I'm a 52 year old husband and father. Another privileged white bloke, but one who realised just how blessed I am during aggressive cancer treatment in 2009 (that I later learnt nearly killed me). In June 2016 I had a second diagnosis and surgery to remove and replace part of my tongue.
We lost the whole of Tuesday. I woke on Wednesday in Marsden's ICU. Still high on whatever they had pumped into me!
It's only ten days since he told me. It just feels like a month.
June 23, 2016
Yesterday I looked at it and it was different. It wasn't like a greenish, almost snotty little thing on my tongue. It was concave and much more complex in appearance. It's eating into my tongue. 'Eating' obviously because it's a cancer and that's what cancer does. There's a cancer lexicon; words you use to describe cancers. Virulent is another. Of course mine's virulent. It hurts pretty much all the time. And the sore throat I've had for a few days will obviously be a display virulence. After all it's almost three weeks since the MRI that showed it hadn't spread. So it must have by now. That is how you think by the way. However positively and together you come across.
People didn't want me to come to New York (with work). But it was so much the right thing to do. I love the heat and the mellow, early morning, showy dog walking, stripped wood floor and cobbled construction site that is TriBeCa. Or is it SoHo - because my hotel is actually above Canal Street. I've made the same trip five or six times. I like the gig I do. People like the gig. That's how simple I am. People just need to like what I do. I knew it would distract me. From the tongue cutting thing.
Also I love being on planes. Because it makes you feel special. However much damage you're doing. And it gives me these few hours to reflect. Up here in the propelled metal box. I'm having a CT scan on Saturday. A different, non-propelled metal box. A lovely woman phoned me this morning to tell me about it. I picked up an unknown number. It was about 5.30am in New York. She didn't know that of course. I can't remember which one a CT scan is. I think it's the noisy one. I think I probably sounded distracted to her. She ended the call with 'God Bless'. And in that moment I loved her. She was giving me her God. Or at least her God's blessing. People do that when you've got cancer.
But let's not forget that they don't just do it when you've got cancer. I just asked the steward if I could have a third whiskey. I thought I may be pushing my luck. He said that, of course I could. And then he went up to the posh seats and brought back two malts for me to choose from. And gave me a very big one. Just imagine what he would have done if he knew I had cancer!
Listening to Adele at Glastonbury. Thinking about my boys. God I love them. Simple.