday afternoon, we had a call to say that it turns out the trial had been closed for a while and that Steve could no longer participate. They asked us to come in today to discuss other options.

So today, we went in for a meeting with the oncologist and were hoping he would have news on a different trial.

Instead, he told us that there is currently nothing available and we are now facing "incurable".

We are absolutely devastated, shocked beyond belief, and heartbroken.

We also learnt that his spine has got in on the cancer action, and more than likely his liver, too, although that part isn't confirmed yet.

They will keep looking out for trials, and as soon as one comes up that Steve is eligible for, we will be informed and he'll be put forward for it (provided he wants to be).

Steve has slept for most of today through sheer exhaustion.

I feel numb to the point where I can't feel my feet on the ground, but at the same time, I'm  in more pain than I've ever known.

We have both agreed that we will not give up, we will keep fighting and live every day to the fullest for our baby girl and for each other.

Thanks for reading.

Gina xx

Race For Life 2015

It's been almost two months since we took part in the Race For Life and I've just realised I hadn't done an update for you, so here it is :)

Esmée and I signed up to walk the Race For Life in Bournemouth, where we live, and we absolutely loved it. I got a group of friends involved and those who have young children got them involved too.

My sister-in-law and I got ready together in the morning - we wore pink tops and pink tutus and she did our makeup for us - bright pink!!

I wore Esmée in a carrier and we met the other girls at the seafront near the start line, who were also all dressed in pink.

Esmée had a hand made sign which said "I'm Racing For Daddy" with a photo of them together.

My total amount raised was £1374.00 and I received an email last month telling me I was in the top 3% of fundraisers for June! I'm so happy with that total - my initial target was £100! I'm absolutely blown away by people's generosity. Thank you so much.

The work that Cancer Research UK does is absolutely incredible and I'm so immensely proud to have been part of such a fantastic event.

We are so grateful for all of the donations and support and we can't wait to get involved in more fundraisers!

Reflections

We go into hospital tomorrow for Steve's first infusion of the trial drug he's going to be on for the next 8-16 weeks. With that coming up, and having re-read some of my earlier blog posts lately, I've been reflecting quite a bit on the past few years.

To be honest, I've spent the past couple of months blissfully trying to ignore everything health-related that's been going on so we could focus on the baby, and it's been quite nice. That horrible dark cloud of dread has come over me every time someone has asked about treatment, but I know it's totally unrealistic to not think or talk about it, and that we're really lucky to have so many people around us who care. It's never been far from my mind, however much I've tried to ignore it recently.

I also feel guilty for trying to forget about it for a while - I always preach about how we need to talk more about bowel cancer to raise awareness and make sure people know what to look for and how important it is to discuss, so I'm disappointed in myself for not practicing that recently.

Steve's illness came up in conversation with one of the midwives during my pregnancy when I was admitted to hospital with a virus. She was putting a cannula into my hand to give me some fluids as I was severely dehydrated and Steve casually mentioned how strange it was to watch, considering I'd never had a cannula before and he'd had plenty. Obviously, this led the midwife to question why he'd had so many and we ended up discussing his entire story from the beginning until now (which we are absolutely fine with and don't mind discussing it at all - again, the more people who know, the better). The look of shock, horror, sympathy and utter confusion on her face as we spoke reminded us how abnormal our situation appears to be. It's become our "normal" and we are used to living with it on a daily basis, and we very quickly forget what a shock it is to others who may not have experienced something like this before.

We were discussing this over lunch recently when Steve was on paternity leave. What is so unusual about the position we are in? If ever it comes up in conversation with a total stranger, they are shocked and interested to know all about it. There have even been occasions where we've met friends of friends for the first time, and as soon as either of us introduces ourselves, the person knows all about us and has lots of questions. Why? Everybody wants to know everything... How old is he? He looks far too young to have cancer... Does it run in the family? It seems so odd that this has happened to someone of his age... How was he diagnosed? Most people don't know the symptoms...

