The funny thing about cancer

Published on Sunday 25 January 2009 22:59

DID you hear about that 19-year-old boy who got cancer? You've got to laugh really – it was just so boring most of the time. Confused? Cancer is one of the most dramatic words in the English language. It conjures up trauma, terror, agony, bravery, battles, loss… death. Add in youth and your misery-memoir's half written.

So when Jamie Ross was diagnosed six months ago with Hodgkin's lymphoma – cancer of the lymph nodes – the pain and the sickness he had to put up with weren't unexpected. What he was not prepared for, was just how very undramatic much of the next few months was going to be.

"I don't know what people expect, but it's not like a fantastic episode of ER," he says with a somewhat rueful grin.

His chemotherapy-demolished immune system means even common germs can be potentially fatal, so he's more or less housebound much of the time. (Plans for him to travel to Edinburgh from his parents' home in Milnathort for this interview were abandoned, after his doctor warned him it would be "reckless"). So to pass the time, and to reassure his friends he's still alive, Jamie started writing a blog chronicling his experiences. Far from being a misery-memoir, it's mostly very funny, though at times tiredness and illness makes themselves felt despite his intentions otherwise.

In detailing the comic aspects of living with cancer, Ross, who has a finely tuned sense of the ridiculous, makes a refreshing change from most of doom-filled storytellers and nightmare-inducing images you usually find when you Google "cancer".

"That was the part that was more terrifying than anything," he says of the internet search he carried out on being diagnosed.

Writing his blog has not only helped keep him positive, but also, he hopes, helped cheer up other people who have the disease.

"I don't want to be an inspirational, brave boy. I just want people to enjoy (my writing) in a comedy way."

The young cancer sufferers who have responded enthusiastically to his blog appear to appreciate his efforts.

Ross was studying English and history at Glasgow University when, after being lethargic and generally a bit unwell for a while, he discovered a lump in his neck and went to his GP. He assumed it was just swollen glands and when the doctor told him it could be "all sorts of things – including cancer" he just thought: "That's definitely not going to happen – I'm only 19".

Even when he was sent to the hospital he didn't really think it was anything very serious. It was only when the doctor started ticking the 'urgent' box on his test forms and he was told he would have to have a surgical biopsy he realised "they're not going to be doing this for a laugh".

He is – in cancer terms at least – fortunate. The form of the disease he has is, as he puts it, "ludicrously curable" and his prognosis is good.

But his life has changed completely. Six months is a long time when you're 19 and have just left home. His friends are exploring adulthood and having fun, he's back home with his parents taking medicine that makes him feel violently ill, undergoing tests and treatments that have been, at times, horrendously painful. His dignity has frequently been stripped from him – quite literally, as his online accounts of embarrassingly intimate examinations attest.

He hasn't "really" cried about it, though, and "most of the anger in the blog is for comic effect" he is quick to reassure me.

"It was a complete matter of chance," he says with apparent acceptance. "The worst things that happen (to me) are the best bits for the blog."

"There's not much else you can do," he says of his humorous attitude towards his disease.

"I wonder if it's a coping mechanism, or if it's just my personality – probably both.

"If someone (commits] a faux pas, it's straight in the blog. There was a nurse, when I was going for my CT scan, and she said to me, 'Oh, it's nice to see a young person in here for a change,' which is probably about the worst thing you could say to a teenager with cancer."

People's reactions to his cancer have varied wildly. His family have been extremely supportive, some friends – mainly the girls – have been very upset, the boys have tended to react by making jokes. He was unhappy with the religious people that he felt took advantage of his situation by trying to lure him to church, but he's been pleased by the responses from others with cancer who say they have been "cheered up" by his writing.

This week will see his six-month chemotherapy programme conclude, and by next month he should know if his cancer has gone. And then, he hopes, life will return to normal. He's got a Bob Dylan gig lined up (two, actually, he's a big fan) and he intends to get fit – he's been unable to exercise for months. But he has no plans to travel the world, or live out some wild dream borne from his brush with death. He just wants to return to university and get back to enjoying student life

He has decided he wants to pursue a career in journalism. "It's ridiculous to think I'm doing more for my CV now, than before I got ill," he laughs.

But fans of his online writing might be disappointed. He's not sure yet if he'll carry on with his blog.

"Once I'm cured, they've stolen my muse," he points out cheerily.

&#149 Read more from Jamie at cancerouscapers.blogspot.com

CANCEROUS CAPERS: PART ONE

'Why put the word Human in the title of the ward?'

JUDGING by my Bebo views graph, 193 of you are now fully aware that I have been diagnosed with Hodgkin's Lymphoma. Delving deeper into statistics, only four of you have expressed your commiserations through a comment on the site, making me feel like somewhat of a circus sideshow that can be viewed with curiosity yet is not to be conversed with. Moreover, two of these comments came from within my family, with another one being a Photoshopped image of me with no hair. So, all in all, I have been deeply moved by your support and condolences which have kept me positive in this troubling time.

Luckily for all of you heartless monsters, one tactful medical professional told me that I have 'the best cancer', which I thought was somewhat of a bittersweet piece of news. Looking at various statistics, however, it appears that she was correct, as my condition is second only to testicular cancer in terms of cure rates but, as I get to stay firmly attached to my testicles, there is only one winner here.

The fact that I will remain fully endowed did not, however, prevent a wonderful trip to Ninewells Hospital Human Reproduction Unit in order to give them a sample, in case of any complications. The first question that arose from this was why they felt the need to put the word "Human" in the title of the ward. Is there a cat reproduction unit next door?

