We took part in a social bike ride on Saturday, jointly organised by three local community initiatives (Ride On, FreeMoovement, and Exeter Cycling Campaign). We cycled from Exeter quay to Turf Locks, Em pulling Casper in the trailer, and Nora and me each on our own bikes. We arrived last of the group of 25+ people, but everyone was incredibly impressed that Nora (still only 4 years old, remember) rode all the way herself – it’s more than 7 miles from our house to Turf!
(Afterwards I cycled home fast with Casper, jumped in the car and then fetched Em and Nora, whose little legs were understandably knackered – she made it halfway home though.)
When we got to Turf we had a spot of lunch and chatted to the people who’d ridden with us (the ‘social’ bit was the main point of the ride). I got talking to a guy called Andy who, it turned out, knows Ian, who used to be my boss and who recently rode the Nello and sought sponsorship not just for Force but also for CLIC Sargent in Casper’s name.
“This is Casper, who Ian was raising money for.”
Then I spotted Simon, Casper’s paediatric oncologist (our paediatric oncologist, I should say, because when your child has cancer, your whole family ‘has’ cancer), who had also ridden out to Turf for a spot of lunch with his daughter. Not really surprising – it was a lovely day, Simon’s a triathlete (the lunatic), and there are few nicer places to cycle to for a sandwich and a cider shandy than Turf Locks on a sunny July Saturday.
“And there’s Casper’s oncologist.”
Cancer conversation ensued. It gets everywhere.
(Though not with Simon; that wouldn’t be fair. We did talk a bit about bikes, though.)
Casper had only seen Simon two days before, when two significant things happened.
Firstly, Simon referred Casper to have his port-a-catheter removed. The port-a-catheter is, for those who don’t know, a button under his chest that looks like a third nipple, with a tube that goes from the back of it down a vein in his neck and into his heart. It’s how chemo was administered, and how bloods have been taken. He’s not had chemo in nearly nine months now, and is big enough for bloods to be taken from his arm. The port is an infection risk, his current meds are administered orally, so out it comes.
Secondly, Simon has suggested that he only needs to see Casper every month now (appointments are currently every fortnight). My understanding is that typically the paediatric oncology team meet people, see them intensively for a period of months (or years) while treatment is administered, and then say goodbye and fare well once they’re OK, seeing them perhaps once a year or so to check they’re still OK afterwards.
Casper is different – this is more like managing a longterm chronic condition than an acute cancer now, and we’re shifting to that pattern of treatment and monitoring. Casper is ready to not be seen so often, to be as close to a normal boy as possible.
The question is, are we ready?
If you’ve ever dealt with chronic depression, you’ll know that you can cling to it as if it was an intrinsic part of your character, your personality, rather than a disease that affects the shape of your character and personality. “Who will I be if I’m not depressed?” “What do I look like, sound like, and act like without depression?” You may hate this thing that’s affecting you, it may make you feel awful and unable to deal with the world, but it can become very, very hard to relinquish. I imagine bad relationships, and various other patterns of negative behaviour, are very similar.
Because even awful things can become routine, and by becoming routine become, somehow, sort of comfortable, just through familiarity and repetition. Very few things are 100% bad; we’ve received a lot of love and support from the medical team, and removing that (even if not fully) feels scary, for instance.
It’s the same with Casper’s cancer; who will Em be if she’s not taking him to hospital all the time? Who will we be as a family? We didn’t want to be “that cancer family” when this began, and we still don’t, but… We also are that cancer family, and the repercussions of this last a lot longer than the diagnosis or initial treatment. Casper is 18 months old next week – we’ve barely existed as a family of four without cancer being involved. Despite the frequency of appointments dropping and the prospect of his port being removed soon, we are not finished with cancer and cancer is not finished with us.
In other news, Neil at work is cycling LEJOG next week, and raising money for a charity that research the family of diseases that Casper is affected by. You should sponsor him.