The sad thing about it is, it's not unusual at all. Cancer affects 1 in 3 of us, and although most of them are around the age you might expect cancer to become apparent, a lot of them aren't. Steve was 30 when he was diagnosed, and he isn't the youngest person I know who's had cancer.

It's easy to sometimes fall into a self-pitying state of mind and wonder, why us? But really, why not? Cancer is sadly so common now and we never stay self-pitying for long - we make sure to remind each other that we are so, so fortunate Steve is okay and even though we're still very much in the battle, we are grateful that his cancer was caught early enough that all of the treatment he's had so far has even been an option to try.

Medical advances are happening all the time but prevention is ALWAYS better than cure. It's imperative that people are made aware of the signs and symptoms, and that they speak up to their GP... If you're not satisfied with their response, keep pushing, request to see a different GP, and do not stop until all of the appropriate screening has taken place. We're lucky that Steve was referred for the right testing immediately, but I know of far too many cases where people are considered "too young to get bowel cancer" and are sent away with no testing. This DOES happen to people of all ages, and I've seen far too many families torn apart because they've been misdiagnosed or not taken seriously. It might be slightly embarrassing but it's worth it, either for your peace of mind if it's nothing sinister, or for an early diagnosis so the relevant treatment can go ahead. Don't risk your health because you're embarrassed. It's absolutely not worth it.

A quick reminder of the signs and symptoms to look out for:
- Weight loss
- Weight gain
- Bleeding from bottom and/or when going to the toilet
- Pain or a lump in tummy
- Extreme tiredness
- A change in bowel habits
These symptoms may not mean cancer, but occasionally they do so it's always worth getting checked!

I hope anyone who comes across this and has any questions or comments will contact me - GinaParker21 on Twitter - I'm always interested to hear people's perspectives and will be as helpful as I can to anyone who needs it! :)

Lots of love always Xx

Pain and Drugs

I totally forgot to write about the numerous hospital trips following on from Steve's infection and hospital stay.

About a week after being discharged from hospital in July, Steve started to get severe pains in his chest. We had no idea what these pains were or why they were happening, but it was completely debilitating. It happened a few times a day/night to begin with, and he'd be keeled over in agony. There didn't seem to be any lasting effects from the pains - they came on very suddenly, lasted up to a minute and then disappeared just as quickly as they started.

After a few days, the pains were becoming more frequent and more intense.

I had to call an ambulance on two occasions because he fell to his knees and appeared to be struggling to breathe. He was given gas and air on the way to the hospital for the pains but it did nothing to help.

In total, we went to the hospital 4 times regarding these pains. Obviously, each time, we explained Steve's medical history and that we were aware of a tumour around the area where the pains were occurring.

Three times, he was told that he'd probably just pulled something playing golf or when carrying one of his nephews when they'd come to visit. We always reiterated that he had cancer on his left lung where the pains were, and on one occasion an x-ray was performed, but this didn't show anything. They looked for further signs of infection following his recent hospital admission for the Staphylococcal infection in his blood but found nothing.

Steve was sent away with bottles of morphine each time, and each time the bottle was almost empty by the following morning. We went to our GP in the hope that they could prescribe something stronger to deal with the pain and he was given different forms of morphine based medication, but nothing seemed to touch the pain he was feeling.

Eventually, we managed to get an appointment with one of the oncology doctors, who arranged a CT scan. The pains had now been happening for around three weeks - none of the pain relief had been anywhere near sufficient and the doctors seemed to be shrugging their shoulders and not knowing what to do.

The CT scan showed that the tumour was pressing on nerve entrances, causing the intense pains.

Further medication was provided, and although it helped more than the previous methods, Steve was still experiencing a lot of pain several times a day.

Finally, in October, a routine CT scan was carried out (these pains had been going on since he left hospital in JULY!) and when we met with the oncologist to discuss the results, he could clearly see how much Steve was suffering and arranged for Macmillan to contact him immediately.

