Part 3 – The 94% Club

Well, I’ve made it. Not to the Premier League, not to the finals of Britain’s Got Talent, but into something far more exclusive but not wanted to a point — The 94% Club. Membership is strictly invite-only, and the joining process is… let’s just say thorough.

🎯 Entry Requirements

To get in, you must:

• Have your neck filleted like a prize salmon.

• Lose a grand total of 50 lymph nodes (I didn’t even know I owned that many — turns out I was basically hoarding them like a body’s version of my wife's handbag cupboard ).

• Learn that 4 of the little sods had cancer hiding inside.

• Have an oncologist look you dead in the eye and say, “I will cure you! You’ve got a 94% cure rate.”

  
  

Not bad odds, really. I’ve bet on longer ones to try to win a meat raffle in the Con Club.

⚖️ The Good News / Bad News Combo

The good news: My tonsil is now innocent — not a scrap of cancer remaining where they once lived.

The bad news: The cancer had sneakily packed up and moved into some of my lymph nodes without telling me. If cancer were a tenant, it’d be the sort that refuses to pay rent, changes the locks, and leaves bin bags in the hallway.

The eviction plan? 30 sessions of radiotherapy over 6 weeks, paired with chemo once a week to really make sure the squatters don’t come back. My oncologist explained it like it was just a dull series of meetings I’d have to attend for 20 minutes a day, but Zoom is not an option, I did ask.

💉 Chemo – The Weekly Gatecrasher

Here’s the bit I’m less excited about. The chemo isn’t the full “lose-all-your-hair” blast you see in films — it’s a weekly dose designed to give the radiotherapy an extra kick. But make no mistake, this stuff still has bite.

They tell me it might leave me with:

• Fatigue so heavy I’ll feel like I’ve been steamrolled.

• Nausea that makes you eye up a Rich Tea biscuit like it’s Everest.

• Mouth ulcers, dry skin, and a taste in my mouth like a burnt battery.

Basically, my social life will be reduced to the kettle, the sofa, and the occasional trip to the bathroom.

🔫 Mask of Doom (aka My Darth Vader Moment)

Before the zapping starts, they have to make me a radiotherapy mask — a tight, perforated mould of my face that bolts me to the table so the machine can aim with the precision of an SAS sniper.

When I first saw one, I immediately thought of Star Wars. It looks exactly like a budget Darth Vader helmet you’d buy from Poundland.

I’m seriously considering asking the nurse to play the Imperial March as I’m wheeled in. If I’m going to be immobilised like a sci-fi villain, I might as well get the soundtrack.

🍮 Side Effects & Strange Perks

Radiotherapy is like the world’s least fun sunburn — from the inside out. By week three, my throat might feel like I’ve swallowed a blowtorch. Food will taste like damp cardboard. And my saliva will be on long-term holiday.

But there are perks — soft foods, endless custard, and not having to share my jelly with anyone because “it’s medical.” I’m even tempted to get a badge made:

Step away from the trifle — doctor’s orders.

❤️ The Harder Bit

The truth is, the physical side isn’t the hardest part. It’s seeing what this does to my family.

I’ve caught my wife looking at me in that way she does when she’s pretending she’s not worried. My son hangs around a little longer before heading out. Even the dog looks at me with the saddest eyes as if someone's stolen my favourite bone, and that's saying something. My wider family try to act normal, but the concern is in their eyes.

They didn’t sign up for The 94% Club, but here they are, honorary members — carrying some of the weight whether they want to or not. And that’s the bit that hurts the most.

🛡️ Mental Prep – The Secret Weapon

Here’s the thing — I can’t control the treatment, but I can control how I face it.

So:

• My wife is stocking up the freezer with soft food like I’m preparing for the world’s least exciting apocalypse.

• Making audiobook playlists to keep me sane (yes, Star Wars is on there).

• Planning tiny “victories” for each week — even if it’s just managing a cup of tea without wincing.

• Accepting every bit of help people offer, because pride doesn’t win battles, but teamwork does.

And most importantly, I’ve decided humour is non-negotiable. If I can laugh through 6 weeks of being fried, zapped, and mildly poisoned, then I’ve already won something cancer can’t take from me.

😂 Why I’ll Still Laugh

94% isn’t just a statistic — it’s a challenge. And I fully intend to be part of that statistic in the right way.

So here’s to the next chapter — Jelly in one hand, 94% membership card in the other, and a Darth Vader mask firmly strapped to my face.

The next few months will be a marathon of zaps, drips, and naps, with a side order of jelly and enough fluids to float a small canoe. I know there’ll be days when I’ll feel like I’ve been hit by a bus, reversed over, then hit again for good measure… but I’ll still be here, smiling between treatments, getting untold abuse from close friends and ex military muckers, driving Lou mad and finding humour even when the mirror shows someone who looks like they’ve just done twelve rounds with a microwave.

Cancer might have joined the game, but I’m still captain of this team. And as far as I’m concerned, the scoreboard will read: Me – 1, Cancer – 0.

Let the zapping commence — and may the Force (and the jelly) be with me.

Much love Ash