The second question that arose from this trip was why the NHS can afford the extravagance of a massive wooden sculpture of a sperm in the waiting room, which I spent an entire morning sitting next to watching the Olympics, but yet they can not afford a weekly subscription to an adult magazine company. The ones that they had on offer were literally the oldest, filthiest, crustiest, dog-eared pieces of material I have ever come across. That was a lazy and grubby pun and I apologise. Anyway, the lads are all frozen up in Ninewells Hospital now, leading my Dad to suggest that I should name my first son Solero should I ever need to make use of it. However, I suspect it's far more likely to end up as a device in a hilarious prank in years to come involving my friend Douglas Crawford, Magners Cider and novelty ice cubes.

Another fantastic opportunity that this has provided me with was a bone marrow biopsy. Basically, this involves taking a young man who's recently received the worst news of his life and then subjecting him to the most blindingly painful experience known to man. It's a huge needle, a spear would probably be a more appropriate term, which they push into your pelvis bone and then suck up marrowy goodness. I was told beforehand that the procedure created roughly the same level of pain as getting a tooth out, this could only be true if your tooth was removed by Satan himself driving a car made of nails into your face. It was horrific. It took every effort not to jump up and punch the nurse right in the face for doing this to me whilst trying to make small talk regarding my university career. The conversation basically consisted of her asking me what I studied, and then me screaming really loudly for roughly seven minutes.

Anyway, I kicked off chemotherapy last week which isn't as dramatic as it sounds. It roughly involves going to hospital once every two weeks, sitting with loads of old people, getting a drip for an hour and trying to politely decline the plate of biscuits, which are almost definitely pure MRSA. I've not even been sick, it's been an anticlimax. I'll be sure to give you frequent updates so you don't worry about me seeing as you've been so concerned so far, but if I don't write for a while you mustn't assume something's gone terribly wrong. I'm far more likely just to be irresponsibly squandering my incapacity benefits. Cashback.

CANCEROUS CAPERS: PART TWO

'It's definitely karma pixies pulling my hair out'

An update: cancer isn't as funny as I had first thought. Don't panic, I'm still feeling perfectly healthy, experiencing minimal side effects and responding well to treatment. In fact, I'd go as far to say that I'm brilliant at cancer.

However, an event took place today that has suddenly turned this fracas from a bit of an annoyance into a fury-filled grudge match. Yes, a few hours ago, I found five stray hairs on my T-shirt. Cancer has crossed the line.

When you're diagnosed, you do wonder why this has happened to you when there are clearly millions of worse people in the world. Some people may say that this balance was addressed with Jade Goody's diagnosis, but this is definitely something that I, myself, would never suggest.

This is firstly because that would be a bit cruel, even if she is a bit of a daft racist, and secondly because I feel I now have to whore myself out at any available opportunity for positive karma points.

The idea of karma entered my head when I was reading the infinite list of possible side effects of treatment and I saw "complete or partial hair loss" casually tossed in amongst insignificant things such as heart failure or permanent lung damage.

Any person that has ever given me so much as a fleeting glance will realise that this is the single worst thing that could possibly ever happen to me. I've never made a secret of my vanity, I've kindly shared my vast knowledge of the hairspray world with girls in need of help and I often used to spend mornings persuading my Mum to write me a sick note for the previous day of school because I was having a bad hair day and refused to go in. However, now it appears that such callous actions and decisions have blown up in my face in the form of karma-induced hair loss. Of course, some doctors may tell you that it's down to a drug called doxorubicin slowly but surely inhibiting the division of hair cells, but they'd say anything to sound like they know something that a common man does not. It's almost definitely karma pixies pulling it out strand by strand with maniacal glee, teaching me tiny lesson after tiny lesson.

My nurse has said that it would be incredibly unusual for me to lose my hair completely, but I should be 'prepared for some thinning'. I'm not quite sure what she meant by this vague statement, it pretty much includes anything from losing a few strands to having one solitary hair left, which would no doubt be comically placed in the very centre of my scalp. However, the worst possibility by far is somewhere in between these two. My last thought every night before I fall asleep is that I could wake up looking like Hulk Hogan.

Luckily, whatever I do lose will grow back after treatment ends, but I've been told that it could be a different colour and 'more curly'.

This immediately conjures up images of me slowly morphing into Ronald McDonald, and this displeases me. The nursing staff don't quite understand why my hair is so important either, stupidly thinking I'd be more concerned with overcoming cancer than whether I look sexy on the ward.

Who knows who I could meet? A woman under 93 has to enter the haematology unit at some point, and when that day comes I will be prepared to pounce.

WORDS OF ENCOURAGEMENT

1. "hey jamie..my name's alison and i just finished catching up on ur blogs on the hodgkins group..i was recently diagnosed stage 3a and hav yet to begin treatment and i just wanted u to know that ur blogs hav "entertained" me in a good, inspirational way...i look forward to more of ur literary masterpieces to bring my hopes up and put a smile on my face through the rough patches. Hope u are well. keep in touch!

Alison (NY)"

2. "Hi :) I wanted to write and tell you that I think your blogs are f****** hilarious, you're an awesome writer. I had Hodgkin's 4 years ago, so I understand a lot of the stuff you have written about (not the sperm bit though). So, just wanted to say hi! :)

Lauren xx"

3. "your blogs are fantastic .. it makes me smile :)

Jenn (ON) xx (fellow Hodgkin's sufferer)"