I was diagnosed with terminal cancer a year ago today. It’s been one of the best years of my life.

A blood test I was given on the morning of Tuesday 11^th July 2023 – a Prostate Specific Antigen test – showed a reading of 269. For context: anything above 4 is considered a problem. It prompted a call at 5pm from the lead practitioner at my local surgery to tell me I had cancer. It was not normally something he would announce by phone, he said, but taken together with the result of an X-ray the previous week which revealed a possible collapsed vertebra, there was no time to waste. It was likely the cancer had gone into my spine and I was in danger of paralysis or worse. I had to pack a bag straight away and go directly to QEUH (Queen Elizabeth University Hospital).

His call came while I was  listening to Oscar Peterson’s “Angel Eyes” with my grandson. He was transfixed by the music, his face a picture. All was well in our world. Twenty minutes later Dini and I were in a taxi on the way to the Acute Assessment Unit, telling ourselves there must be some mistake. After a wait I was seen by a doctor who told me I had to lie down on a hospital bed and stay still, like a Ming vase with a crack in it, while tests were done. That was a long night for me, but also for Dini, who went home at midnight to an empty house not knowing what would happen or when I’d be home. I took a selfie while I lay there wondering what was to come.

At one point an oncologist came and crouched down beside me to talk. I don’t remember much of what he said, but the way he came down to my level rather than hovering over me moved me to tears. Eventually, at 2am, a bed was found for me on the 9^th floor. The porters who took me up in the lift joked about the amount of pee I’d left in the urine bottle.

Next morning the MRI (Magnetic Resonance Imaging) showed that the collapsed vertebra was an old T5 wedge fracture, not directly linked to the cancer. This was good news. They believed the cancer must be on my spine, not in my spine, an important distinction. I could sit up and move about. I would be put on monthly stomach injections of Firmagon (Degarelix), a form of Androgen Deprivation Therapy (ADT), the standard treatment for reducing the testosterone on which the disease depends.

I saw four doctors in three days, a urologist and three oncologists. I was spoiled rotten. On the Wednesday morning after my MRI another doctor knelt at my bedside and asked if I understood what was happening. I didn’t really, and anyway they were telling me they didn’t have the whole picture yet. All I knew was that I had prostate cancer and it appeared to have spread to my pelvis and back. I saw a third oncologist on the Thursday morning who told me I was getting out of hospital. “But I’m institutionalised!” I said. He laughed, but I was half serious. With the trauma and the constant testing of my pee, blood being taken, and attention from nursing and medical staff, I felt I’d been in for forty days and not forty hours. This doctor pulled no punches about my condition, but he had constructive advice to give. People will say that you can’t do anything to help yourself, but that’s not true, he said. He explained how the hormone therapy would mean I’d lose muscle and bone density, increasing the risk of osteoporosis and fracture, but I could do weight training to help counter the effects. It would also make a difference if I ate well and stayed positive. I told him I had a conference coming up on the Tuesday of the next week that I’d spent years preparing for, which had already been postponed because of the pandemic. Don’t give up on anything that gives you pleasure, he said.

Five days later I was at the podium in Bute Hall introducing the Principal of the University at the opening of the first International Outlander Conference. Diana Gabaldon was our star speaker. I wore my loudest shirts and the conference went off like a cracker.

Although the diagnosis came out of the blue, I wasn’t completely surprised that there was something seriously wrong. I’d had sixteen months of symptoms prior to that PSA test, including back pain and inflammation from hip to shoulder on the right-hand side. It was the longest period of illness I’d had in my life, but because I’d been to the GP regularly and been given several blood tests I was confident it couldn’t be cancer. I had no idea what a PSA test was, and nobody had mentioned it. I thought I had some mystery illness.

When I got out of hospital I was given a discharge letter which provided details of the diagnosis for my GP. I gave it a cursory scan but didn’t look too closely. It’s true I read for a living, but I can be sloppy when it comes to reading things that matter. I passed the letter round family members that afternoon like a box of Quality Street, and they all read it. Dini scrutinised and digested it and began a long period of intensive research into prostate cancer on my behalf. I went off in a different direction, researching the history of cancer generally, and later, when I was lined up for that treatment, the history of chemotherapy.

Months later I came across the discharge letter and this time I read it properly. I confronted Dini with it. “Have you read this?” I said, shocked at the words “MRI confirmed bone metastases”. Of course, she had.

Over the next couple of months I had a CT Scan, a nuclear medicine bone scan, my second dose of Degarelix, and a biopsy. I inadvertently called it an autopsy when I was phoning to find out when it would happen, and I think that made the receptionist’s morning. Before I went in for the biopsy I sat in a waiting room with several other men around my age. It struck me that in our white gowns we looked like Roman Senators, dignified and resolute. We could have been carved in marble and set above the hospital entrance.

I still had to wait for all the results to be gathered and assessed before I would know the precise prognosis or programme of treatment. There were some delays, but to have had the diagnosis, CT Scan, bone scan and the appointment (for prognosis) within two months was a small miracle with the NHS under such enormous pressure. I met with a specialist cancer nurse at New Victoria Hospital on the 19^th of September. He told me in a matter-of-fact manner that from the scans so far they could tell that the cancer had spread around my spine and possibly into my right lung, and I had a very advanced and aggressive form of the disease. Surgery wasn’t an option, but chemo was. I asked how long someone with my stage of cancer could survive. Five years at best, he said. As I left the hospital I saw in the grounds a monument in the form of a massive rock, and thought of Sisyphus.

