by Joe Thompson
Chapter 9
The fight
THERE was silence in the car as me and Chantelle sped down a lonely stretch of road. I rocked gently from side to side in the passenger seat and shut my eyes whilst taking long deep breaths to try and stave off the feeling of nausea, which was growing in my stomach. We continued for a few more minutes until I couldn’t take it any longer.
‘Stop the car!’ I shouted. She slammed the brakes on and we came screeching to a halt. I flung the door open, stumbled out and threw up on the side of the road.
It was about 7pm on an early January evening in 2014. It was freezing cold outside and the sky was pitch black, but I was familiar with my surroundings. From the side of the road I could just about see the old pitches I used to train on at Littleton Road during my days at Manchester United. In the distance was the scene of so many happy memories from my childhood and teenage years, but here, on the other side of the fence, I was going through hell. I'd come full circle but in the worst possible fashion.
We were on our way home after I’d undergone a full day of chemotherapy treatment. The feeling afterwards isn’t like car sickness or a hangover after a night on the booze. It’s a very different experience and one that’s so hard to describe properly, unless you’ve also had the misfortune of undergoing chemo. It’s a spaced-out, sickening feeling, which is incomparable to anything else. This overwhelming sensation is often followed by violent retching, in my case at least, which leaves you bent double as your body ejects every last ounce of fluid from your system. At times the pain is excruciating.
I had the option of private treatment, which would’ve been paid for by Tranmere, but felt the NHS was the best option. Manchester’s Christie Hospital is based in Withington, close to where I live, and is one of the largest cancer treatment centres in Europe. I was reassured by the prospect of being looked after by world-class experts who would give me the best possible chance of survival. My consultant would be Professor Radford, who had revealed the news of my diagnosis in November. He was the leading specialist in Hodgkin Lymphoma and blood cancers so I was delighted he’d be in charge of my case.
My team was assembled and ready for a six-month fight, but my team-mates on my ward were not as I’d expected. Despite the fact I was 23, had a partner and was the father of a little girl, I was told I’d be placed on the children’s ward. I was shocked to see kids around me as young as four, who were closer to Lula in age than I was. The cut-off age for patients on the ward is 25, which meant I was the eldest there. I can’t lie, I felt uncomfortable when I arrived and initially thought there must’ve been a mistake. I soon realised there hadn’t when a couple of the kids came up to me having been told that a footballer would be joining them.
Before that moment, I used to think of cancer as a disease that just preyed on old people. I thought of the adverts you see on TV which showed people fighting the disease in their 70s and 80s. Suddenly, I realised how wrong I was. There were children with me who had pretty much only known cancer and hospital wards since they were born. What sort of childhood is that? In that moment, I decided that I had a role to play and a higher purpose to serve. I was the eldest and I would be the strong one on our ward. I needed to be a role model for them, by raising their spirits when they were down and showing them how they could fight and beat cancer.
I’ll never forget one of the children I met, who was on a bed a few yards away from mine. She was a little girl, who couldn’t have been any older than six. She had thick blonde hair like a Barbie doll, but large clumps had started to fall out, so she had long locks interspersed with large bald patches. It was so cruel and looked like something out of a horror film. She’d often climb off her bed and go and play on a small pool table in a little play area where the kids could escape and have a bit of fun when they weren’t hooked up to machines or receiving injections. I decided to start joining her and would often rack the balls up in the triangle for her and try to make her laugh, but I don’t think I ever saw her smile.
I can’t tell you how hard that was to watch. She should’ve been outside playing with her friends at the park and enjoying life, but instead she was fighting cancer. As well as her physical battle, emotionally she had to deal with seeing her hair slowly falling out every time she looked in the mirror. She must’ve wondered why she didn’t look like the other kids on TV and in the magazines on her bedside table. I watched on when her parents came to visit every day. I can’t even imagine the pain they were going through and it made me feel for my own mum, who will always see me as her baby. I spoke to a counsellor about the anxiety I felt seeing her and the other kids suffering every day, but he reminded me to focus on my own journey.
My emotions were scrambled ahead of my first day of chemo. On one hand I was frightened of the unknown. I’d done so much research online but I knew I wouldn’t have all the answers until I started my treatment. The same questions were still running through my head. What would it feel like? What would the side effects be? How would my body change as the treatment began to make its mark? I was also concerned how my illness would affect Chantelle and Lula. I knew it would put a strain on family life because I wouldn’t be the same active father and partner I’d been up until that point. Equally, I was relieved to be starting chemo after weeks of waiting. At last we were going to start fighting back and slowing the tide of cancer flooding my body.
Each session of chemo normally lasted a full day, from 9am until about 7pm. I’d have a very light breakfast before I started because I knew I’d throw it back up later on. I’d also take anti-sickness tablets, but while they worked for some patients they did little to help me. The chemo itself is a cocktail of anti-cancer drugs designed to kill cancer cells. There are more than 100 different types of drugs used to fight different types of cancer. Doctors decide which ones to administer based on a range of factors, from where the cancer first appears in a patient’s body, what the cells look like under a microscope, how advanced it is, where it has spread to, as well as your age and general health.