We're now in mid-November and the pain is *almost* under control - he has a combination of different drugs to take, and takes a minimum of 2320mg per day in total - some of his drugs are to be taken as and when needed, so often he exceeds this amount.

As I said in my previous post, the upcoming trial drug Steve will be on aims to reduce all symptoms of cancer, so hopefully the pain, fatigue, loss of appetite etc caused by the cancer will e eradicated. This is due to start within the next week or two, so I'll do my best to keep up to date with the blog and report back on how it's going!

Lots of love,

Xx

Chemo #2 and a bit of a whinge...

Hmmmm... Interesting couple of weeks.

Chemo #2 happened yesterday - Steve feels slightly worse this time than he did the first round, but is more fed up than anything. He's irritated that he can't even open the fridge without his face immediately stinging with pins and needles, and that we couldn't go for lunch with all our friends today because he feels sick and cold. He's not in loads of pain thank goodness, just very uncomfortable.

The chemo ward has to be the chirpiest ward at the Royal Bournemouth Hospital though - the fun we have! Honestly. It's not our first choice of places to be at 9.00 on a Saturday morning, but we already feel like we've made friends out of the staff and other patients. Everyone is so chatty and upbeat, you wouldn't think they're all being pumped full of chemicals.

I've been ridiculously emotional this last week and I have absolutely no idea why. Nothing out of the ordinary has happened, but every day I've just wanted to scream.

I'm keeping as calm and composed as possible because the last thing I want is for Steve to know that I've had a tough couple of days. He is my priority and I refuse to let him worry about me, he's got enough on his plate.

I don't know if I was just getting worked up over the looming chemotherapy, knowing that my boy would be poorly for a good 10 days - or if it was people constantly wanting to know every single detail of our situation. Or if it's the pressure of trying to plan a wedding, move house and beat cancer all at the same time.

Whatever it is, I feel like I've hit breaking point this week. Except I haven't. I know I haven't - and I know I won't, because I need to keep being okay for my Steve. I just feel really angry with cancer.

I feel angry that me and Steve had only been together a few months when this thing reared it's head. I'm angry that the person I love more than anything in the world has to suffer. I'm angry that I can't do anything but sit and watch while he suffers. I'm angry that we have to plan everything we do for the next 6 months around chemo. I'm angry that we can't get a decent night's sleep anymore. I'm angry that I get sympathetic looks around the office (although I'd probably be the worst culprit for that if someone else was in our situation). I'm angry that just as some happiness came my way, someone up there decided they might not let me have it after all.

I don't want to sound like I'm just having a moan though - there are also a million things I'm so thankful for. I'm thankful I've found my best friend and love of my life, cancer aside. I'm thankful that this cancer can, and will be beaten. I'm thankful to all the amazing people who have helped us in every way possible. I'm thankful for the incredible support network I've found because of this - people I truly consider my friends. I'm thankful for the things I've learnt about myself over the last few months. I'm thankful that my boy will never doubt how much I love him.

It breaks my heart that this is happening to us, but we're a team and I know we'll get through it.

More results

So we got a phone call on Tuesday from Di. She said the tissue removed during Steve's surgery had been analysed and she had some results for us.

Out of the 29 lymph nodes removed, 3 are cancerous. This means there's a chance of some evil little cancer cells still floating about in Steve's body - this means chemo.

We were told the chances of chemo were slim because Steve's operation was the most drastic that could have been done, so it was likely all the cancer would be taken out. We were told back in July that the scans showed the cancer hadn't spread to any lymph nodes - I've since been told that there would be no way of knowing this until the histology was back from the operation.

She said it was unlikely that any cancer had been left behind as the whole tumour was removed, but chemo would assure that any stray cells would be destroyed.

We have an appointment in about 2 weeks when we'll find out the plan for chemo. Until then all we know is that it will be happening.