A colleague who had had cancer recommended the Maggie’s Centre at Gartnavel and that was a godsend. Having a cup of tea there and chatting to others with cancer made me realise I was in good company. Not only did I now have access to fitness classes and yoga, counselling sessions and advice, but going there was important to me as an admission of my condition. That may sound strange, given that I have told family, friends, colleagues and the cats and dogs in the street about my cancer, but denial runs deep. Having conversations about the disease with people in the same boat, or a similar boat, brings it home. There’s a bond that forms instantly. “Cancer Conversations” is the name of a project I’m now working on with some colleagues who have also been through it, as a way to share our knowledge and experience.

It was decided I would be a good candidate for Triplet Therapy, a pioneering treatment for advanced prostate cancer. Three drugs were to be administered, the 3 Ds: my existing and lifelong monthly stomach injections of Degarelix; a new daily oral anti-cancer drug, Darolutamide; and the intravenous chemotherapy, Docetaxel. There were delays in starting, which was frustrating: the treatment had to be delayed for a week while clearance was confirmed for the Darolutamide; then I caught Covid and treatment had to be postponed for a further two weeks. On Wednesday 1^st of November the chemo finally started. In my first session, sitting in a comfy chair in that big room with nine other people, winter sun slanting in, listening to Spotify – Genesis, the Jam, various compilations – and occasional chitchat, it didn’t feel like the end of the world.

I had minimal side effects, just twenty seconds of mild discomfort as the Docetaxel went in. My oncologist was a pioneering researcher with an interest in new treatments so I knew I was in good hands. The fact that I lived within walking distance of the Beatson West of Scotland Cancer Centre where I was getting the chemotherapy made things easier too. I often thought of those who had to travel some distance and find a place to stay overnight. On many levels I was lucky.

I took time off from work for the first couple of chemo sessions but after that I realised I could work fine from home and was able to answer emails while getting the chemo. Fortunately my side-effects were minimal. The hair loss paused at a sort of old Victorian doll look. I was tempted to shave the angel hair off but Dini persuaded me to let it take its course.

On chemo days I was given dexamethasone and hydrocortisone, and my feet were dancing in bed. I had no other side effects of note, just slight brain fog and an occasional hot flush.

When I had first heard I was getting chemo I’d called it “schemotherapy”. I like a pun as much as I like a podium and that coinage captured the attitude I hoped to take into the treatment. It also planted the seed of an idea for a rap under that title and in the middle of the treatment I started to scribble some lines. It came together quite quickly, and I thought I would share it with male friends who might be unaware of the need for vigilance around prostate health. When I recited the lines to my niece Norma she insisted I get it down on video. Norma filmed it at a location with a backdrop of graffiti to give it some street cred and I duly posted it on social media. It was picked up on by one of the first students I taught at the University of Glasgow, Paul English, and he interviewed me for The Herald about it. This was going public in a big way.

Around this time, as the result of a referral through the Maggie’s centre, I was contacted by Jill Robertson, Holistic Support Officer at the Improving the Cancer Journey Service based in Glasgow City Council. Before that phone call I thought I had everything under control, but talking to Jill made me realise just how much support and advocacy we all need as cancer sufferers even when we think we’ve got the hang of it. It was another lifeline.

In May I was given a new drug called Prostap (Leuprorelin), the first of a series of injections to replace the Degarelix to which I’d begun to have a bad reaction. In June I saw my oncologist to get the latest scan results – bone and CT – and he said they were “spectacular”. The treatment has improved my condition, and the cancer has shrunk significantly around my back and hip. The suspicious shadow on my lung turns out not to be cancerous after all, but some sort of bronchial issue. I asked the doctor about how much time I might have left. I had a wee joke with him that went like this:

ME: Have I got time to start a novel?

DOCTOR: It depends on how long you take to write it.

ME: I mean read a novel.

He said the prognosis based on the type of cancer I have remains 4-5 years from diagnosis, i.e. 3-4 years hence, so still quite life-shortening. My hope is that since I’ve responded well to treatment, I may be a statistical outlier. I plan to persist and to defy the data. New treatments are being developed all the time, and as my doctor said, “Cancer can’t read”, so it doesn’t know what it’s up against in future. I’ll do everything I can to cling onto dear life for dear life and for family and friends.

Cancer takes time off you, telescopes and truncates it, but it makes every minute count too. When I announced my plan to retire in September I had overwhelmingly warm, life-affirming responses from colleagues, friends and students. My hair has grown back thick and lush since the chemo and I’m averaging more steps a day this year than last, according to my phone. The weight training I’m doing to ward off the risk of osteoporosis and fractures is making me feel stronger and fitter, and I’m eating and sleeping better than before. It’s been a great year all round, and there’s more to come. I’ve never been so in love with my wife and with life, so keen to see my family and friends, so glad to enjoy the life outside work that was always just out of reach of the deadlines and demands of the job. No matter how many years are left, they will be all the more golden because of what has happened.