All the cells in your body grow by dividing in two. Some of them are designed to repair damage in the body, but when cancer attacks them it forces them to divide again and again until there is a mass of cells or a tumour. Chemo attacks these dividing cells but also some healthy cells, which multiply often, like hair or nail cells, which is why people lose their hair. Luckily, most healthy cells can recover after the treatment has finished, so while I knew in the short term my appearance might change, I was reassured that I would return to my normal physical self in the event everything went to plan and I emerged cancer free.
Before my first session began, I had to sit up in bed and wait while the chemo warmed up after being removed from a fridge. My nurse explained that it would be administered via a cannula, a thin tube inserted into my vein on my forearm. Some patients have a PICC line. This is another type of tube, which is put into a vein just above your elbow. The line is then thread along until it reaches a large vein in your chest. It remains there throughout the course of your treatment and is held in place by a dressing. Luckily I was spared the latter option because I had a large supply of healthy veins, which would transport the drugs around my body.
My heart started beating faster as I felt the chemo entering my veins. It was cold and I could feel it travelling up my arm and into my chest. The feeling was alien, like a foreign invasion slithering and spreading through my body. In my head I hated every second of it, but I smiled at the nurse and Chantelle, who was sat by the side of the bed, and said, ‘this isn’t so bad’. As usual, it was all bravado; I was just trying to put on a brave front so they thought I was ok. I certainly didn’t want Chantelle to worry any more than she was doing already and also hoped that the other children on the ward might see me smiling and feel a bit less worried about their own treatment.
I settled in for a long day, but luckily I wasn’t alone. I had various box sets and books to keep me entertained as the hours ticked away, but also the company of two oth
er patients undergoing the same treatment. Nadia was a couple of years younger than me and we spoke to each other for hours about our lives, fears and what we were going to do once we’d both beaten cancer. We also told each other how we were feeling after each round of chemo, which I found to be therapeutic. She openly admitted she was from a privileged background, which again showed that even wealth is no defence against cancer. A guy called Carl was another of my comrades on the ward. He was always horrendously sick during the treatment, but I’d try to lighten the mood by giving him a bit of stick. ‘Come on Carl, I’m only two hours in here, I can’t handle another seven hours of this, mate,’ I said through the curtain.
It’s amazing how the support of a team of people can boost your morale. Having Nadia and Carl, as well as the rest of the children on the ward, with me on my journey created that sense of team spirit. We were all in the shit but we were in it together and determined that nobody was going to be left behind. My Twitter page became a constant source of support, with messages from fans, other cancer patients and survivors of the disease, all willing me on to win my battle. There are days when you’re feeling a bit down and lost in your own thoughts, but when you see kind words from someone you’ve never even met it puts a smile on your face and sometimes brings a tear to your eye. The messages were like a tap, which helped to keep my emotional glass half full.
I was also astonished by the amount of people from within football who reached out to get in touch. Lloydy is the most well-connected person I know and he got hold of Bryan Robson to tell him about my situation. He’d beaten throat cancer in 2011, so although his experience was a bit different to mine, he understood what I was going through. I was blown away when I picked up the phone shortly after I started chemo and heard his voice on the other end of the line. It was surreal; I’d heard so many stories about Captain Marvel when I was at Manchester United and now he was giving me bits of advice and telling me to call him if I needed anything.
Stiliyan Petrov was another high-profile figure that took the time to speak to me at length about his battle with cancer. In 2012 he was diagnosed with leukaemia and was 12 months into what turned out to be a four-year battle with the disease when he called me for a chat. The treatment had really affected him mentally. He hadn’t been able to see his children for long periods because his immune system was so weak. The risk of infection from one of his kids was too great and could’ve killed him, so he’d only seen them two or three times in 12 months. My situation was bad but his struggle did put things into perspective, at least. I was in a position where I was in hospital every couple of weeks, whereas he was practically living there.
There was another person who gave me real hope of not only surviving cancer but also making a return to football. Ross Hutchins was a tennis doubles player but we had so much in common. Like me, he was in peak physical condition when he was diagnosed with Hodgkin Lymphoma, aged 28, in 2012. He’d initially complained of backache, which gradually grew worse. At one point it was that bad he was only getting an hour’s sleep and tried and failed to relieve the pain by lying on top of tennis balls on his bathroom floor to try and massage his back. Eventually he started to experience many of the same symptoms I had. The glands on his neck were swollen and he was always tired, but after seeing six different physiotherapists, they still didn’t know what was wrong with him.
He underwent tests, which his doctors thought would reveal a kidney problem, only for them to find out he was actually suffering from cancer. Even worse, it had spread to his lungs, spleen and back. At the time, Ross and his doubles partner, Colin Fleming, were ranked in the world’s top ten and it seemed impossible that he would be able to recover and then get back on the carousel of professional tennis. But Ross is as stubborn as they come, and when he called me he’d just played in his first tournament since being given the all-clear, and had also come through a gruelling pre-season training camp in Miami with his close friend Andy Murray.