We both understand this and in the long run I'm sure we'll be thankful for it. But we'd been so convinced that this would all be over after the operation that we can't help feeling a bit let down and wounded by this news.

Steve's aim had been to reach the end of the 6-8 week recovery period from the surgery and get on with his life. Back to work, back to socialising, back to normality. Now we'd been given at least an extra 6 months on top of that. This seems so far away that we can't even see it. It feels like it's never ending and it's only been 3 months since we first went into hospital after the Isle of Wight Festival.

Just a bit of a rant really! This has been such a tough journey and I've felt so helpless all the way. All I want to do is take it all away from him and make this all go away and there's nothing I can do to make that happen.

I do understand it's for the best - the way I see it, doing chemo now means he hopefully won't have to go through any of this again in the future. Just can't help feeling a bit deflated by it all.

If anyone has any advice or words of wisdom they can offer, please do! Thank you.

Lots of love Xx

Second Biggest Cancer Killer... Really?!

I'd hardly ever even heard of bowel cancer until Steve's diagnosis. I knew it existed but that was about the extent of my knowledge of the disease. But now everywhere I look I'm seeing that it's the second biggest cancer killer. How is it possible that I knew so little about the symptoms?

It angers me that we know so little about this sort of cancer - I'm sure hundreds, if not thousands of lives would be saved each year if there was a bit more awareness of the many symptoms that can occur.

Maybe it's because there is still a stigma attached when it comes to talking about bottoms and poo. It's heartbreaking to think people die of this disease because they don't want to face 10 minutes of embarrassment at the doctors.

So, for anyone who just happens to have come across my blog and isn't aware of the symptoms, here are some of the most common ones:

• Rectal bleeding (bleeding from your bottom) if it persists for more than 3 weeks.
• Abdominal pain, especially if severe but also if it is constant, or comes and goes.
• A change in bowel habit - going more often, less often, looser stools or passing a clear mucus.
• A lump in your tummy.
• Unexplained tiredness, dizziness and breathlessness.
• Unexplained weight loss.

It is unlikely that most of these symptoms will mean bowel cancer, but any change is worth investigating, even just for peace of mind. Speak to your GP and make sure they take you seriously. Too many people are sent away without a second thought because they are "too young." There is no such thing as too young, so please take notice of what your body is telling you. It really is worth it.

P.S. I have to give credit to Bowel Cancer UK and Beating Bowel Cancer - both have been fantastic in raising awareness as well as providing help, information and support for myself and Steve, along with many others I know who are facing this battle.

Home, But Not For Long

Getting Steve home in his parents car was a struggle as the operation he had means he can't lay on his back or sit down for at least 4 weeks. He had to lay on his side across the back seats and was in a lot of pain, especially at every turning or bump in the road. We got him home and immediately he seemed more himself. He was so happy to be back home and felt like he was finally taking a step forward.

(This picture is a little something I got for him for when he came out of hospital - nothing special but said just what I wanted it to say, a reminder that I would be with him through all of this. Inside is a little note from me, saying a similar thing.)

It was a worry that his appetite had disappeared so dramatically. We were warned he would lose his appetite quite a bit, but for someone who loves good food and plenty of it, this was actually quite scary. He didn't want anything, just water. I didn't want to force him to eat anything but at the same time, I wasn't about to let him go a week with no food. I figured out that the best way to encourage him to eat was to say "Well I'm making some for myself anyway, so I'll make some extra and it's there if you fancy it." And usually, once it was in front of him, he did fancy it. Yay!

Steve struggled to stand for more than 5 minutes at a time, but the only rest his legs and hips could get was for him to walk (therefore not really rest them at all). We would put a film on which would end up taking 4 hours to watch because of the amount of times we had to pause it for him to get up and walk around, or switch sides because one had become to painful to stay on. It really was hard to see.

