Reflections On Turning 65 And Living With Cancer

So it came to pass that on Saturday 3rd May 2025, I finally grew up… I think?

Why? Because I reached the grand old age of 65. It’s a bit of a milestone really, as traditionally, this was the age when people retired: time to fetch the deckchair and settle into a well-earned life of rest. For most of my lifetime, that was the expectation. But sadly, in 2025, that dream has been nudged back to 66, which is when I will be eligible for my state pension and, in theory, start a chapter of peace and contentment.

Milestones like this make you pause and reflect on a life well lived. In my case, reaching 65 feels surreal. I wasn’t expected to live beyond 59, after being diagnosed with Stage 4A bowel cancer. Normally, that sort of diagnosis is a death sentence. Nine times out of ten, it is. But in my case, it wasn’t. Someone up there was watching over me, and clearly still is.

My journey with cancer began with emergency surgery as soon as the tumour was detected. A four-hour operation followed, leaving me with 24 stitches and introducing me to my new best friend: Mr Stoma Bag.

Before that, I had never heard of a stoma bag. I wouldn’t have known what it was or what it did. Honestly, I might have assumed it was tucked away in the boot of my car, hiding under the mountain of Tesco and Morrisons bags I keep forgetting are already there. They sit in the dark, probably wondering what they did to deserve a life of solitary confinement.

But back to the point. “Bag for life” is actually a very accurate description. The stoma bag keeps you alive, taking over the function your body can no longer perform. Many people give their bags names. I met a man who called his Keir, after the Prime Minister, Sir Keir Stomerbag.

Nearly seven years on, my bag has been a loyal and mostly well-behaved companion. I’ve written elsewhere about the occasional mishap in public, but I’ll save those stories for another time.

So what has 2025 brought so far?

The year began with regular visits to the podiatry hospital. My right big toe had developed an ingrown toenail that required frequent, painful treatments without anaesthetic. The nurses referred to them as “uninvited nail spikes,” which sounds far friendlier than it felt. Pain management becomes part of everyday life when you live with cancer, along with meditation and the art of not watching what’s being done to you.

Just to put things in perspective: during the Second World War, the Gestapo reportedly used toenail removal as a method of torture. Having experienced something similar, I can understand why.

Ironically, the right big toe was only following the example set by its mate, the left big toe. That one had already reigned for 15 months as leader of the Ingrown Toenail Gang. The drama culminated in October 2024, when I made it all the way to the operating theatre at the orthopaedic hospital in Birmingham. I was wearing my NHS gown and plastic pants, ready for a left hip replacement, when the doctor spotted an open wound on my toe. He immediately cancelled the operation.

He explained the infection risk was too high and said that if it spread, it could lead to either amputation or death. Call me old-fashioned, but neither of those outcomes sounded appealing. And just like that, the operation was off.

Next came a CT scan in February.

It showed that one of the cancers in my bowel, which had been under control for three years, was active again. Not the news I wanted, but it had been caught early, which makes all the difference.

So it was back to chemo, while still dealing with the saga of the toes.

Dr Peter didn’t waste time. His plan B involved more intense chemo every two weeks instead of three. I also had a consultation with the surgeon who had performed my second operation to explore further surgery. Finally, we added radiotherapy into the mix, hoping to eliminate the growth.

But just as that was being lined up, something else came along.

Sepsis returned, for the third time. Recognising the symptoms, I called the emergency number at 10pm on Friday 14th March. I was told to get to A&E at Warwick immediately. That kicked off six days and five nights in an isolation ward, where I was treated not only for sepsis but also for blood poisoning.

I had observations every two hours, day and night, along with regular doses of antibiotics. My room was large and located next to the end-of-life ward in the haematology department.

During my stay, I made a video of myself talking about the situation and even doing seated karate, with my cannula flapping around like an octopus. A friend kindly posted the video on Facebook. Last time I checked, it had over 1,700 views, which was unbelievable.

The care I received was fantastic. After almost a week, I was allowed to return home. Another life used up, perhaps, but I’ll take it.

Shortly after, I had a port inserted into my chest.

The experience was strange rather than painful. Unfortunately, it didn’t work and had to be removed this week. Both procedures involved an unusual amount of pulling and tugging, but neither was as bad as you might expect. Still, the sensation was not one I’d want to repeat.

The most unsettling experience, though, was the heart procedure.

A scan had detected an abnormality, and I was told a stent might be needed. If something went wrong, such as a punctured artery, I could bleed to death. That possibility frightened me more than anything else I’ve faced.

Nine people were present in the operating room. My neck was numbed, and a metal pipe with a camera was inserted into my chest. I could feel it moving, but there was no pain, just a very odd sensation.

When the surgeon reached the target artery, he paused and said, “Oh my God, look at that.”

Since I was conscious and could hear every word, this was not especially comforting. He explained that the artery had expanded due to a large blood clot. He tried to shift it, but it would not budge. He said it was “as hard as stone.”

The stent was not an option. Instead, he continued the investigation and pushed the pipe deeper into my groin to see if a port could be placed there. He confirmed it could, as there was no obstruction.

So chemo has resumed, and radiotherapy is next.

I will receive five sessions. With luck, they will stop the cancer from progressing. Of course, there are risks, but every medical procedure carries some. I am ready.

I will keep you updated as this pensioner takes on yet another challenge.

And, as always, I will keep going.

Never give up. Never give in.