I was inspired by his comeback and his incredible mindset. Somehow, he’d remained positive throughout and had even continued to work on different projects outside tennis during his treatment. He couldn’t play while he was undergoing chemo, but he’d refused to let his illness put the rest of his life on hold. I continued to text him frequently, to the point where he was probably sick of me pestering him, though he never once complained. He was playing in different tournaments all over the world, so I knew that he’d probably be in bed sometimes when I texted him, but he would always get back to me with bits of advice, from dealing with chemo, to his fitness regime and diet during his recovery.
I found it frustrating spending long periods in bed. I was used to training five days a week and the competitive release of matches. Hard exercise is a bit of a drug; it gives you a high and makes you feel good about yourself, but without it I found my mood became quite down. My mind was exhausted from overthinking, but my body still felt capable of doing some light work. In the two weeks between every chemo session I tried to do core exercises to stop my physique from withering away, but afterwards I felt terrible. My stomach was already sore from all the retching, which made it difficult to hold certain positions.
The routine of chemo was always the same. After a full day at the hospital, Chantelle would pick me up, take me home and then put me into bed. For the following four days I’d feel horrendous and spend most of my time in bed before I gradually started to turn the corner. I had time to kill between my visits to the hospital, so I decided to use it effectively by exploring alternative therapies. My Tranmere team-mate James Rowe told me about his dad’s battle with throat cancer and explained how he’d been to see a lady called Kimberly who had helped him to optimise his rest so that he recovered as efficiently as possible between bouts of chemo. I was a bit sceptical at first, but I did some research online and thought it was worth a go. When your life is in danger you’ll try anything to boost your chances of survival.
Kimberly lived in Newbury, which was a four-hour drive from Manchester, but Chantelle took me there every weekend for six months. James’s parents let her and Lula stay with them, while I lived with Kimberly for two days and focused on my rest. Her expertise focused on a Japanese form of relaxation therapy called reiki. The aim was to make sure my chakras were in alignment, which are various centres of energy within the body, which are said to regulate human processes, from organ function to emotional wellbeing. Her sessions eased my anxiety and I always slept deeply while I was there, which gave me a physical and mental boost.
My sixth session of chemo marked the halfway stage of my treatment. I felt like I was at the top of the hill and the home straight was in sight. My mum, Reuben and his girlfriend, Sarah, joined Chantelle at the hospital, but I was feeling rough so they went to the canteen for a bit. While they were there I could see a girl walking down the ward. As she came closer I realised it was my ex-girlfriend, Lucy. I thought the chemo must’ve been giving me hallucinations. What on earth was she doing here? I was looking and feeling terrible so it was the worst possible time to see her.
She’d spoken to me over the phone when the news had broken about my diagnosis, but I could tell she was still shocked to see me lying there. She tried to cover it up by telling me that I looked well. ‘Liar!’ I replied with a laugh. She explained that she was visiting her mum, Christine, who had been suffering from cancer for quite some time and had bumped into Chantelle in the canteen. She stayed for about 25 minutes and later on I saw her dad, Dave, while I was going to the toilet with my sick bowl. He said he was doing fine but admitted he was finding it hard seeing his wife in so much pain. I had to bring an abrupt end to our chance encounter to be sick in the toilet, but I was happy our paths had crossed.
Although I was still being violently sick, I was fortunate that physically I hadn’t altered drastically in appearance. My face was puffy, I’d lost a bit of weight and started to lose my hair, but I still felt that I looked like me. I’ve always taken pride in my appearance so that came as a big relie
f. However, there was still no way of knowing whether or not I was winning my war with cancer. I underwent various tests to monitor my white and red blood cell count, which provided an indicator of my general health, but I would only know for certain if it had done the business at the end of the six months, when I’d have a series of scans. It was hard thinking that all of the pain and suffering might have been for nothing, but I told myself that if I was feeling that bad it must mean it was nailing the cancer. I was also confident that if I could get through this then I’d be strong enough to fight anything else in the future.
It was 5 May when I had my final dose of chemo. I felt like a boxer at the end of a gruelling training camp. I was relieved it was all over but nervous about what would happen next. There was a two-week wait between my last day at hospital and the date I was given to return for my results. I was delighted it was all over, but I was also sad to leave behind some of the friends I’d made on the ward. I wanted to believe that everyone in there would make a full recovery but I knew that not all of those children would make it out. I sometimes wonder what happened to the girl with the Barbie blonde hair and hope and pray that she’s got a full head of hair again and is playing with her friends in the playground.
A sense of déjà vu came over me as Chantelle drove me to get my results. The last time we made this journey our world had been torn apart. If it was bad news, I knew the prognosis was bleak. My cancer was advanced and if six months of chemo hadn’t shifted it then it was unlikely another treatment would be able to do the job. We walked into Professor Radford’s office and sat down on two seats in front of his desk. My heart felt it was beating out of my chest. I had friends and family at home waiting to find out the news and I couldn’t bear the thought of telling them the chemo hadn’t been a success. I felt like he was speaking in slow motion as he started to explain the results of my scans. I was on the edge of my seat, hanging on every word that came out of his mouth.