The keyhole surgery meant he had no use of his stomach muscles, which until you can't use, you don't realise how much you actually need them for everything you do! Day to day things became mammoth tasks - if he managed to get up and have a shower each morning, that was an achievement. And even though it doesn't seem like an achievement to the average person, I felt so proud of how far he'd come since that Thursday in hospital.

A week after his op, on Thursday 13th September, Steve said this was the best he'd felt - his urine infection from the catheter was starting to ease as the antibiotics kicked in, and I could see a glimmer of his personality coming back to me. Which is why when he got out of bed and his 'behind wound' gushed blood all over the bed, floor and everywhere else, we panicked. It was not stopping, and it looked like a lot. He kneeled down, leaning over the bed and I put a few towels underneath him while I called the ward, who told me to call a district nurse out.

While we waited for her, Steve got back into bed wrapped in towels and the bleeding seemed to stop. He then got up for a shower and it started again. The bathroom looked like a murder scene, there was blood all over the shower floor and up the walls, it was terrifying.

He managed to get back into bed and when the nurse came out, she thoroughly checked him and said she couldn't understand why this had happened. She called out Steve's GP, who insisted that his wound was really infected. An ambulance took us back to hospital, where a different surgeon examined him and said he was absolutely not infected, and that this was completely normal, and even expected. Could've told us that! I thought I was going to have a heart attack!

I took a few of his good friends to visit on Saturday; it was the first time he'd felt up to seeing anyone else. He had a lovely hour with us and hearing him properly laugh again reminded me that it had been a while since he had. Only about 10 days, but he'd laughed so much up until the day of his operation that everywhere felt cold and empty without that sound.

So now it's Monday 17th September and I'm hoping he'll be coming home today. He's been kept in for 4 nights so far, but the bleeding has pretty much subsided and he's been feeling himself again. I can't wait to have him back home again, this is a big house to be completely alone in.

Fast Forward... Surgery Day

After a horrible day of Picolax (bowel prep) and Preload (high carb drink to aid recovery after surgery) we both had a really broken, troubled sleep. We were both starting to think about what surgery actually meant - there was a 2.8% chance he wouldn't even wake up. Sounds small (and I'm sure most of those people who don't wake up are 90 year olds having cardiac arrests on the operating table, not 30 year old men who are otherwise fit and healthy) but still in the back of our minds was "1 in 28 people die during this operation."

We woke up at 5.45am on Thursday 6th September, surgery day, for Steve to have his last Preload drink. Luckily, we needed to be in hospital by 7.15am and he was being taken into theatre by 8.30am - we'd have all gone crazy with nerves if we'd had to wait any longer.

Steve's mum and I both went into hospital and were allowed to stay with Steve until he was taken to theatre.

Mr H said he'd call me as soon as Steve was out of theatre to let us know how the operation went - it would take a minimum of 4 hours, probably closer to 6.

Needless to say it was a terrifying day, although considering the situation we did manage to keep ourselves busy and almost distracted.

We were having a coffee at 2.15pm when I got the call from Mr H. He was really pleased with how the surgery went, he said it was very successful and he was confident he had gotten rid of the cancer. We were told Steve would be in recovery for an hour or two.

We visited as soon as we were allowed, and I felt a stab of guilt. Steve had a blood pressure cuff on his left arm, a cannula in his left hand, something attached to a finger on his right hand, a boot on each foot that puffed up every minute (I assume something to do with preventing blood clots?), a catheter, a drain out of his bottom wound, an epidural in his back and 6 keyhole wounds covered with clear dressings. And then of course there was all the medication.

Understandably he was very drowsy. He was given injections to make sure he wasn't sick, and wasn't allowed any morphine for half an hour after being injected. He was in agony, and very emotional after what his body and mind had gone through.

Living and working with Steve meant I never had a chance to be upset since his diagnosis. I was determined not to let him see me cry - so I just didn't cry. After seeing him in hospital that night, I went home to our empty house, and 2 months of fear, anger, anxiety, nerves, and now relief and happiness poured out of me and I cried for hours and hours. My head was aching from crying and I completely tired myself out. I had tried to accept what was happening, and did a good job of pretending that I had, but that night I screamed and cried about how unfair and evil this was. My Steve did not deserve this and for those few hours, I hated the world.

