Part 10 – Made It. Now What? The bit nobody really warns you about

🔔 Previously on Lethal Pasty

When we last left our hero! 'Me obviously', I was standing in a hospital corridor, ringing a bell like Quasimodo… thinking that was the end of the story. Turns out, it wasn’t even close.

Six rounds of chemo. Thirty rounds of radiotherapy. Thirteen kilograms lighter. Taste buds are somewhere on an extended holiday. And a neck that had been, in my own words, grilled like a badly made kebab.

The machines went quiet. The daily countdown on the fridge disappeared. The Darth Vader Oodie got retired. And just like that, after months of being told where to be, what to swallow, and when to sleep, the NHS handed my days back to me and wished me luck.

No manual. No instructions. Just… off you go, we will be in touch

I rang that bell for my mum. And I meant every word when I said cancer wasn't

getting the last word. That was six months ago.

So where the hell have I been? And more importantly… what happens when the fight actually stops?

☠️ The Void — Nobody Warns You About This Bit

Here's the bit nobody really prepares you for.

Finishing treatment doesn't feel like the end. It feels like someone's just quietly turned the lights off and left you standing there. The chemo and radiotherapy don't politely pack up and leave either. They linger like a contractor who's been paid, driven off, and somehow the drilling is still going through your wall at 4 am.

The two weeks after treatment ended were, without question, the worst of the entire journey. Which is impressive, considering what came before.

Still no taste. Eating was just… maintenance. No enjoyment, no interest. Just fuel going in.

The mucus, yes we're here, don't act surprised, went completely feral. The sickness hung around like that one bloke at a party who doesn't understand everyone's gone home. And then my hair decided that was the moment to fall out some more, back of the head, side of the neck, jaw. Ming the Merciless was starting to look like a reasonable goal again.

But the physical stuff? I could deal with that. I'd been dealing with it for months.

It was the mental side that blindsided me.

Welcome to The Void.

The NHS brilliant, heroic, and clearly held together with goodwill, biscuits, and at least one printer that hasn't worked since 2007 moves on. And rightly so. There's someone else in your chair now who needs it more.

But that support net you've had for months quietly disappears.

No appointments. No routine. No nurses who know your name.

Just you, your house… and one question:

Did it actually work?

Dead at 3am

And here's the really fun part you don't get an answer for months. Three to four months for the PET scan, then another six weeks for the results. So you're sat there for the best part of half a year, waiting to find out if everything you just went through actually did the job.

Plenty of time for your brain to behave like an absolute idiot.

Because your brain does not help. Every feeling turns up hope, fear, relief, dread, and sometimes all before you've even had a brew.

And then there's what I can only describe as Cancer Google Syndrome.

You cough. A normal cough. Within seconds, your brain diagnoses you, plans the next round of treatment, and mentally drafts the conversation with your family, always at 3 am. Now I know I have been shouting from the rooftops not to Google your symptoms, as at some point, it will always lead you to a cancer diagnosis. But I know Chat GPT is just so tempting now. But yeah, never Google your symptoms, call the doctor.

Headache? Brain tumour. Tired? Well… you know where that goes.

You know it's ridiculous. Doesn't stop it.

Rational thinking packed its bags somewhere around round four of chemo and hasn't been seen since. Left me in charge. Which, in hindsight, was a terrible decision.

The closest I can get to explaining The Void is this: it’s the gap between finishing treatment… and finding out if it worked.

Nothing’s happening, and everything’s happening at the same time.

Your body’s trying to recover. Your head’s going into overdrive. And you’re stuck waiting for a scan they can’t even do yet because your system’s still full of what they’ve just thrown at it.

So you sit there.

Knowing the answer exists…

You just don’t get to hear it yet.

And that, more than anything, is what messes with you.

🎯 The Moment — Not What I Expected

Before you get to the moment, you've got to earn it, and by "earn it," I mean endure a series of slightly undignified medical experiences while pretending you're completely fine with it.

First up, the ENT visits. Camera up the nose, down the throat, while a very cheerful doctor narrates it like she's David Attenborough exploring a cave system looking for some rare type of bat. "Ah yes… and here we see…" Brilliant. Cheers for that.

They prod your neck, take blood, do the usual checks… and then send you home with a smile, a pat on the back, and a vague sense that everything’s probably fine.

Love a pat on the back. Always reassuring. And then there’s the lymphoedema of the neck.

It comes and goes, doing its own thing, usually when I’ve got absolutely no say in it.

Most days, fine. Other days… I’m basically Jabba the Hutt’s slightly less successful brother. Not a look I was aiming for, but here we are.”

Then comes the PET scan. Same process as before, radioactive dye, sit still, don't talk, try not to think too much, which is impossible because that's all you're doing.

Then the waiting room. Now that's a place.

You end up chatting quietly with the other patients. Some are there for the first time; you can spot them a mile off. Pale, nervous, googling things they absolutely shouldn't be googling. Others are like you, veterans, back to find out if the job's been finished properly.

It's like a union meeting nobody wanted to attend.

Nobody says what they're actually thinking. Nobody needs to because we're all thinking the exact same thing, will the scan find any cancer in me?

Then six more weeks pass. Slowly. Painfully. Each day, dragging its heels like it's got nowhere better to be.

Then the call comes. Then you're sat in front of the consultant.

I had this moment planned with different versions depending on the outcome. Good news: calm, emotional, dignified. Bad news: brave, composed, asking sensible questions.

What actually happened?

None of that.

The consultant said, "The PET scan was clear. There is no longer any sign of cancer in your body."

And my brain just… left.

Mid-conversation. No warning. No big reaction. No fist pump. No dramatic moment.

Just relief. Proper, overwhelming relief.

I just sat there nodding, like I understood anything that came after it. Lou had to fill me in afterwards. Again. At this point, she's basically running the whole operation.

For all the build-up, all the planning, all the scenarios I'd played out in my head… nothing prepares you for that moment.

It's not dramatic.

It's just… relief.

And honestly, that might be the best feeling there is.

🤷 So… What's Normal Then?

Here's the bit nobody talks about after the good news.

What the hell is normal now?

Because the old version of normal quietly disappeared sometime last year and didn't leave a forwarding address.

Six months into remission. No montage. No inspirational music. No running into sunsets.

Just real life.

The right side of my jaw is still numb. The tiredness still hits like a truck. The scar is still there.

People notice it. Pretend they don't. Then clearly do.

Taste is about 90% back, which sounds great until I tell you what's in the missing 10%.

Chocolate.

Cancer took my chocolate.

I'm not over it.

And then there's the stuff you don't see: mood swings, mental exhaustion, confidence that just isn't quite where it used to be.

You spend months being told what to do, where to go, and what's happening next. Then one day it stops.

And you're handed your life back like:

There you go. Crack on.

And you're standing there thinking:

Right.

Now what?

Normal?

No idea.

But if anyone finds it, there's a Twirl in it for them.

Assuming chocolate ever tastes right again.

And if it doesn't… we've got bigger problems than cancer.