Cancer at 34 won’t stop me planning for my future
BBC presenter Chris Latchem on confronting his diagnosis with love and laughter
The shortest phone calls always precede the worst news. “Hi Chris, it’s Dr Wynn. Are you at home? There’s no easy way to tell you this: it’s leukaemia, and you need to go to hospital, right now.”
After I was diagnosed with chronic myeloid leukaemia in October last year, at the age of 33. I didn’t think I’d see Christmas. For Hallowe’en, my costume was a tracksuit, an IV drip and a faraway look in the eye. I was the only one scared by it.
Seven weeks earlier, my BBC colleague Rachael Bland had died from breast cancer. We’d shared a radio studio over the years, and I’d seen her smile through it all while documenting her condition and demise with amazing grace and humour. But cancer had the last laugh with Rach. You’ll forgive me for thinking the worst.
I’d been feeling sluggish for a good few months but that was pretty unsurprising as I’d been presenting on Radio 5 Live’s breakfast show for a year, living in a state of perma-jet lag. It’s nothing new, men of my age burying their heads in the sand and ignoring the signs of ill health, but I really should not have palmed off repeat sodden night sweats as a stressful by-product of buying a house.
My mum had warned me that I looked thin. I’m embarrassed that I accused her of “body shaming”.
A couple of weeks in, doctors advised that my cancer was largely treatable and, more often than not, could be managed long-term with tablet chemotherapy, and with minimal effect on my life.
Quite quickly, it became clear that that wasn’t to be the case with me. The initial CML treatment caused nosebleeds, headaches, itchy skin and bone pain. The medication designed to suppress the cancer cells also suppressed everything else. All of my blood numbers slumped to near-critical lows, and it was decided that I should move from general hospital treatment to The Christie in Manchester, a futuristic, whizzy cancer-specific unit that people travel to from miles around for state-of-the-art treatment. On the one hand, great; on the other… not so great. This just got real.
A third biopsy – think Dr Evil’s drill mining through skin, muscle and bone into your hip to withdraw the bone marrow for analysis – showed a cell mutation that was stunting the growth of the cells needed for survival. My doctor prescribed a new cancer drug that, I was warned, could cause fairly heavy diarrhoea. How heavy? “Not… torrential,” he replied.
He also told me that because of the complications with my treatment, I might need a stem cell transplant to save my life: a full bout of chemotherapy to destroy the body’s immune system and then an infusion of stem cells from a registered donor. At best, you’re looking at a year with life on pause. At worst? Well, you don’t really want to ask that question.
I’ve had blood transfusions to boost the oxygen levels in my body, and regular injections to increase my immune system. Without them, I’d struggle getting up the stairs or running for a bus. The new drugs seem to have calmed things down and, at the last check, my blood numbers appear to be levelling out. It’s positive news – but I can’t get carried away.
I play golf, and I describe my handling of cancer treatment as “golfer’s mentality”. When you hit the ball in the trees, you have to minimise the damage, think clearly and sensibly and play your way out to keep the score down. Similarly, you don’t celebrate good shots because strife is never far away. It’s the same with cancer. Don’t panic, be cool, stay calm. It ain’t over til it’s over.
On World Cancer Day in February, I posted a “coming out” video on Twitter, revealing my condition and urging anyone with symptoms to get them investigated. “Check yourself before you wreck yourself,” was the message. It made the national news, and the video was watched more than 250,000 times.
Earlier this year, I was contacted by Glenn, a Radio 5 Live listener, saying he’d seen that video, and had watched it multiple times before deciding to check out an issue inside his mouth. He told me doctors had discovered oral cancer and, in the intervening eight months, had operated on and rebuilt his tongue, and that he was now cancer-free.
It choked me up. I’d been told I was “brave” for posting the video, and had “increased awareness” of a cause, but I’d never really felt special or important. Glenn’s story made me so proud that my plight had a positive influence on someone else. I’m so pleased that he, too, is now able to lead a healthy life.
People often expect cancer patients to look grey, weight-drained and gaunt, with no hair on their heads or zest left for life. In my experience, that’s often not the case at all. Chemo patients might look like they’re struggling – but the waiting rooms and communal areas at The Christie are bubbling with life and smiles.
My wife, Lucy, is a flight attendant, and spends half her time overseas or in the air. Initially, she didn’t want to fly for fear I might take another downturn. She’d been on her way to Heathrow the day I was diagnosed and needed windscreen wipers for her tears as she turned the car around to be by my side.
While we waited for a hospital bed, we were urged to go and grab some food nearby and return in an hour. My “last meal”, then, was a Mcdonald’s; Luce dropped a barbecue saucesoaked Chicken Mcnugget down her winter coat. For some reason, that’s always stuck in my memory. Somehow I ended up paying for the dry cleaning.
Planning for our wedding over the past year has been a huge crutch. You try saying no to a marriage proposal made by a man in tears, on his knees, days after a cancer diagnosis. We agreed to marry while sitting on the sofa on which, days earlier, I’d heard the news that I was unwell. We’d just moved into our new home and I needed a happy memory to rub out the bleak one. In September, Lucy and I married in the Cheshire rain, surrounded by our favourite people. Knowing such joy was on our horizon helped lift clouds on the darkest days. It had been the worst of years, brought to a close by the happiest of days.
As for me, my condition rumbles on, but I’m making plans for the future. Luce and I have a silly, soppy, happy relationship, and have always found laughter the best coping mechanism. Next on our radar, we hope, is to start a family. I’m not sure there are words to express how much we want them, or the joy we’ll feel if we’re fortunate enough to have them. But at least now I can dream of one day receiving another seismic phone call.
“Chris, are you at home? The baby’s coming…”
Leukaemia Care, which provides support to individuals and families affected by blood cancer, is one of three charities supported by this year’s Telegraph Christmas Charity Appeal. Our two other charities are Wooden Spoon, which works with Britain’s rugby community to raise money for sick, disabled and disadvantaged children; and The Silver Line, a 24-hour helpline and support service for lonely elderly people. To make a donation, visit telegraph.co.uk/ charity, call 0151 284 1927 or see the coupon below
‘I was proud that my plight had a positive influence on someone else’
‘You try saying no to a proposal made by a man in tears after a cancer diagnosis’