Hitting home... with the ‘15 rounds with Tyson’ effect

Reporter: Dave Whaley
Date published: 18 February 2015


The Chronicle’s managing editor continues his award-winning articles about his battle with throat cancer

THEY say there’s nothing quite like your own bed - and after three weeks in Manchester Royal Infirmary I can vouch for that.

Admittedly, ours was something of a modified version with a boomerang pillow and assorted others to build a sort of armchair on my side of the bed. But home is home.

My wife Wendy, who hadn’t missed a single day of visiting, was now Nurse Wendy, fully trained in the use of the feed pump, versed on my drugs regime and quite simply, my rock.

That evening I climbed the stairs to bed for the first time in a while and needed a sit down before I could summon the energy to undress. The enormity of what I had endured, and of what lay ahead, was beginning to dawn on me.

I had this simplistic view that a few days or weeks after surgery I would get my body back to normal and it would then just be a case of dealing with the changes the professor had madae to my throat.

Now I was realising that such traumatic change leaves a “15-rounds with Tyson” effect: small wins and small steps were needed, I kept telling myself.

Within days community support kicked in. We met the district dietician and the lady from the food-pump company. We were all keen to get me off the night feed - within three nights, by upping the amount of Complan-type bottles I syringed into me through the tube. It meant we could pack away the feeding apparatus once and for all.

But while the feed pump became redundant, the nebuliser came into its own. I continue to have issues with a tickly cough - which can qickly become almost whooping cough-like and lead to me being sick.

The nebuliser brings my breathing under control, if I catch it early enough. Nurse Wendy to the rescue again.

We have had a different community nurse for each visit, but they stay only a short time to change the dressing on the tiny throat hole that used to be my temporary beathing tube.

I can’t say the days have dragged. The meds and feeding regime take a fair chunk of time and once the professionals have been, I have had my fair share of visitors, who have shown a sparkling originality in their variation on the “Keep Smiling” theme.

The same family and friends played a couple of aces for me in sorting a card, gift and flowers for Wendy for Valentine’s Day. And I have touched base with work, when I managed to join a conference call with my management team over an important matter. Wendy helped to voice my thoughts and gave us all a giggle when she took control and asked for any other business.

I also had a visit from my office rock, deputy editor Bob Young, who has been at the helm of the Chronicle since I jumped ship.

I’ve nothing but admiration for the team bringing you these weekly reports and much besides. They have all pulled together to keep things running smoothly; in fact hopefully I’ll still have a job on my return!

I have been out walking a little further each day. Got as far as my mum’s yesterday (0.7 miles) only to find she was out. I used to get told off for not calling enough, so I had to smile...

Strangely, I awoke this morning feeling different. More in control. I wonder if the weird affects of the anaesthetic have finally left my body, and healing has started properly. I also awoke this week to something that has been, well, missing: I won’t mention dit irectly but it rhymes with “direction”.

A busy week of meetings is aheda, including a return to the MRI. I have been a good boy on the swallow-test front, religiously practising with water, tea and yoghurt.

But it’s tough to sit pumping the liquid through a tube when the family is tucking into bacon butties, lasagne, Sunday roast and the like. Rotten lot

But sitting round the kitchen table has its rewards. I got to join in dessert when Nurse Wendy served some of her delicious home-made rice pudding and life seemed to be getting back to normal.

It went down the right way, too. Result!

Small steps. Keep Smiling.