Matt’s back after ‘shark-bite’ surgery to tackle cancer
◆ Euan Mccolm halfexpects serious illness to hit the middle-aged, but not his young comedian friend Matt Forde
Throughout his month-long run at last August’s Edinburgh Fringe, my friend Matt Forde complains about agonising backache.
It’s not easy being a stand-up when it hurts to stand up and he’s finding things exhausting. Adrenalin carries him through his nightly shows but the pain soon comes snarling back. In October, a surgery team in London operates all day long, removing a tumour from the base of Matt’s spine. It was no wonder he’d been in constant agony.
I’ve just turned 54; it’s been years since I entered the phase of life where snipers, representing those terrorist groups of cancer, heart attack and stroke, began appearing on rooftops. But Matt was just 40 when the diagnosis of his rare cancer came last year. It was a shock. By rights he should have had years before this sort of thing became the vaguest possibility.
We Whatsapp like Cabinet Secretaries in a crisis until shortly before his meeting with the anaesthetist. After that, the mind races: one minute it’s “he’ll be fine”, the next it’s “what if he’s not?” A wave of relief accompanies a latenight message, from Matt’s wife, Laura, informing pals that surgery is complete.
After a week or so during which he bobs around on a cloud of the heaviest-duty painkillers, Matt’s able to message again. He’s generally upbeat and optimistic, though admits to being in more pain than he’d expected. Matt also tells me he’s struggling to settle and concentrate on reading. I respond by recording myself reading my columns so that he can listen while drifting off. It’s an act of jaw-dropping egotism dressed up as a kindness.
A couple of weeks after his surgery, Matt sends a photo that knocks the wind out of me. It shows him in his hospital robe, holding onto a treadmill. Here was stark evidence that his illness might have lifechanging consequences. Subsequent photos showing remarkable progress are a joy to receive. They hoped it might be six but, eventually, ten weeks after surgery Matt is back home in London with Laura in time for Christmas. A photo recording his arrival is a present to remember.
Matt and Laura are in Glasgow to visit her family and I’m on my way to meet them in their hotel. I’m excited but nervous, too. It feels a little like I’m heading out on a first date. My God, they’ve taken a chunk out of him. Matt’s standing in the bar of a Farrow and Ball-drenched hotel, pulling his jeans down over his arse to show me his scars. He’s right, it does look like a shark bite.
Things are looking optimistic on the health front and Matt’s excited to be getting back to work on his radio show and podcasts. He tells me some remarkable gossip about the majestically petty behaviour of a much-loved comedian and then pulls aside his boxers to show where the surgeon came at the tumour from the front.
After two hours, I get up to leave. Matt’s a little uneasy on his feet, at first, but when he hugs me his grip is reassuringly strong.