It was so difficult to see him all wired up to things, and to make matters worse he wasn't allowed to lay on his back or sit down, and won't be allowed to for at least another 4 weeks. His legs and hips have been in excruciating pain from taking constant pressure. In hospital he had to switch sides every half an hour because the pain got too much - quite a challenge when you have numerous things attached to every joint of every limb.

Each day in hospital he seemed to get a little bit better - I never missed a visiting hour, 3-4 and 7-8, religiously I'd be waiting to be let into the ward. Nothing else mattered. Every time I saw Steve, one of the many things he was attached to had been removed and although it still devastated me, I left the hospital more content every time because I could see an improvement. By Saturday, he was walking 1500m when they told him 250m would be fantastic. Obviously that wasn't straight away - he was full of drugs, very dizzy and therefore passed out a couple of times, but once he got started there was no stopping him. One visiting hour I even found him waiting in the corridor for me.

By Monday 10th September he was allowed home with me, and despite what we'd gone through and what was inevitably ahead of us, that was when I knew what it was to be happy.

Scan results

Finally Tuesday 24th July came. We had a meeting with Di, Steve's key worker, to discuss the results of his recent scans.

She told us they showed signs of a very early cancer with no spread! It should be easily treatable with surgery and a possibility of chemotherapy afterwards.

I left the hospital feeling really positive - after all of this, he'd be cancer free and we could get on with our lives together. I was holding back tears of happiness - his first symptom had been so drastic and he's lost such a large amount of blood that we'd started to fear the worst. I was thrilled that the cancer was treatable. Steve was understandably very nervous for surgery, but mostly just relieved and happy that he was going to be okay.

Di told us we'd have a further meeting on Friday 10th August, where Steve's surgeon, Mr H, would be present to further discuss the surgery and provide us with a date. Di told us it would very likely be the following week, and we prayed that it would - waiting was excruciating.

Mr H gave us a date - 6th September. We'd have to wait nearly 4 weeks! We didn't want enough time to think about what was being done, we just wanted it done. I did take some comfort in the fact that they were letting us wait so long - I've learned from previous experiences that if it was really serious, they'd have wanted to operate immediately.

We didn't have much choice - we waited nearly 4 weeks, and tried to put all of this to the back of our minds. (Impossible!)

From diagnosis onwards...

When Steve was diagnosed, they weren't able to tell him how advanced the cancer was, if it had spread or if it would be treatable.

I can honestly say, 6th July 2012 was the worst day of my life, and Steve's too. I was filled with an overwhelming sense of guilt and helplessness, I don't know how else to describe it. I was desperate to take it away from him and go through it all myself if it meant he wouldn't have to.

It took hours to get to sleep that night, and we woke up in 15 minute intervals throughout the whole night until 6am, when we decided to give up on trying to sleep. I remember waking up and praying that it was nearly morning, and it was still only 2am. Longest night ever.

Steve couldn't bring himself to tell friends and family, so I left him downstairs with Mike whilst I went to our room and made the phone calls. Everyone had the same question - is he going to be okay? And I couldn't give them an answer.

He had MRI and CT scans, lots more blood tests, and his next appointment was on the 24th July. That meant 18 days of pure agony and waiting in limbo for answers.

He kept saying "what am I going to do if they tell me I've got 6 months to live?" and "I really wanted to go to Glastonbury festival next year but I don't see much point in planning that far ahead anymore." It broke my heart to see him scared and wondering how long he had left.

I knew this was a very serious matter, but from day 1 I really did believe he was going to be okay. I told him that, but he probably thought I was just trying to comfort him. I suppose in a way I was trying to comfort both of us. He had everything on his side - young, physically fit, no previous symptoms, a strong mind and a fantastic support network. But cancer doesn't care about those things.

How it all began...

Firstly, I want to talk about Steve's diagnosis and the time leading up to it.

We'd been at the Isle Of Wight Festival in June this year - my first festival and one of the muddiest there has ever been. It was supposed to be a Thursday-Monday trip, but Steve took a slightly drunken fall on the Friday and sprained his ankle. He didn't have the strength in his ankle to walk through thick, knee-deep mud so by Sunday morning we'd decided to come home.

My instincts were telling me we needed to get home ASAP. I've never really paid attention to instincts before, but there was something about this one that made me feel very uneasy.

Sunday was fine - we got home, had nice hot showers and a hot dinner, watched a film and had a good night's sleep - until about 6.45am, when Steve got up the go to the toilet. I was half asleep when he came back into our room and told me that he'd just lost about a pint of blood on the toilet.

Straight away I sat up and told him we needed to go to hospital right away. I didn't know the symptoms of bowel cancer, and at this point hadn't considered that cancer could be the reason for this "episode", but I knew that something like this is your body's way of telling you something isn't right.

There was no way Steve was going into hospital without putting up a fight - "Forget I said anything", "I'll call the doctor if it happens again", "I'm not having anyone examining me". Within half an hour, we were at Bournemouth Hospital A&E being seen by a doctor.

Steve was examined by a few different people and had bloods and blood pressure checked. Everything looked fine, so we were both anxious when we were told he'd be staying in hospital overnight.

On Tuesday 26th July, following a flexi-sigmoidoscopy (long flexible tube with a camera on the end to look inside the bowel), Steve was allowed home. We were told "a number of polyps" had been found and would be sent off for biopsy and that we'd have the results in about 2 weeks. A week later, Steve got a call to say his results were in and he had an appointment on Friday 6th July to discuss them.

This is when he was diagnosed.

Steve had never even considered that he could have cancer - he said that not ONCE did the possibility cross his mind. He thought his diagnosis was "a number of polyps" and that this was the reason for his bleed.

Having dealt with my mother's cancer for 8 years and therefore recognising a lot of the medical terms used by doctors when they were referring to Steve, I had suspected from quite an early stage that this bleed was a sign of something a lot more sinister than we'd previously thought.

I hadn't been allowed the time off work to go with Steve for his results, so his parents went with him. Steve's dad had suffered from pancreatic cancer a few years previously and both parents also had their doubts about the diagnosis, although they never told him that.

Steve and I work for the same company, and he was due to come back into work around 4pm, after collecting his results. 4pm came and went... I was clock-watching and looking at the door, waiting for him to walk through it and tell me everything was fine, although deep down I knew that this was not going to happen. After what seemed like hours, I saw the Mike, the company director (and a very good friend of ours) come into the office and have a hushed conversation with one of the managers - I remember clearly thinking "They're going to tell me that I need to go home now, because Steve has cancer." I went light-headed and woozy, I saw my manager's face appear in front of me and I heard "Gina, Steve is at home, you need to go. Mike is going to take you."

I was silent for the 5 minute car journey home because I was trying to prepare myself for what I knew I was about to hear. I walked into the lounge and my heart broke. My 6ft 2 boyfriend looked at me with terrified Bambi eyes and said "I've got bowel cancer." He fell into my arms and all I could manage was "I know, but it's going to be okay."

Hello :)

Hi!

Thank you for visiting my blog... I started this to document my partner's journey in his fight against bowel cancer.

Despite his hesitance (to put it mildly), I dragged Steve to A&E when he lost about a pint of blood going to the toilet, and after about 10 days of various investigative procedures (flexible sigmoidoscopy, colonoscopy, internal endoscopic ultrasound along with the usual swabs and blood tests), he was diagnosed with bowel cancer.

This blog is an account of what we are going through day to day - not only from a sufferer's point of view but also from the eyes of a loved one.

Lots of love Xx